His Horny MILF Babysitter
By Alana Church
4/5
()
About this ebook
Michael has known Lisa since he was a kid. But when the sexy MILF divorces her husband and moves back home, he has one last chance to make his teenage dreams come true. Michael's all grown up, and it's time to prove it to "His Horny MILF Babysitter!"
~~~~~ PG Excerpt ~~~~~
“Is she asleep?”
Michael shook her shoulder. The only response was a faint whine of complaint. “Out like a light,” he smiled. He carefully picked up his little sister and carried her into her room. He put her to bed, taking off her shoes and pulling the covers over her small body.
When he turned, he found Lisa eying him fondly. “You’re a good brother, Michael.”
“Thanks,” he said awkwardly. He closed the door to Vicky’s bedroom and followed the older woman back down the hall. His eyes couldn’t help but admire the sexy sway of her slim hips, encased in the designer jeans she favored. Above, she wore a dove-gray sweater that clung to her torso in a way that made him bite his lips from suppressed desire.
They sat around the kitchen table and talked for a while, the topics ranging between Lisa’s hopes for her life after college and her impending marriage, and Michael’s season with the basketball team.
“It’s almost midnight,” Lisa noted. She took a sip of beer. His parents had decreed, in a case of injustice which was almost cosmic in its scope, that she could have beer (“But only two, okay, Lisa?”) while he could not. Her eyes were suddenly bright. “Too bad neither of us have a date. We could kiss them for the new year.”
His stomach suddenly churned nervously. “I’m here,” he croaked. “You’re here.”
Lisa blinked at him, and her face was illuminated in that sudden, heart-stopping grin that had captured his heart when he was no older than Vicky. “Well, why not?” she smiled. She looked across the room. “Under the mistletoe?”
Unable to believe his luck, he had barely been able to nod. “Sure.”
She got up and he followed, his blood thundering in his ears. They stopped under the doorway where the kitchen led into the family room, a plastic sprig of mistletoe with improbably red berries taped to the lintel, a leftover from Christmas. His father delighted in trapping his mother under there at least twice a day.
“Mmm,” she smiled, her eyes dancing. “I like tall men.” She ran her hands up his arms to his shoulders. “You’ve grown.”
Anything he could possibly say in response would seem either perverted or creepy, so he kept his mouth shut. But something in his heart must have showed in his eyes, because Lisa’s chest began to rise and fall more quickly. Did she see how much he desired her, how long he had kept his feelings hidden?
“Michael,” she whispered, then pulled him down. Her lips brushed his. Once, twice. Then they softened, her mouth opening, a breathy moan escaping her lips as they fastened onto his.
Suddenly they were grappling, his long-denied desire bursting forth. Her hand clutched his rear, pulling him close, her nails pricking his ass-cheeks. He groaned and ground his groin into her, hard as a bar of steel. His hand slipped from her hip to her side, finding the mound of her breast. So firm! So soft!
Alana Church
Born and raised in Illinois, Alana attended the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, graduating with a degree in Education in 1994. She soon found out that the teaching life was not for her, and after a series of adventures has settled down in the Chicago suburbs, where she works for a telecommunications company.Alana lives alone, surrounded by books, pictures, a pile of story ideas, and a turtle named Pedro.
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Reviews for His Horny MILF Babysitter
1 rating1 review
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Predictable plot and ending but it was still pretty good. She had a pretty good head on her shoulders so I was kind of surprised with who she ended up with at first.
Book preview
His Horny MILF Babysitter - Alana Church
His Horny MILF Babysitter
By Alana Church
Artwork by Moira Nelligar
Copyright 2019 Alana Church
== || < > || ==
~~ All characters in this book are over 18. ~~
== || < > || ==
Dad,
Lisa Williams said. I want to buy some new jeans.
Sure,
her father said, and continued to read his book. It was a collection of newspaper columns by Dave Barry, and she suspected her father knew it by heart.
Dad!
She stamped her foot. I’m serious!
He looked over the top of his glasses at her. I said it was all right, Lisa. Go ahead. The next time we go to Penney’s we’ll get you some new jeans. Maybe in August. We’ll have to do school shopping for you and Kevin, anyway.
I don’t want jeans from Penney’s,
she said. God, could the man be any more infuriating? August was nearly three months away! "Or Kohl’s. Or any other chain store. I want good jeans."
