Chapter 2

Lacey reclined against the sagging cushions of her living room couch, her lithe frame draped in a pink sundress that clung to her hourglass curves like a second skin. The fabric hugged her full, natural breasts and flared over her rounded hips, accentuating the dip of her narrow waist. Her dirty blonde hair spilled in loose, tousled waves past her shoulders, framing a heart-shaped face with plump lips and wide, doe-like blue eyes that shimmered with a mix of warmth and dreamy vacancy.

The single lamp’s golden glow bathed her creamy skin, casting a soft halo that made her look almost ethereal, though she was oblivious to the effect. In her delicate hand, a glass of Chardonnay caught the light, cool against her palm as she swirled it absently. The faint clank of weights drifted up from the basement—Dane, her son, sculpting his powerful body with relentless drive, the sound a subtle pulse beneath the room’s cozy intimacy.

Across from her, her best friend Gina Rossi Bennett perched on the edge of an armchair, a vision of sultry elegance. Her jet-black hair cascaded in glossy waves down her back, shimmering like liquid obsidian, framing a face with sharp cheekbones, full, crimson-painted lips, and dark, almond-shaped eyes that gleamed with wicked mischief.

At thirty-six, Gina’s body was a masterpiece of discipline and enhancement, her D-cup breast implants straining against the plunging neckline of her crimson top, each curve accentuated by the tight fabric that hugged her toned waist and flared hips. Her olive skin glowed with a subtle, sun-kissed tan, and her scarlet manicured nails flashed as she gestured, her gold bangle glinting. Her black stilettos, perched delicately on the carpet, added a predatory edge to her posture, her crossed legs showcasing their sleek length. Every move Gina made—every tilt of her head, every sway of her hair—exuded a calculated sensuality, a woman who knew exactly how to command a room.

The air buzzed with their giggles, Gina’s sharp laughter slicing through the room as she recounted a friend’s scandalous affair. “Lace, you should’ve seen her when she realized her husband had figured it out!” Gina’s voice was rich, her eyes dancing as she leaned forward, her top dipping to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage. “She froze like a damn statue. This town’s a soap opera, I swear.”

Lacey’s giggle bubbled up, high and breathy, her full lips parting as she tossed her hair, the motion sending a ripple through her curves. “No way! What happened next?” She tucked her legs beneath her, the sundress riding up to expose a smooth expanse of thigh, her skin catching the lamplight. The wine had softened her edges, making her feel loose, carefree, but a nagging thought tugged at her, dimming her smile. She twirled a strand of hair, her fingers delicate, and her voice turned puzzled. “Wait ... Gina ... you haven’t heard from Richard, have you? Like, at all?”

Gina’s perfectly sculpted brow arched, her lips pursing as she set her glass down with a delicate clink, her movements graceful yet commanding. “Richard? That paunchy guy with the bad comb-over?” She smirked, crossing her arms under her enhanced chest, the motion pushing her breasts higher. “Nope. Why, what’s up?” Her tone was casual, but her eyes narrowed, studying Lacey with a predator’s curiosity.

Lacey’s frown deepened, her blue eyes clouding as she chewed her lip, a gesture that made her look both innocent and unwittingly seductive. “It’s so weird. He hasn’t called since our date. I sent, like, two texts—super chill, just ‘hey, how’s it going?’—and ... nothing.” Her voice softened, tinged with hurt, as she shifted, her sundress stretching taut over her breasts. “I thought he was into me. He kept going on about how pretty I was, and he even took that ... you know, pill thing.” Her cheeks flushed a soft pink, and she glanced at Gina, her smile sheepish. “I didn’t think the date was that bad.”

Gina snorted, tossing her hair with a flick that sent it rippling like a dark waterfall. “Oh, honey, forget him. Guys like Richard are a dime a dozen—boring, needy, and gone by morning.” She leaned back, her posture all confidence, her stilettos tapping lightly on the floor. Then her eyes roamed over Lacey, lingering on her curves, a sly smile curling her lips. “Look at you, Lace. You’re a goddamn knockout—those legs, that tiny waist, and those tits? Natural, too, which is rare as hell. But I’m telling you, if you got some implants like mine?” She cupped her own enhanced breasts, giving them a playful squeeze, her laugh low and wicked. “You’d be unstoppable. Men would be throwing themselves at your feet, wallets wide open.”

