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His Plaything

By:Ava Jackson

Chapter 1

Nixon


I had planned on enjoying my fall vacation to the fullest. As soon as I touched down at Coronado Island, I’d ordered greasy Chinese and slept like a rock. Then I went to Trader Joe's and restocked my fridge—all the best food and beer I couldn't get on active duty. Later I might meet Fox and Logan for basketball, bar-hopping, or whatever the hell we felt like doing. I would enjoy some sweet solitude, too, just kicking back in the blessed silence and privacy of my own condo. And of course, I would re-acquaint myself with all the finest pieces of ass in San Diego County. It was going to be fucking perfect.

Then my father shot everything to hell in a single phone call.

“Avery is going to live here? Starting today?” No way I'd heard that right. I shifted the phone to my shoulder so I could hold the frying pan handle with one hand and flip bacon with the other. “You can't be serious, Dad. I just got off a nine-month tour of duty.”

“Oh, you're on leave? Perfect. That means you can help her move in.”

I held back a growl. He knew damn well what my schedule looked like. I'd practically just gotten back from visiting him and his new wife at Wild Cliffs. And I was deploying again in two months, for fuck's sake. Was a little personal time really so much to ask?

At my long, sullen silence, Dad's tone dropped. “Nixon. You will be polite to Avery. You will take care of her. In fact, you will make sure that her last semester at UCSD is her best one. Are we clear?”

“Crystal, sir.” I tried and failed to suppress some very distracting mental images. I'd take damn good care of her, all right.

“If I hear that you haven't shown her proper hospitality…”

Dad harangued on and on, but I wasn't listening anymore. All I could picture was the princess I'd met two weeks ago, sleeping and showering and undressing just one thin wall away.

My first impression of Avery had been mouthwatering. Pure, polished sugar candy, begging to be unwrapped, melted on my tongue, and devoured whole. The high-maintenance fashionista types usually weren't worth my time—too prissy to know how to really get dirty or too stuck-up to even want to learn. But that didn't stop me from wanting to fuck Her Majesty six ways from Sunday. So what if she was technically my new stepsister? If the way her eyes had followed me around the ranch meant anything, she didn't care about that little detail, either.

A wisp of acrid smoke stung my nose. Shit, the bacon. I yanked the pan off the burner and started transferring the charred strips to a plate.

“Did you hear a word I just said?” Dad snapped.

“Yeah. Be nice to Avery. Gotta go, Dad. Someone's at the door,” I lied. I hung up before he could start repeating himself and sat down at the breakfast bar to eat. I loved my father as much as any grown son did, but how Ford could still live under his roof, I had no idea. At least my commanding officers let me run my private life as I saw fit.

I picked up a strip of bacon to find it already getting cold. Maybe I had cranked the AC a little too high. On the other hand, August in southern California was no joke, and I'd had enough of desert heat during my last tour. My thoughts drifted back to Miss Priss. With this weather and my luck, she'd probably show up looking like a walking felony. Tight little jean shorts hugging her tight little ass. Perky tits almost spilling out the sides of a halter-top, nipples hardening as she stepped into the cold indoor air…

Jesus Christ, it's been way too long. My imagination was running out of control. I needed to get some pussy fast, before my new roommate pranced in here, and I drove myself insane. Fortunately, that wouldn't be hard. Women who creamed their panties over SEALs were a dime a dozen in this town … and one in particular lived in the condo right next door.

I scrolled down my Contacts menu to the “frog hog – home edition” entry and fired off a quick text: Hey, Pam. Long time, no fuck. You as horny as I am?

It wasn’t classy, but Pam didn’t require or appreciate finesse.

Barely five minutes later, my phone chimed back: Don't start without me, Sailor Boy. ;)

I chuckled to myself. Pam was one of the most reliable fuck buddies I'd ever had. Unless she was at work, she never hesitated to come over and help me take the edge off. God bless America.

Just as I had tracked down a few condoms, someone knocked at the door. I opened it and immediately got an armful of Pam. Her full lips crashed against mine. Her hands snaked around my waist and down to squeeze my ass.

I indulged in our hungry kiss for a moment, tongue delving into her mouth, then pulled back with a smirk. “I take it you missed me, too.”

“You have no idea,” she breathed. Without further ado, she strutted over to the dining room table and bent to take off her stilettos, knowing that my eyes were glued to her toned curves. She was still in her work uniform: a tight black miniskirt and referee-stripe blouse whose neckline plunged just short of indecent exposure. It was no mystery why she made so much money from tips. There were a lot of local guys who came to Pete's Sports Bar just to ogle the waitresses, and blonde, buxom, leggy Pam was the main attraction.

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