Chapter 3---Zane
Zane's POV
From where I stand by the balcony railing, I can feel her stare burning against my head.
Wide. Curious. Bold.
And although I don't look back, I can tell just how she looks at me.
And there’s nothing innocent about the way she looks at me.
Not now. Not when she had descended those stairs with such elegance. Not while she had made her silent wish over her birthday candles-- holding my gaze in a way that I was certain I had been a part of her wish. If not it.
Not when her lips part ever so slightly, and she drags her gaze from my face to the rest of my body like she wants to climb me like a fucking tree.
And fuck it, I’d let her.
I take a sip of my whiskey in a bid to wash off my dirty thoughts towards my goddaughter.
She’s not thirteen anymore. She’s not the little girl who used to sit on my shoulders or fall asleep in my arms during dinner parties.
She’s a young woman now. With curves that should be illegal for any sixteen year old. And lips that I have no business thinking of biting.
She walks toward the balcony railing, barefoot and slow, like she’s trying not to wake a sleeping beast.
Too late, little girl. The beast is wide awake.
She leans against the railing just a foot away from me. A foot too close.
I know I shouldn't, but I steal a glance at her.
The moonlight paints her skin silver. Her dress hugs her like sin. Thin straps, a plunging neckline that exposes the soft swell of her breasts, and a hem that’s far too short for the kind of thoughts it's putting in my head.
I wonder why Pete would let his sixteen year old daughter dress so seductively.
Her legs are long, smooth, tanned, and when she shifts her weight, her hip juts out just enough to make my mouth go dry.
She smells like peaches and vanilla. Sweet. Ripe. Dangerous.
And her face… Christ.
Those lips. Full. Pink. Slightly glossy like she’s been sucking on candy. The kind of lips that beg to be kissed—or bitten. I'd love to do both.
Her cheekbones are sharper now, her jaw more defined. But those eyes—those goddamn brown eyes—still hold the same fire. Only now it’s not youthful excitement.
It’s hunger.
"Didn’t mean to interrupt," she whispers.
Her voice is softer than I remember. A little raspier. It sends blood rushing straight to my cock which has been semi hard all night.
"You didn’t," I say, keeping my tone neutral, distant, even though every nerve in my body is screaming for me to touch her. To taste her. To drag her inside her goddamn room and fuck her into oblivion.
But she's Pete's daughter.
My fucking goddaughter.
“Didn’t think you’d come,” she says after a moment.
Wouldn’t miss it for the world, I almost say.
Instead, I murmur, “I wouldn't miss it.”
She looks up at me then and we lock eyes. The look in her eyes has me gritting my teeth and balling my fists, fighting the instinct to rip the sorry excuse for a dress to shreds so I can feel just how much she really wants me inside her.
That look that says she knows exactly what she’s doing and I'm not only imagining it.
I shift slightly, the tension in my pants unbearable now.
"Thanks. It means the world to me," she says, her voice sharp and sweet and entirely too close to begging.
Begging me for what?
A kiss?
A touch?
To bend her over this fucking railing and fuck her brains out.
I turn my head away because if I look at her any longer, I might not stop myself.
"Go back inside," I say finally, voice low, quiet. More of a warning than a suggestion.
"Yeah," she murmurs.
But she doesn’t leave.
And when I glance at her again—just once—I see her watching me with that same look. She looks at me like I hung stars for her.
I can't help but feel like she knows exactly what she's doing to me. And what's worse, I know she enjoys it.
I clench my jaw.
One move.
One more second.
One word from her—soft, pleading—and I’ll snap.
I'll push her against this railing.
Grip her hips.
Yank up that pretty little dress and bury myself inside her until she screams my name loud enough for her parents to know just how naughty she is.
My cock twitches at the image. I swallow hard.
I hate this.
I hate that I want her this badly.
I hate that I'm hard as steel in my pants.
She's my fucking goddaughter.
She shifts again, brushing a hand over the railing, dragging her fingers against the cool metal. The moonlight kisses her collarbones, her bare arms, the side of her neck where I can see the flutter of her pulse. And that pulse is going fast. The urge to bite on that sensitive skin slams into like a nuclear bomb.
She’s nervous.
Turned on.
Maybe both.
I hope it's neither.
I glance down at her hand. Small. Delicate. That same hand used to hold mine when she was scared of thunderstorms. Now, I want it wrapped around my cock.
Fuck.
She turns to face me fully now, her voice low and breathy. “You okay?”
No.
I'm clearly outta my mind for having these kinda thoughts towards my fucking goddaughter.
“Fine,” I lie.
We’re too close. The night air is heavy with tension. Every inch of her screams temptation. And each part of me is failing to fight it.
I need to leave. Now.
I down the rest of my drink in one long pull and set the glass on the railing with more force than necessary.
“You sure?” she presses. “You don’t look—”
“I’m fine, Arielle,” I snap a little too harshly.
She flinches, and I immediately fight the guilt threatening to slam into me.
I'm not an easy man. I'm neve
r apologetic as I make my decisions with complete awareness.
Her name on my tongue tastes like sin and summer.
I walk away.
Before I forget who the fuck I am.
Before I forget that 'm her fucking godfather and show her just what it means to tempt a monster like me.