Lacey’s eyes widened, a nervous giggle escaping as her cheeks burned hotter. “Implants? Me?” She glanced down at her chest, the sundress outlining her full breasts, and bit her lip, torn between flattery and uncertainty. The idea felt ... bold, like something Gina would do, not her. But the way Gina said it, with that fierce confidence, made it sound almost possible. She sipped her wine, the tartness sharp on her tongue, and nodded slowly. “I don’t know ... I mean, maybe. But dating’s so hard. I’m not even sure what I want.” Her gaze drifted upward, catching the faint water stain on the ceiling, a reminder of the roof Dane had promised to fix. The clank from the basement grew louder, and her stomach fluttered, unbidden, at the thought of Dane’s broad shoulders, slick with sweat, his muscles flexing. She blinked hard, shaking off the image, her pulse quickening.

Gina, oblivious, launched into her usual sermon, her voice taking on that bossy, persuasive edge. “You need to get out there, Lace. Stop wasting time on small-town losers. Older men, wealthy men—they’re the real deal. Stability, experience, and they spoil you rotten.” She gestured grandly, nearly knocking over her glass, then laughed, her eyes gleaming. “Next high-society gala Charles drags me to, you’re coming. Those places are crawling with rich, mature guys dying for a gorgeous younger wife. It’s a gold mine, Lace.”

Lacey’s lips parted, her giggle nervous but intrigued. “A gala? Oh, Gina, I’d probably trip in my heels or call some fancy guy by the wrong name.” She pictured herself in a shimmering gown, her curves on display, gliding through a room of silver-haired men, their eyes locked on her. Her heart raced, a mix of excitement and nerves, and she shifted, her sundress riding higher. “But ... maybe it’d be fun. You think I could really find someone like that?”

“Absolutely,” Gina said, her smile sharp, like she’d already won. “You’re a catch, Lacey Carver—gorgeous, sweet, that body? Hell, with a little upgrade, you’d have them eating out of your hand.” She reached over, patting Lacey’s knee, her touch warm and firm. “Trust me, I’ll get you into that gala. We’ll find you a real man, not some limp-dick dud like Richard.”

Lacey laughed, the sound a little shaky, but she nodded, letting Gina’s words sink in. A real man—someone strong, someone to take charge, to make life easier. Her mind flickered to Dane, the way he’d fixed the sink last week, his deep voice so sure, so commanding. Her fingers tightened around her glass, her skin tingling. “Okay,” she said, her voice brighter than she felt. “Sign me up. But you’re picking my dress, ‘cause I’ll definitely pick something totally wrong.”

Dane dropped the barbell onto the basement’s chipped concrete floor, the clang echoing off the cinderblock walls. Sweat glistened on his chiseled, six-foot-three frame, his tight black tank top clinging to every ripple of his 210-pound physique. His broad shoulders and sculpted pecs heaved as he caught his breath, his dark brown hair damp against his cropped scalp, green eyes glinting with a predator’s focus. The makeshift gym—rusted weights, a cracked mirror, and a flickering fluorescent bulb—was his domain, where he forged his body into a weapon. He smirked, flexing his massive biceps, the veins bulging like cables under his tanned skin. Sixteen years old, and already a fucking god.

He sauntered to a corner, kicking aside a pile of old towels to reveal a loose floorboard. Kneeling, he pried it up, fishing out a small metal box—his secret stash. Inside, vials of anabolic steroids gleamed next to a pack of syringes. His gym buddies, those jacked-up meatheads at Iron Pulse, had hooked him up last month, and the shit was magic. He’d packed on ten pounds of pure muscle already, his lifts skyrocketing, his body hardening into something unstoppable.

Dane grabbed a vial, flicking it with a calloused finger, then filled a syringe with practiced ease. He rolled up his sleeve, his bicep swelling as he made a fist, the muscle taut and veined. The needle slid into his arm, the burn of the juice spreading like fire. He grinned, imagining his pecs growing thicker, his quads shredding his jeans. Those pussies at the gym warned about roid rage—mood swings, aggression, blah blah blah. Weak-ass excuses. Dane could handle it. Hell, he’d up the dose next week, maybe double it. Why settle for beast when he could be a fucking monster?

He stashed the box, wiped the sweat from his brow, and headed upstairs, his sneakers thudding on the creaky steps. His throat was parched, and the kitchen’s cold water was calling. As he reached the top, the sound of giggles and soft voices drifted from the living room—his mom, Lacey, and that smoking-hot Gina Bennett. Dane’s lips curled into a smirk. Time for a little show.

He stepped into the living room, his bulk filling the doorway, the lamplight casting shadows across his carved physique. The room was a cozy little trap, all faded wallpaper and sagging furniture, but it was the women who made it worth a stop.

