❝Book 1 in the 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 series
He spreads my folds wide, his hungry mouth latching onto my clit, sucking hard and licking expertly. My hips move on their own, riding his face as soft whimpers escape me.
Just when I think I can't take any more, he...
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L U C I A N O
I've been staring at my hand for ten minutes—the same one she touched three days ago. It's ridiculous, but I can still feel the ghost of her fingers, like they branded me, leaving a mark that won't go the fuck away no matter how hard I try. Maybe it meant nothing to her... but for me, it stuck.
It's been only three days since I moved into Richard's house, and I already know I made a huge mistake. When he asked if I could keep an eye on Paris while he was away for work, I hesitated. I came up with excuses—meetings, deadlines, travel—but he shut all that down with one line: "You're the only person I trust with her."
I said yes. Of course. The fuck was I supposed to say to that? He's my best friend. I owed him that much. But I should've said no. I should've tried harder to say no.
Because the truth is, I feel things for Paris that I shouldn't. Things I've been trying to ignore, suppress, bury—anything but feel. And being under the same roof as her again is bringing it all back to the surface.
It didn't start this way. For years, Paris was just Richard's daughter. Sweet, polite, full of energy. A little wild, a little stubborn. She'd already lost her mom by the time I met Richard, so I never got the chance to know her.
But Paris? She was always there. A bright, unpredictable presence. Open, warm... but hard to read sometimes too. That's the thing about her—she gives a lot of herself without really giving anything away. I never knew what was going on in her head, not really. Still don't.
The first time I noticed her differently—really noticed her—was maybe five months or so ago. She came home from school one afternoon, clearly upset. Something petty had happened—teenage drama, the kind you forget about the next day. But not her.
The house was quiet, which was rare around here. Richard had gone out to grab a few things for the weekend—snacks, beers, whatever he felt was missing from the kitchen. He told me to keep Paris company, but I figured she'd stay out late or hole up in her room like most teenagers do on a Friday. I was halfway through a basketball rerun, sprawled out on the couch with a cold drink in hand, when I heard the front door swing open.
Footsteps—quick, uneven ones—followed. Then came the unmistakable sound of a bag hitting the floor, harder than necessary.
I glanced at the time. Just past four. She was home earlier than usual.
From where I sat, I could barely see the staircase, but I caught a glimpse of her—head down, backpack sliding off one shoulder, her jaw tight like she was holding back more than just frustration. I didn't call out. Figured maybe she needed space. But I noticed. I always noticed when something was off with her.
A few minutes passed. I heard the thud of her door upstairs, then silence.
