Addicted_A Good Girl Bad Boy Rockstar Romance

by Zoey Oliver

  Introduction

  Some cherries are too sweet not to pop…

  KITA

  The Chi Ro Pi Cherry Pies make me feel like I finally have a home again.

  But when they send me to their Sorority ‘Bake Sale’ in a skimpy halter-top,

  I find out the cherry pie they’re selling is… my virginity.

  Up on that stage, I’m more vulnerable than ever.

  Until he takes me in his big, strong arms.

  I want to stay there forever... if he'll let me.

  I can’t wait to show him just how grateful I am. Save me, Daddy!

  DANIEL

  Virginity auctions aren’t my thing, but when I find the Chi Ro Pies holding one in my building?

  I’m furious.

  I’m clearly too old for these girls. Ex-military. Way too tough for college kids.

  But then she steps on stage. Soft, delicate, beautiful.

  Practically trembling in fear. Lost. Bewildered.

  She actually thought the Cherry Pie auction would be selling baked goods!

  Even as she quivers in fear, my cock is stiffening.

  I want to protect her. I want to own her.

  So I take her, telling myself I’m her hero.

  But who’ll protect her from me?

  Preface

  Daniel

  She knows that this is exactly what I like. She's wearing one of those long T-shirts that bounces around her thighs as she walks barefoot through the hall, dancing lightly up the stairs while making hardly a sound.

  I just catch a glimpse of her as she turns the corner, maybe a flash of her blonde hair flying out behind her. It's almost like hide and seek, or trying to catch a firefly in the forest.

  She is my obsession ever since the first time that I saw her, I haven't been able to think about anything else. Definitely not anyone else. She is the only one in the world to me now.

  The part of my mind that thinks this is wrong is all but obliterated. At first I was startled by the depth and intensity of my desire for her. I held back as long as I could. But all the while, I knew that eventually I would give in. Eventually, it would be like tapping a vein and finding what was hot and throbbing there.

  I squint at the screen of my laptop, trying to make it come back into focus. This new business is also taking up quite a lot of my time. It's the sort of thing that I would have thrown myself into completely, six months ago. Now, I struggle to stay focused on it at all.

  It, or anything else.

  There's just not enough room in my consciousness for anything but her.

  She's upstairs, waiting for me. She knows I can hear her, that I'm acutely aware of her presence.

  I only have a little bit more work to do, and now I'm just stalling. I sort of like it, the anticipation. That ache in my core. That sharp tang of pain, right where it meets pleasure. She is the hunger I can never quite satisfy. She is the source of all of this.

  And she knows I’ll come to look for her. She knows I won't stop, now that she's teased my attention. I put away my work, loudly snapping my laptop closed. She knows I'm coming for her.

  It's late. Past her bedtime. She's already dressed for bed and I can imagine it clearly. The long T-shirt riding up her thighs as she stretches on the bed, throwing her arms back with abandon. The smooth, creamy skin disappearing into thin cotton panties. The sweet blush in her cheeks when she knows I'm watching her.

  I take the stairs two at a time, letting my heels hit the treads loud enough that she knows I'm coming. I want her to know, to anticipate as well.

  She left her door open for me a few inches. The light that slices through is a honey-colored invitation.

  Pushing the door open, I pause to let the scene appear slowly before my eyes. She's already in bed, blankets up to her chin. Her hair is fanned out over the pillow and she blinks me with those wide green eyes, the tip of her nose pink, her cheeks reddening in the low light.

  “You didn't say good night,” I observe.

  She mumbles something, but the sound is muffled behind the blanket.

  “What's that, Kita?” I ask her, tugging the blanket away from her.

  She doesn't move as I slowly pull the sheets to the side, exposing her small, lithe form. She tugs the hem of her T-shirt down over the neat triangle of fabric that covers her sweet, bare pussy, pressing her knees tightly together.

  “Let me see,” I request. “You know I like to see.”