Lacey lounged on the couch, her thirty-two-year-old body a goddamn masterpiece of curves. Her pink sundress stretched tight over her full, juicy tits, the kind that bounced just right when she moved, and hugged her tiny waist before flaring over hips made for grabbing. Her dirty blonde hair spilled in messy waves, framing a face that screamed fuckable—plump lips begging to be kissed, wide blue eyes so ditzy they practically invited a guy to take charge.

Dane’s cock twitched as he pictured her on her knees, those lips wrapped around his eleven-inch monster, her eyes watering as she gagged. She was his mom, sure, but that just made it hotter—knowing she was off-limits, knowing he could have her anyway if he pushed hard enough. She didn’t even realize how she teased him, prancing around in those tight outfits, her ass swaying like a fucking invitation. A slut like her needed a real man to put her in her place.

Then there was Gina, perched on the armchair like a queen on a throne, her thirty-six-year-old body a wet dream sculpted by money and obsession. Her jet-black hair flowed like a dark river, begging to be yanked, framing a face with sharp cheekbones and full, crimson lips that screamed for a cock to shut them up. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes glinted with that knowing, cock-teasing mischief, like she knew every guy who saw her wanted to bend her over. Her red top plunged low, barely containing her D-cup implants—so round and firm they made Dane’s palms itch to squeeze them. The fabric clung to her toned waist and flared over hips that could make a priest sin, her crossed legs in those tight black pants showing off every sleek curve. Her stilettos, sharp and black, made her look like she’d step on a guy’s balls and he’d thank her for it.

Dane had been jerking off to Gina since he was thirteen, the first time he’d seen her in a bikini at some backyard barbecue. He’d pictured her countless times—gagging on his dick, her perfect ass red from his slaps, begging for more. She played the feminist card, all bossy and independent, but Dane saw through it. A bitch like Gina was built to be fucked, to be owned, and he’d love to be the one to break her.

“Hey, ladies,” Dane said, his voice low and cocky, leaning against the doorframe to flex his pecs subtly. His eyes raked over Gina first, lingering on her cleavage, then slid to Lacey’s tits, barely contained by that tight sundress. “What’s the gossip tonight? Spill it.”

Lacey’s face lit up, her smile all sweet and clueless, making her look even hotter. “Oh, Dane! Just girl talk, you know.” She giggled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, the motion lifting her chest. “How’s your workout going?”

Gina’s smile was tighter, her eyes flickering over his bulging arms before meeting his gaze. “Yeah, you’re looking ... big, Dane,” she said, her voice a little too careful, her cheeks flushing faintly. She shifted, uncrossing and recrossing her legs, her top straining as she moved. Dane’s smirk widened. She was uncomfortable, and he fucking loved it. He could practically smell her nerves, see the way her body betrayed her cool act. He bet she’d be a screamer, clawing his back while he pounded her into next week.

“Working hard, Gina,” he said, stepping closer, his eyes locked on her lips, imagining them stretched around his cock. “Gotta keep this body in prime shape, right? Never know when I’ll need to ... impress.” He winked, letting the word hang, heavy with suggestion. Gina’s flush deepened, and she glanced at Lacey, her fingers tightening around her wineglass. Lacey just giggled again, oblivious, her eyes bright with that ditzy pride that made Dane want to pin her down and show her what a real man could do.

“Anyway, just grabbing some water,” Dane said, stretching his arms overhead, his tank top riding up to flash his carved abs. He caught Gina’s eyes darting to his stomach, then away, and he grinned. “Don’t let me interrupt your ... girl talk.” He turned, sauntering toward the kitchen, his jeans hugging his thick quads. As he reached the doorway, he heard their voices drop to whispers, Lacey’s soft and curious, Gina’s sharper, tinged with something like unease.

“God, Gina, he’s gotten huge lately,” Lacey murmured, her tone all awe. “Like, I swear he’s bigger every week.”

“Yeah,” Gina replied, quieter, a little strained. “He’s ... something else.”

Dane’s grin stretched wider as he stepped into the kitchen, the linoleum cool under his sneakers. He flexed his biceps again, feeling the power surge through him, the steroids pumping him up to godlike status. Let them whisper. Let them stare. He was a fucking king, and every slut in his life—his mom, Gina, the girls at school, all of them—knew it. He grabbed a glass, filled it with water, and chugged it down, his mind already back on his weights. Time to lift some more, get even bigger, make every bitch in this town beg for a piece of him. He headed back to the basement, his steps heavy, his cock half-hard from the thought of Gina’s flushed face and Lacey’s jiggling tits, ready to dominate the iron and anything else that got in his way.

