years prior…well, that would be a whole different story.
“So, are we good?” she asks. “Can we proceed with the interview?”
She’s so fucking adorable. How many other women would be able to come down off an orgasm and get right back to work? I just want to pick her up and take her home with me.
Smiling to myself, I say, “Sure. Fire away.”
“Thank you.”
She reaches over to squeeze my arm. In that one small gesture, it seems like she’s trying to say she understands how hard this is for me, how difficult it’s going to be for me to spill my guts about my past. Maybe that’s not the case at all, but that’s how it seems to me.
And I really appreciate her making the gesture. A lot.
“Now,” she says, propping her elbow up on the table and resting her chin on her palm, “First and foremost, where did you grow up?”
I have no idea how to answer her question.
“Let me amend that. Where did you spend your senior year of high school?”
Taking a deep breath, I tell her, “A po-dunk little town about a half an hour northwest of Pittsburgh.”
She gives me a nod of encouragement.
“Did you play on your high school football team?”
“Of course.”
“Were you guys any good?”
I can’t help but crack a smile.
“God, no. The town was mostly Protestant, so obviously there weren’t a whole lot of students enrolled at my school. St. Mary’s. Coach couldn’t exactly afford to be selective. Practically half the guys in the school were on the team.” I shake my head at the memory.
We really were a sorry ass bunch.
“So you grew up Catholic?” Charlotte says.
“No.”
She frowns, gazing intently at me with those beautiful blue eyes.
“So even though you didn’t grow up Catholic, your parents sent you to a Catholic school in a mostly Protestant town,” she recaps.
“Pretty much.”
I’ve stumped the poor girl. I can practically see the wheels whirling in her mind as she tries to come up with a feasible explanation for my religious education.
“Did you convert to Catholicism?”
“No.”
She sighs.
All right. Enough is enough. This is going to come out sooner or later, so I decide to go ahead and set the record straight.
“My foster parents were Catholic.”
“ Oh , I see.”
I watch as understanding washes over her. Her features soften and her gorgeous lips form a gentle smile.
“Ryan, is that your big secret? That you grew up in the foster system?”
Yeah, right. It’s not even the tip of the iceberg. But there’s no way I’m letting on how much more there is to my story. Not yet, anyway.
“It’s part of it,” I tell her.
“What? Why? There’s nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, I’m sure people would embrace that about you. Think of all the foster kids who would see you as this amazing source of inspiration for having skyrocketed to success.”
This girl… I wish I could bottle her optimism and save it for a rainy day. It’s scary how much I like her. It isn’t like me at all to go all googly-eyed for any girl, much less a cheerful, wholesome girl like her.
Well…I guess she isn’t that wholesome. She did just suck me off and let me eat her pussy right here on this table.
“I know there’s nothing wrong with growing up in the system,” I tell her. “That’s not it at all. The thing is I have a long and complicated history with a lot of different people, and some of them are opportunists who’d be banging down my door in a second, asking for handouts if they put two and two together and realized they knew me.”
“I see,” she says, biting down on her bottom lip in contemplation. After a moment, she asks, “How long were you in the system?”
Shaking my head, I remind her, “That question doesn’t fall within the scope of our agreement. I said I’d talk about my high school years only, remember?”
“Touché. All right. Tell me about your foster parents. Were they nice?”
Were they nice .
I shake my head. God, this girl is
“So, are we good?” she asks. “Can we proceed with the interview?”
She’s so fucking adorable. How many other women would be able to come down off an orgasm and get right back to work? I just want to pick her up and take her home with me.
Smiling to myself, I say, “Sure. Fire away.”
“Thank you.”
She reaches over to squeeze my arm. In that one small gesture, it seems like she’s trying to say she understands how hard this is for me, how difficult it’s going to be for me to spill my guts about my past. Maybe that’s not the case at all, but that’s how it seems to me.
And I really appreciate her making the gesture. A lot.
“Now,” she says, propping her elbow up on the table and resting her chin on her palm, “First and foremost, where did you grow up?”
I have no idea how to answer her question.
“Let me amend that. Where did you spend your senior year of high school?”
Taking a deep breath, I tell her, “A po-dunk little town about a half an hour northwest of Pittsburgh.”
She gives me a nod of encouragement.
“Did you play on your high school football team?”
“Of course.”
“Were you guys any good?”
I can’t help but crack a smile.
“God, no. The town was mostly Protestant, so obviously there weren’t a whole lot of students enrolled at my school. St. Mary’s. Coach couldn’t exactly afford to be selective. Practically half the guys in the school were on the team.” I shake my head at the memory.
We really were a sorry ass bunch.
“So you grew up Catholic?” Charlotte says.
“No.”
She frowns, gazing intently at me with those beautiful blue eyes.
“So even though you didn’t grow up Catholic, your parents sent you to a Catholic school in a mostly Protestant town,” she recaps.
“Pretty much.”
I’ve stumped the poor girl. I can practically see the wheels whirling in her mind as she tries to come up with a feasible explanation for my religious education.
“Did you convert to Catholicism?”
“No.”
She sighs.
All right. Enough is enough. This is going to come out sooner or later, so I decide to go ahead and set the record straight.
“My foster parents were Catholic.”
“ Oh , I see.”
I watch as understanding washes over her. Her features soften and her gorgeous lips form a gentle smile.
“Ryan, is that your big secret? That you grew up in the foster system?”
Yeah, right. It’s not even the tip of the iceberg. But there’s no way I’m letting on how much more there is to my story. Not yet, anyway.
“It’s part of it,” I tell her.
“What? Why? There’s nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, I’m sure people would embrace that about you. Think of all the foster kids who would see you as this amazing source of inspiration for having skyrocketed to success.”
This girl… I wish I could bottle her optimism and save it for a rainy day. It’s scary how much I like her. It isn’t like me at all to go all googly-eyed for any girl, much less a cheerful, wholesome girl like her.
Well…I guess she isn’t that wholesome. She did just suck me off and let me eat her pussy right here on this table.
“I know there’s nothing wrong with growing up in the system,” I tell her. “That’s not it at all. The thing is I have a long and complicated history with a lot of different people, and some of them are opportunists who’d be banging down my door in a second, asking for handouts if they put two and two together and realized they knew me.”
“I see,” she says, biting down on her bottom lip in contemplation. After a moment, she asks, “How long were you in the system?”
Shaking my head, I remind her, “That question doesn’t fall within the scope of our agreement. I said I’d talk about my high school years only, remember?”
“Touché. All right. Tell me about your foster parents. Were they nice?”
Were they nice .
I shake my head. God, this girl is
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