Ah.
He closed his book on a finger. And good would mean expensive, I’m guessing.
Yes,
she muttered, her gaze focused on the tips of her toes. The pink toenail polish was chipping off, she noticed.
A corner of his mouth quirked up. How much?
She pulled a flyer out of her back pocket. Here.
He looked at the ad she had circled, and his mouth fell open. "They cost how much? What are they made out of, anyway? Unicorn hair? Are they bulletproof? No, he continued, his eyes darting back to the taut rear end of the model, whose curves were encased in a pair of jeans which left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
I guess not. There are holes in those things big enough to drive a truck through. What do they do? Let a pack of squirrels chew on them for a couple of months before they sell them? What’s wrong with regular jeans?"
Come on, Dad. I’m going to be a sophomore this year. I want…
Her fingers twisted. I want to look good. Sexy.
Her father’s look turned flinty. You’ll have plenty of time to look sexy later, young lady.
He sighed. How many pairs?
Lisa’s heart leapt. Her mother, when confronted by her youngest child, had sighed and told her to ask her father. Obviously, Stella Williams had expected her husband to shoot down the idea. She certainly hadn’t thought they would actually enter into negotiations. Four pairs?
she asked hopefully.
Her father’s lips quirked, but he shook his head. No. Try again.
Damn it. Three?
Two.
He held up a hand as she started to protest. This isn’t an argument, Lisa. Two.
He glanced down at the ad again. "Good grief. I once sold a car for less than what two pairs of these things cost. It wasn’t a good car, granted. When I was driving it, it smelled like burning hush puppies. But still.
Of course,
he mused, if you want to get a job and buy your own jeans,
he shrugged fluidly. What you do with your money is your own business.
I’m fifteen,
she growled. I can’t get a job until February.
Well, no,
he admitted. Not if you want to get a job as a check-out girl or a waitress or something like that. But there’s other ways of earning cash.
He leaned back, his eyes distant. Did I ever tell you about the summer I spent detassling corn?
Grandma says that it was only three weeks, and that you whined like a baby the whole time,
she shot back.
Her father snorted. My mother wasn’t standing on the pack of a picker for twelve hours at a stretch in the middle of a cornfield in July. And I was making the princely sum of three dollars and thirty-five cents an hour.
He waved a finger at her. I learned a lesson, though. Hard work is for chumps. Be like me and your mother, Lisa. Be lazy. Get good grades in high school, get into a good college, and get a sit-down sort of job. One where if it’s a hundred and flipping three degrees outside, you can turn up the air conditioning and get a nice cold soda.
His look turned pensive. Did you ever read Heinlein’s essay? ‘The Man Who Was Too Lazy To Fail?’
No, Dad,
she sighed.
I’ll find it for you. And if you’re looking for money, I bet there’s plenty of jobs around the neighborhood you could do. Or you could save your allowance.
He looked at the ad. Let’s see…if you don’t spend money on anything else, you could afford four pairs of jeans in about forty weeks.
You’re hilarious,
she said, and stomped off to her room.
So that was why Lisa found herself walking around the neighborhood early the next morning with a sheaf of paper, a roll of tape, and a staple gun she had liberated from her father’s toolshed. When she passed a utility pole, she stapled a sheet into the weathered wood. When she came across a stoplight, or a traffic sign, she taped a copy up. And she trudged up sidewalk after sidewalk, rolling her ads into cylinders and slipping them under door-handles and into mailboxes.
And as soon as the neighbors find it, they’ll throw it straight into the recycling bin, she thought sourly. Probably. Maybe.
She finished her side of Beason, went a couple blocks up Cooper, then went down Myers, finally coming back to Beason by way of Randolph. The day was getting hotter, and she’d been out for over an hour, so she eyed the other side of Beason malevolently. But knowing that her parents would ask their neighbors across the street if they had gotten one of her flyers, she crossed the street and sulked her way up the other side.
Can’t wait to get done with this. I should have worn one of Dad’s stinky old fishing hats. At least then I wouldn’t be getting sunburn on my scalp. I wish Mom would let me color my hair blond. Dark hair sucks.
There were only a few houses left to go when she reached the Hansen’s place. But just before she could slide the flyer under the door-handle, the door itself flew open, nearly hitting her in the face.
Shit,
she squeaked, jumping