  Saying nothing, she only nods and moves her knees apart just a little bit, just a few centimeters. Her hands push away from her along the sheet, and the hem of her T-shirt springs back up, revealing just an inch or two of pink fabric.

  I know all the hidden delights in there. I know if I touch her panties, the fabric will be hot, maybe even soaked through with moisture. Every time. Without fail. She's always ready for me, but she knows I like this moment right before she asks me. Right before she begs me, the moment where every part of me comes alive.

  I can already feel my cock jumping, eagerly pointing to her, rigid as a flagpole. A divining rod, seeking her wetness. I can almost feel her sweet, tight sheath enveloping me, squeezing against me, drawing the life out of me.

  My fingers drift along the inside of her thigh, pushing her legs open further. She doesn't resist, but her eyes telegraph a sense of urgency and I see her draw her lower lip in between her teeth, like I have so many times before.

  “You want it?” I ask her, when I think I can't stand to wait any longer. My thumb draws a line down the fabric of her panties, tracing her seam from the outside. It is hot, almost warmer than I expected.

  She nods tightly and I hear her breath coming out in abbreviated, feral pants.

  “Say it,” I growl. I lean in closer, letting my fingers drift along the elastic band of the fabric, sliding just the tips underneath.

  “I want it,” she whispers hoarsely, lifting her hips to angle closer to my touch.

  I look up at her, waiting. She likes to make me wait. I watch her lips part as she draws in a breath to say it and finally press my finger to her wet, slippery furrow as the word I’m waiting for finally slips from her glistening, pouting mouth.

  “I want it... Daddy.”

  Chapter 1

  Kita

  Lizzie's hands snake around from behind me, sneaking underneath my arms and then unbuttoning the top button of my blouse. I try not to wiggle away as her fingers hesitate, then pop open another button. That's definitely two buttons too many, by my count.

  Her head appears over my left shoulder, and she squints at me in the full-length mirror. I watch her eyes skim across the outlines of my body and can't help but notice her sigh of dissatisfaction.

  I just press my lips together and raise my eyebrows at her, wondering what she thinks she's going to say next.

  She purses her lips to one side, scowling until that single vertical line appears between her perfectly auburn eyebrows.

  “Are these your real tits?” she frowns, slapping lightly at the underside of each one of my admittedly smallish breasts.

  “What do you mean?” I ask her and reflexively cross my arms over my middle as she steps to the side of me. She nudges me out of the way with her hip so that I can watch her in the mirror. For a few tortuously long seconds, her fingers drift over the key areas of her own body — the D cups, the 23 inch waist, and the wide hips that somehow perfectly fill in the jeans she's wearing as though they were made just for her.

  “You haven't had any work done?” She asks, quirking a perfect eyebrow. But her eyes aren't even on me, she is only admiring herself.

  I frown at the mirror, noting my substantially less curvy figure next to hers. We look like the before and after shots in a plastic surgeon's office.

  “I haven't had any work done," I affirm shyly. “I didn't even know I was grown enough to be thinking about that.”

  “No, I mean, it's a good thing,” she fusses as she arranges her coppery locks over her collarbones. She’s still talking t
o me, I think, but she's really only looking at herself now. “I mean… if those aren’t your real tits, then it shouldn't be any problem to go ahead and get new ones, right? You've got, like, a clean slate or whatever.”

  I take a half step back, glancing down at the V-shaped, cavernous entrance to my blouse. A boob job? Me? I'm still waiting for the ones I've got to do their thing, whatever their thing is going to be. I mean, I shouldn’t mess with it, should I?

  But it's hard not to think about it, standing here in Lizzie’s room, surrounded by pages torn out of magazines featuring every overflowingly buxom celebrity from the last thirty years. Pages upon pages, taped to the pink walls so densely they’re like wallpaper. All those duckfaces staring at me, like they’re just about to say something. I wonder which ones of these she brought to her plastic surgeon’s office so she could point and say, that's it. Those ass cheeks, just give me those. And these boobs right here, can I get them supersized? And put a little dimple in my chin while you're at it.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I can still see me, reed straight. Built like a fencepost. Or like an eighth grader or something. I mean, if I look hard enough I'm curvy, in a certain subtle way. But standing next to Lizzie, not so much.