Lacey swayed slightly on her doorstep, the cool night air brushing her bare arms as she hugged Gina goodbye. Her pink sundress clung to her curvaceous frame, the soft fabric outlining her full breasts and flaring over her rounded hips, its hem fluttering against her thighs. Her dirty blonde hair fell in loose waves, a few strands sticking to her flushed cheeks, warmed by the Chardonnay buzzing through her veins. Gina’s glossy black hair shimmered under the porch light, her crimson top and tight pants accentuating her surgically enhanced curves, her dark eyes sparkling with that commanding mischief Lacey had always envied. The hug was warm, Gina’s perfume—a heady mix of jasmine and spice—enveloping Lacey, making her feel small and safe in her friend’s embrace.

“Promise me, Lace,” Gina said, pulling back to fix her with a stern, playful glare, her scarlet nails resting on Lacey’s shoulders. “You’re coming to the next charity ball Charles drags me to. No excuses. It’s gonna be wall-to-wall rich guys, and you’re too gorgeous to miss out.” Her smile was all teeth, confident and persuasive, as she squeezed Lacey’s arms.

Lacey giggled, her head tilting, her blue eyes wide and a little glassy from the wine. “Okay, okay, I promise,” she said, her voice breathy, a nervous flutter in her chest at the thought of glittering gowns and polished men. “But you’re picking my dress, Gina. I’ll probably choose something totally tacky.” She laughed again, swaying slightly, her sundress shifting to reveal a glimpse of creamy thigh.

“Deal,” Gina said, winking as she turned toward her sleek Mercedes parked at the curb. “You’re gonna knock ‘em dead, girl.” She blew a kiss, her stilettos clicking down the walkway, leaving Lacey alone in the quiet night.

Lacey closed the door, the click of the latch loud in the still house. Her head buzzed, the wine making her thoughts fuzzy, her body warm and loose. The faint clank of weights drifted up from the basement—Dane, still at it, his relentless energy a steady rhythm that tugged at something deep inside her. She leaned against the door, her fingers brushing the smooth wood, her breath catching. What was she doing? Her feet moved before her mind caught up, carrying her toward the basement stairs, the creak of the floorboards under her bare feet barely registering. The clank grew louder, a metallic heartbeat, and she followed it, drawn like a moth to a flame.

The basement was dim, lit by a single flickering fluorescent bulb that cast stark shadows across the cinderblock walls. The air smelled of sweat and iron, a masculine tang that made Lacey’s nose wrinkle even as her pulse quickened. Dane lay on the weight bench, his massive frame dominating the cramped space, his black tank top stretched taut over his chiseled pecs and broad shoulders. His pecs bulged as he gripped the barbell, the plates loaded heavy, clanking as he pressed it skyward with slow, controlled power. Sweat glistened on his tanned skin, his dark brown hair damp against his scalp, his green eyes focused with a predatory intensity that made Lacey’s stomach flutter. At sixteen, he was no longer her little boy—he was a man, a towering, muscular god, and the sight of him stole her breath.

Lacey leaned against the doorway, her sundress catching on the rough frame, her fingers clutching the wood to steady herself. She sighed, a soft, wistful sound, her eyes tracing the ripple of his muscles, the way his tank top clung to every ridge and valley of his torso. Her head tilted, her hair spilling over one shoulder, and she bit her lip, unaware of how the gesture made her look vulnerable, almost seductive.

Dane paused mid-rep, the barbell settling into the rack with a heavy thud, and sat up, his gaze snapping to her. A slow, cocky grin spread across his face, his eyes glinting as they roamed her body, lingering on the curve of her breasts, the flare of her hips. Lacey felt the weight of his stare, a prickle of heat spreading across her skin, but her wine-soaked mind couldn’t quite grasp why it made her squirm.

“Hey, Mom,” Dane said, his voice low and rough, laced with that arrogant charm that always made her heart skip. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his massive frame seeming to fill the room. “What’s up? Just checking out the show?”

Lacey giggled, the sound high and nervous, as she pushed off the doorway and stumbled closer, her bare feet unsteady on the concrete. “Oh, Dane, you’re just ... you’re so big now,” she said, her voice awed, her eyes wide as they flicked over his arms, his chest. “Like, how much are you even benching? That looks ... wow, heavy.” She stopped a few feet away, swaying slightly, her sundress shifting to hug her curves tighter.

