Prologue

WITH THE EXCEPTION OF the barman and me, the bar was empty, somewhat sad looking, and depressing. Sawdust and peanut shells littered the floor, an old trick used by lazy owners to hide dirt. Flat-panel televisions silently played sports; hockey on one, baseball on another, NASCAR on the nearest one facing me, and the ever-present ESPN SportsCenter projected onto a four-foot screen, the picture blurry and pixilated. I cradled a glass mug of Coors, my eyes drooping with fatigue, disappointment, and alcohol, while debating whether to finish the beer or just leave. A vision of a dingy apartment filled my mind; Salvation Army furniture - all cast-offs from the sixties, the apartment wallpaper water-stained from long-ago leaks and partially peeling in the corners. Once again I was reminded how successful I was. Not.

The bar door opened letting in a cold blustery autumn wind and a flurry of rustling dead leaves that scurried across the floor like frightened mice. The chilly breeze briefly permeated the warmth of the bar before heaters regained the upper hand. The bartender, a large, bearded, mid-forties and tired-looking man with a stocky body, standing quietly while polishing a clean glass for no reason, other than he had nothing better to do, looked up at the door expectantly. So did I. Anything was more interesting than thinking about my situation. An old man walked in. No. An old gentleman walked in. In his mid-seventies, he was slender, perfectly erect, spry, and wearing a long gray overcoat with black piping along the collar and a black Trilby hat. The sight made me smile. I hadn't seen a Trilby in eons - an old movie if memory served, black-and-white at that. I think it had Humphrey Bogart starring. Maybe with Ingrid Bergman.

The man approached the bar, nodded in a friendly greeting and ordered a scotch, neat, his voice low and smooth. When the barman turned to the bottles lined up in front of a mirror backing the bar, the old gentleman took his Trilby off revealing neat, short-cut gray hair and a high hairline. He glanced at me and smiled, nodding in greeting. I raised my mug, tipped it, took a sip, and turned my face back to the table to contemplate the taste of futility, an all-too-familiar taste.

I wondered at my stubbornness. I wondered why I was so gifted and so unsuccessful. Was it a cosmic joke I just couldn't see? Maybe I should chuck it in and become a garbage collector, an idea that had lately been whispering to me; "I'm your only talent."

"May I join you?"

Startled, I glanced up from the pee-colored beer I was sipping. The older gentleman was standing next to the table, Trilby in one hand, a glass of deep amber scotch in the other. In one of those unusual occurrences, I noticed his fingernails were well manicured and impeccably clean, the back of his hands showing his age; wrinkled and liver-spotted. He was really the classical definition of a true gentleman. What was he doing in this dive?

"Sure. Why not," I replied being polite but wondering why he'd want to sit at my table. Every other table was empty.

Another gust of autumn wind rattled the front window. It was half frosted, the lower-half hiding sight of the street outside, neon beer signs hanging and blinking in the top half. Casey's Tap Room was etched into the glass in an arch in reverse; mooЯ qɒT ƨ‘yɘƨɒƆ from where I was sitting.

He sat slowly like an old man who was just being cautious, aware that some part of his aged body might break with the slightest provocation. His Trilby, black with a dark gray silk band, was carefully set on the scarred and ring-stained table. He placed a small paper napkin down and rested his glass of amber scotch on it before holding his hand out to me.

"I'm Darren Faith," he said by way of introduction.

I shook his hand. It was frail, cool, and papery-dry, but he had a firm grip. "Mike Hope," I said.

"Yes, I know. Well, cheers," he said, raising his glass after unbuttoning his coat to reveal a charcoal gray pinstripe suit, an impeccably starched white shirt, and muted burgundy tie. A gold tiepin winked from reflected neon cast by the beer signs.

I tipped my mug towards him and took a sip, the Coors now lukewarm and tasting about how it looked, like weak piss. He sipped his scotch while I openly studied him. What did he mean "Yes, I know?" He appeared to have a map of his life laid out in wrinkles, skin sagging forming half moons under alert pale blue eyes, a long nose, and a generous mouth with thin lips. When he smiled at my inspection, he revealed even ivory-white teeth. I wondered if I should ask him what he meant.

Screw it. I didn't have enough curiosity or ambition left in me.

There was silence. Mr. Darren Faith studied me. Suddenly, he reached across and laid his hand on my forearm.

"Don't worry. No one was hurt." He patted my arm lightly and withdrew his hand, reaching for his glass of scotch to take another sip.

Opening my mouth to ask just what the Hell was he talking about, a loud screech of rubber, a car horn blaring, a loud solid thunk, and the tinkling of shattered glass stopped me. They were the unmistakable sounds of a solid fender-bender, or worse. Through the frosted glass window I saw shadows moving, people responding, and automatically wondered if anyone had been hurt. What he'd just said registered with me. I glanced at him sharply.