  Finally she gets tired of gazing at the best nipple reconstruction money can buy and casts her eyes back in my direction.

  “Do you have anything tighter, at least? We’re not going to a square dance, you know.”

  “Do I have anything tighter?” I repeat. Actually, I sort of don't. I'm just small, like my mom and my grandma. A gymnast body, my mom always pointed out: compact and strong. And maybe not as far along developmentally because I spent so much time training when I was younger. But I’m stronger than I look, or so grandma always told me. That always made me feel proud.

  I stopped taking gymnastics when I was fourteen after my sixth sprained ankle in one season. The doctor said one more and we would be looking at surgery. My career was over anyway, so we just had to let it go. And that is a lot like my life in general: a list of things that I have to let go that’s way longer than the list of things I get to hang onto.

  There's a ghost of me somewhere in an alternate universe who’s just a springy little gymnast, flipping diagonally across a rectangular patch of floor. A little sprite being the best she can be. But somehow I ended up in this weird universe, far away from my home, pledging for this snobby sorority, letting this fashion tyrant tell me what to wear, and feeling slightly less than evenly matched.

  “Well?” she asks me again. She scowls pointedly at my lack of cleavage.

  “I guess I really don't have anything tighter than this,” I shrug. I don't tell her that finding a top I could tie over my midriff like this, per her demands, was actually kind of a challenge. I don't really have any other options for her at all.

  With a sigh, she flings open one of her dresser drawers, yanking out a cloud of see-through and glittery underthings that spill over the side and land on the cluttered, shag carpet. After a moment of rummaging around, she pulls out a slip of fabric that looks like a sock or something.

  “Okay, wear this.”

  It dangles off her finger like a beanie for an American Girl doll or something. Obediently, I reach out and take it from her, but I'm really not sure what she expects me to do with it. Slowly I raise it toward my forehead and peel the double-layer apart. Is it a headband? I try to smile winningly at her, but she just rolls her eyes.

  “I hope you know: you're not funny.” She shakes her head at me.

  “So, it's not a headband?” I venture.

  What the heck is this thing?

  “Geez, Kita!” she bawls. She turns away from me in frustration and stalks to her desk, pushing a dozen lipgloss tubes around from the new Urban Decay collection until she finds the one she wants. I know she wishes I would leave, but I'm afraid of what will happen if I exit this room without solid instruction. Other Chi Rho Pi pledges have been dismissed for less than a headband infraction, after all. And it's not like Lizzie is my biggest fan, if you know what I mean.

  “Um…”

  She whips around, lip gloss halfway to her parted lips, her eyes blazing with disdain. But after another moment, she seems to collect herself and rearranges her expression into something so sweet it's a little unnerving. She scrunches up her nose and gives me a pained little smile.

  “Kita, sweetie, we’re going to be late. I still have to do my smoky eye and everything. Do you think that maybe you could take your fashion emergency over to Claudia for a little look-see?”

  “You bet,” I nod, smiling like a cheerleader. At least Claudia is nice, most of the time. I leave Lizzie to her eye makeup and pick my way along the cluttered hallway to Claudia’s room, just two doors down, and almost run right into her as she’s rushing out.

  “Oh, hey—what? Why aren’t you dressed?” she asks me urgently, her ebony-black eyes open wide. She reverses course and drags me back into her room with her, holding her hands out in front like a traffic cop.

  I actually thought I was dressed an hour ago, I think, but don’t say.

  “Okay, stop,” she pants. She takes a couple breaths like she’s going to say something, but nothing comes out right away. I hold out the headband thingy that Lizzie gave me as though it's some sort of clue.

  “Oh, okay! Did Lizzie give you this halter? We can work with this!”