Dane’s grin widened, his eyes never leaving her, dark and intense. “Three-fifty,” he said, flexing his pecs subtly, the motion making his tank top strain. “Not bad, right? Been pushing it hard lately.” He stood, towering over her, his six-foot-three frame dwarfing her five-foot-five, the heat radiating off his sweat-slicked body almost tangible.

Lacey’s jaw dropped, her lips parting in amazement. “Three-fifty? Oh my gosh, Dane, that’s ... that’s crazy!” She stepped closer, her inhibitions melted by the wine, and reached out, her delicate fingers pressing against his chest. His tank top was damp, the fabric clinging to his rock-hard pecs, and she gasped softly, her fingertips tracing the unyielding muscle. “You’re so ... hard,” she murmured, her voice a mix of awe and something else, something she didn’t dare name. She giggled again, her cheeks flushing, her eyes flicking up to meet his, then darting away as she felt the intensity of his gaze, his green eyes boring into her, roaming her sundress-clad body like a physical touch.

Her fingers lingered, pressing harder, exploring the contours of his chest, and she squirmed, a sudden heat pooling low in her belly. Dane’s grin didn’t falter, but his eyes darkened, a hunger there that made her breath hitch. She was close—too close—her body inches from his, the scent of his sweat and musk filling her senses. Her sundress felt too tight, her skin too warm, and a flicker of awareness cut through the wine’s haze. This was Dane. Her son. Her son. The thought hit like a bucket of cold water, and she froze, her fingers stilling on his chest, her eyes widening in panic.

“Oh! Um, I—I should ... I forgot something upstairs,” she stammered, her voice high and shaky as she yanked her hand back, her cheeks burning. She stumbled backward, her bare foot catching on a stray dumbbell, and she yelped, catching herself against the bench. Dane’s chuckle followed her, low and knowing, as she turned and scrambled for the stairs, her sundress fluttering, her legs unsteady from the wine and her own racing heart.

Lacey half-ran, half-stumbled up the stairs, her breath coming in short gasps, the clank of Dane’s weights resuming behind her like a mocking echo. Her wineglass slipped from her trembling fingers, shattering on the hardwood floor of the hallway, but she didn’t stop, didn’t care. She reached her bedroom, slamming the door shut with a force that rattled the frame, and threw herself onto the bed, her sundress hiking up her thighs as she landed on the soft quilt. Her chest heaved, her body trembling with a mix of shame, fear, and something darker, something that made her thighs clench together.

Her hands moved before she could stop them, sliding down her body, bunching the sundress at her waist. Her fingers found the damp heat between her legs, and she gasped, her eyes fluttering shut as images of Dane flooded her mind. His massive, sweat-slicked body, the ripple of his muscles under her touch, the cocky grin that promised he could take whatever he wanted. His aggressiveness, his attitude, the raw masculine magnetism that had her squirming in the basement.

And that night—God, that night—she’d seen him in the hot tub with Katya, that huge cock thrusting into the girl, relentless, powerful, a weapon of pure dominance. Lacey’s fingers moved faster, rubbing circles against her slick folds, her breath hitching as she pictured Dane’s hands on her, his voice growling in her ear, his body pinning her down. It was wrong, so wrong, but the thought of him—his strength, his hunger—ignited something primal in her.

She arched off the bed, her moans soft but desperate, her fingers plunging deeper, chasing the heat building inside her. The memory of his eyes on her, the way he’d looked at her sundress like he could rip it off with a glance, sent her spiraling. Her climax hit hard, a shuddering wave of ecstasy that left her gasping, her body convulsing on the bed, her thighs slick with her release. She lay there, trembling, her heart pounding, her mind a whirl of guilt and forbidden desire, the clank of Dane’s weights still echoing faintly through the house, a reminder of the storm she couldn’t escape.

A few days later, Dane leaned against the rusted steel frame of the bleachers, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the empty football field. His six-foot-three frame loomed in the dim underbelly of the stands, his tight black t-shirt clinging to his chiseled pecs and rippling abs, his faded jeans straining against his thick quads. His dark brown hair was still damp from football practice, swept back from his square jaw, his green eyes narrowed with a predatory glint.

His eleven-inch cock throbbed painfully in his boxers, rock-hard and pulsing, begging for release. He shifted, adjusting himself, his calloused hand twitching with the urge to yank it out and stroke it right there in the open air. But jerking off wouldn’t cut it—not today. He needed to sink his dick into something wet, tight, and screaming, and that sophomore cheerleader, Kayla Myers, was supposed to be his ticket.

