“What are your intentions for my daughter?” he asks, voice desert dry.
I’m closer to his age than hers. I glance at her for reassurance, but she only offers a sly smile, grinding deeper into the cushion, marking his furniture.
I take a big gulp of the beer she offered me from his fridge, hoping it might cool the panic.
“Sir,” I begin.
She spreads her legs slightly. Her skirt rides higher. The wet spot on her panties bearing proof of what we’d done on her kitchen counter.
“We’ll be late,” I’d whispered against her mouth.
“Babe…so is my period.”
