CHAPTER 2: TRAINING MY TITS FOR HIS COCK

INDIE’S POVLater that night, I slip downstairs in nothing but his old button-down. The fabric swamps me, but the top buttons are undone, tits spilling out the front, ass peeking out the back.

He’s in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a half-empty bottle of bourbon, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stubble shadowing his jaw.

He doesn’t look at me as I enter, but I know he’s aware of every step, every sway of my hips.

“You couldn’t sleep either?” I ask, voice husky from earlier screaming.

His laugh is bitter, ragged.

“Not with you parading...