Kayla was a walking wet dream, a fifteen-year-old with a tight little body that made Dane’s blood boil. He’d watched her at practice, her blonde ponytail bouncing, her perky tits jiggling in that skimpy cheer uniform, the skirt so short it barely covered her plump ass. She’d giggled and blushed when he’d cornered her in the hallway last week, his bulk crowding her against the lockers, his voice low as he told her to meet him under the bleachers after practice.

She’d nodded, her big hazel eyes wide, her lips parted like she was already imagining his cock splitting her open. Dane grinned at the memory, his dick twitching harder, but his mind kept slipping back to the other night—his mom, Lacey, in that pink sundress, her fingers pressing into his sweat-slicked chest, her ditzy giggles and squirming body so close he could’ve pinned her to the bench and fucked her senseless. The thought of her full tits, her juicy ass, her clueless blue eyes watering as he pounded her, sent a fresh surge of heat through him. She was his mom, sure, but that just made her the ultimate prize—a forbidden slut he’d own one day.

He checked his phone, the screen glaring in the dim light. Forty-five fucking minutes late. Where the hell was Kayla? His jaw clenched, his patience fraying, the steroids coursing through his veins making his skin itch with restless energy. He paced, his sneakers crunching on the gravel, his fists balling at his sides. Finally, his phone buzzed, and he snatched it up, his eyes narrowing at the text from Kayla: “Sry Dane, my mom showed up to pick me up. Couldn’t get away. Next time?”

Dane’s vision went red, a roar of fury exploding in his chest. Stood up? By some ditzy cheerleader bitch? His cock throbbed, neglected and aching, his balls tight with unspent need. “Fucking cunt,” he snarled, slamming his fist into the bleacher’s steel frame, the impact sending a jolt of pain through his knuckles. He didn’t care. She’d pay for this—her and her tight little pussy. He’d make her choke on his dick until she begged for mercy. Seething, he stormed across the field to the parking lot, his strides long and aggressive, his massive frame drawing stares from a few lingering students. Let them look. He was a fucking god, and he’d take what he wanted, one way or another.

The drive home was a blur of rage, his beat-up Chevy’s engine roaring as he gunned it through stoplights, his hands gripping the wheel so tight the leather creaked. His cock still strained against his jeans, the memory of Lacey’s fingers on his chest looping in his mind, her sundress hugging those perfect tits, her ass swaying as she’d stumbled up the stairs. He growled, his fist slamming the dashboard, the pain barely registering. He needed to fuck something, anything, to burn off this fire, and that useless bitch Kayla had left him high and dry. By the time he pulled into the driveway, his vision was tunneling, his breath coming in short, angry bursts.

Dane stormed through the front door, the slam echoing through the modest Carver house. The living room was right there, all cozy and pathetic with its faded wallpaper and sagging couch, and there was Lacey, looking like a goddamn pinup in her work clothes. Her thirty-two-year-old body was poured into a tight white blouse, the buttons straining over her full, heavy tits, her pencil skirt hugging her tiny waist and round ass like it was painted on.

Her dirty blonde hair was pinned up, a few loose strands framing her heart-shaped face, her plump lips parted in surprise, her wide blue eyes blinking at him with that ditzy innocence that made his cock ache. She was sitting on the couch, legs crossed, her creamy thighs peeking out from the skirt’s hem, and Dane’s mind flashed to spreading those legs, ripping that skirt off, and fucking her until she screamed his name.

Next to her was some fat, useless cow—some co-worker whose name Dane didn’t know and didn’t give a shit about. The woman was doughy, her floral dress doing nothing to hide her rolls, her mousy brown hair limp, her face plain and forgettable. She was nothing, a waste of space, not worth a second glance. Dane’s eyes flicked back to Lacey, lingering on her cleavage, imagining those tits bouncing as he railed her, and his rage boiled over, the steroids amplifying every pulse of fury and lust.

“Get out,” Dane barked, his voice a low growl, his massive frame filling the doorway as he glared at the co-worker. His fists clenched, his biceps bulging under his t-shirt, his green eyes blazing with barely contained violence.

Lacey’s brows shot up, her lips parting in confusion. “Dane, honey, what’s wrong?” she asked, her voice soft and concerned, rising from the couch, her skirt riding up slightly to show more of her smooth thighs. She took a step toward him, her heels clicking on the hardwood, her eyes searching his face. “Is everything okay?”