  She whips around to yank a string of pink and black beads off the bedpost and I stare at the flimsy scrap of fabric in my hand. This is a halter? When Claudia turns back to me she seems amazed that I'm not wearing it yet.

  “Just go ahead and put it on. We've got, like, minutes. I’ll turn around if you want me to?”

  I shrug, pretending I’m not embarrassed. But as soon as her back is turned again I whip off the black top and my bralette and stretch the pink fabric over my head. It loops behind my neck, forming a crisscross over my chest and leaving me feeling almost completely naked. My nipples poke right out through the fabric, small and hard. It’s just so obvious, and it doesn’t feel very sturdy. I'm not even sure I have enough volume to keep this thing from riding up into my armpits if I lift my arms.

  Claudia whips back around again, her gaze seesawing back and forth over me as she nods urgently. “See? You have the perfect body for this thing! You look amazing!”

  I stare in the mirror on the back of her closet door. Amazing? Standing next to Claudia, whose dancer-muscular body ripples under her pink and black striped bodycon dress, I don't see it. I look like the little sister she's being forced to take to the grown-up sister party.

  “Wow, I wish I had your flat stomach,” she groans.

  “Are you sure?” I hear myself say, my voice smaller and less serious than I usually strive to make it. Over the last two months I've done everything I can do to really seem like I fit in here, but sometimes it's just too much. I'm not a homecoming queen, lead cheerleader, or marketing executive in training like all of them seem to be. Sometimes I think I'd rather just go home, and then I remember I don't really have a home to go to.

  As though Claudia can sense what I'm feeling, she takes a couple steps to the door and then stops, pivoting on her tall wedge sandals so she can face me again. She claps her hands lightly in front of her a couple of times and lowers her chin, looking me dead on.

  “Kita? You know you're almost at the end of this, right?”

  I swallow, nodding.

  “And as soon as we’re done with the bake sale, you're practically guaranteed to get in. You know that?”

  “But —”

  “No buts!” she declares and takes my shoulders in her hands so that I can't get away. She stares right into the middle of me with her deep black eyes, so dark I'm practically pinned to the spot.

  “Kita, we all believe in you. Out of all the rushes, you're the best one. You're my personal favorite—did you know that?”

  I shake my head. Am I really?

  “Yes, you silly thing! Actually, everybody's rooting for
you. But you gotta do good today, okay? Just do whatever needs to be done, sweetie, and then you will be one of us. Won’t that be great?”

  “Yeah.”

  She narrows her eyes at me and wrinkles her nose in exaggerated disapproval. “I can't hear you!”

  On cue, I give her my cheerleader smile, the one that so wide it makes my upper lip feel like it's going to crack. “Yeah!” I practically yell.

  “That's my girl!” she hoots, then shoves me toward the doorway. “Okay, see you in the minibus!”

  She releases one shoulder and slaps me on the butt cheek as I leave her room. It stings, but I don't let her know.

  The rest of the sorority house is in chaos. At least a dozen of us are all dressed up in black and pink, our house colors, rushing to the minibus before the house mother leaves without us. I just keep my arms clapped over my naked belly and hunch in one of the back rows, trying to keep warm as the cold vinyl of the seat chafes against my legs.

  All around me are clones of Lizzie and Claudia, clapping and chanting our songs, apparently unbothered by the brisk September air. Every time one of them happens to glance my way, I make sure my smile is as hard as concrete. Just keep smiling, that's the trick.

  When we get to the Crow Bar, there is a black and pink banner stretched over the entrance, fluttering in the breeze. Welcome to the Chi Rho Pi Bake Sale! It's painted with cartoonish hearts and extra exclamation points that glow in the black lights that pulse on and off.

  The minibus pulls up in front of the entrance and as we file out, the bouncer pulls the velvet rope aside for us. Huge and broad as a pillar, he stands there nearly exploding from his tight, white T-shirt and shiny, black-washed jeans. He looks each of us over with dark eyes that slide a grueling trail from top to bottom. There's something lizard-like about the way he looks me over, like he's licking me with his eyes.