Climb on My Stepfather (Ashley and Alex) novel Chapter 49

DADDY'S NAUGHTY GIRL.

Lia Amarie has been in love with Tristan Hemsworth ever since middle school when he moved in next door with his little son, who she instantly became best friends with. Now she's nineteen, and still very much lusting over the sexy, very much older billionaire Adonis's hot body, every beautiful inch. But to Tristan, Lia will always be off-limits. The little girl who always ran out to hug him whenever he came back from work. Can she rise above this silly perceived notion and show him that she can be a bad, naughty girl?

1: Lia.

"Nine...ten. Ready or not, Eric, 'm coming your way!" | yell, pulling off the black blindfold around my eyes, and sprinting out of the house, towards the garden.

We'd played hide-and-seek a thousand times — mostly when we got tired of video games and wanted a little excitement aside from board games — and each and every time, Eric always hid in the garden, close to the thickest rose patch or in the abandoned den behind their huge mansion. Today, however, he wasn't in the garden, and | start getting worn out when | see that he's not in the abandoned den as well. Taking a detour back into the house, | stand still in the foyer and shut my eyes, listening. | hear things being moved about in the storeroom to my left, accompanied by intense giggling.

Smirking, | tiptoe towards the storeroom and, with a deep breath, kicked the door open, catching Eric right before he slipped into an old sack. "Aha!

Gotcha!" | lunge at him, knocking him off his feet as we both fall onto an old mattress, wrestling each other and laughing. He tickled my sides, causing my arms to fly out, and flatten themselves over his broad, solid chest. I'll be lying to myself if | said | didn't know when they morphed from soft, baby flesh, to rock hard solid overnight. Just like how I'd traded my breasts — soft handballs — for big, supple oranges.

Ever since | met Eric in sixth grade, we'd gotten along like bread and butter.

His house was my second home, and we were inseparable. Literally. His friends were my friends, and one of us hardly took a decision without informing the other of it first. Little wonder why everyone expected that, after high school, when we both will move to the city, we'll get married.

| haven't given much thought to marriage. Ever. And Eric would be the last man | would want to spend the rest of my life with. I'm sure he feels the same way too. Our bond is entirely platonic and we do see each other more as siblings.

He pinches my upper arm now, and | yowl, aiming a kick for his balls which he dodges smartly. We roll about like bunnies for a while, before disentangling, our hands clasped together as we look up at the dusty ceiling, trying to catch our breaths, giggling.

"How did you know | was in here?” Eric asks, probing my side. | gasped, whirling away.

"Stop! I just... | didn't find you in the garden or the abandoned den so I..." I'm getting ready to slip out of his reach and kick him out of the bed with the heel of my foot when | hear the front door of the house open and close curtly. And | end up losing my focus and falling off the mattress instead.

He's home.

Six o'clock on the dot every evening. Not a minute more. Not a minute less.

It's him. The only man who can make my stomach flip.

Outwardly, | try to contain myself, try not to show a reaction that'd get Eric to suspect, but inside, I'm burning up like a paper that'd caught flame, rattling like a rickety old train on the railway and my stomach has been left on the dirty, metal floor.

Eric's father is home.

Tristan McHemma Hemsworth.

| catch sight of his pristine, black loafers as he passes by the storeroom, glancing in briefly and beaming when he espies me collapsed on the mattress, next to his laughing son. He shakes his head and moves on, towards the kitchen, barely giving me enough time to drink in his familiar features. Honestly, I've got to accept that it's impossible to soak in the sight of his big, sexy body. Those broad shoulders. Hard, thick, and impenetrable.

Everywhere. Even in his pants and boxer briefs, I'm sure.

Seriously, I'm not making this up. Last month, he'd taken Eric and | swimming to celebrate our birthdays — Eric and | were born in the same month and our dates were only three days apart so we also celebrated it together like twins. | hadn't envisioned that Tristan was fond of water, or that he'd strip out of his immaculate suit and join us in. | merely thought he'd wait for us at the parents’ section, so you can imagine my surprise when | saw him swimming up to us in a tight, yellow underwear which did nothing but divulge just how huge, and hard his junk was. | knees wobbled under the water at the sight of his salt and pepper chest hair, the round slab of his stomach.

The painful outline of his thick, huge, veiny cock.

Each time the water molded his swim trunks to his lap, the enormous ridge in between his thighs made my belly so ticklish, | turned so red, Eric had to carry me out of the water, thinking | was having a sunburn.

Tristan Hemsworth is forty-six, a single-father widow.

I'm nineteen.