Mr. Darren Faith smiled.

"Are you sure?" I asked before thinking.

He nodded.

"How?" I inquired. He now had my full and undivided attention. Was it coincidence?

He threw back his scotch. "Is your beer warm? Can I get you another?" Without waiting for a reply, he called out, "Richard, another round if you'd be so kind. That's a fine single malt scotch by the way; Glenlivet if I'm not mistaken."

The barman looked as surprised as I was. I didn't know his name was Richard and I'd been a regular customer for longer than I cared to remember.

Turning back to the old gentleman - Mr. Darren Faith - I asked again, "How?"

"Prescience, Michael. Do you believe in prescience?"

"Not until a minute ago," I replied truthfully.

Darren Faith handed a twenty-dollar-bill to Richard as new drinks were set down. "Thank you, Richard. Keep the change, please."

Richard seemed a bit startled. He nodded and shuffled back to the bar, picking up another glass and polishing it as if it were his hobby, like knitting or needlepoint; mindless and rote.

"If I may be so bold, why do you dogmatically stick to writing novels?" Darren asked, his slender fingers idly turning the new glass of scotch on its fresh paper napkin. I realized I didn't warrant a paper napkin. Maybe it was a scotch thing . . . or the way he dressed; a step up from my worn, faded jeans.

"Because," I responded. "I write. That's my talent."

He smiled. "Do you believe a person's future is preordained?"

"Not at all." I didn't. It contradicted free will and I was a staunch believer in my own free will.

"Well, it is. To a certain extent, that is. You may decide to eat a tuna sandwich instead of a ham and Swiss for lunch, but you will eat lunch at that place, at that time. It's ordained."

"No it isn't," I said. There was something rather unsettling about that concept; sort of communistic or extreme socialism; you have free will as long as it's what we tell you to do or think. "I could get up right now and leave. Nothing is preordained," I added with certainty.

"Yes it is. Trust me. I know these things," he said with a friendly smile. "For instance, I know, despite never having met you, that you are twenty-two years old, almost broke, have written two novels and sold neither. I know you have no car, live in a small one-room apartment, and will have a Michelina's frozen dinner tonight," he informed me conversationally, adding with a smile, "although which variety of the three in your freezer, I don't know."

I smiled a bit sarcastically. "In that case, I shall stop and have a burger on the way home."

"Hmm. If you say so."

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked, my beer forgotten.

"I can't tell you. However, what I can say is you should forget about writing novels. You'll never be successful at it. You have talent but you're misusing it. Consider writing screenplays. Movies. You'll find success through scripts, Michael."

I didn't believe him, not for a minute. He threw back his scotch and stood slowly.

"Well, I need to get along. I just needed a bit of liquid warmth to protect against the elements. It was nice meeting you, Michael Hope." He picked up his Trilby and put it on, adjusting it on his head before pulling his coat closed. "Oh, by the way," he added, leaning in slightly, his voice lowering. "The reason I stopped by was to give you the good news."

"What good news?" I asked.

He smiled. "Your wife was just born."

"What?" I asked in astonishment, thinking I'd misheard him.

"She's a pretty girl. You're very lucky, Michael." He turned and headed towards the door. "By the way, she's called Amelia, Amelia Destiny," he said with a chuckle.

A chilly wind blew more dead leaves through the bar door when he left. I sat, still bemused. That, I thought, had to be one of the strangest encounters of my life. Grinning, I decided it was all a con. My wife? Just born? Right! Pull the other one!

I soon began to reconsider, though. That night, when I found myself seated at the table eating a Michelina Authentico Frozen entree that was about as authentic as stick-on finger nails, I paused and reassessed the whole event from bar-door-opening to bar-door-closing. My mind mulled over movie scripts and Amelia Destiny, a baby, twenty-two years younger than me. No. It just wasn't possible. Was it? No.

Chapter One – Twelve Years Later

The heat had finally abated to a moderate scorching level from the skin-blistering intensity we'd experienced over the past week or so, allowing me to sit outside in the late afternoon. Beads of sweat slipped down my temples as I reviewed a movie script on my lap. A large cream-colored canvas umbrella provided shade but no respite from the heat. A glass of ice water, frosted with condensation, had moisture collecting at its base where it rested on the intricate wrought iron and glass-topped patio table. I stretched my legs and arched my feet, stretching my soles and spreading my toes. The aching pain felt good. I'd been inactive for too long.

Peter, my assistant, had printed the screenplay out, knowing how I disliked computers. He'd gamely tried to interest me in an iPad but had the good sense not to push it when I'd laughed in derision at his optimistic opinion of my technological talents. I didn't even carry a cell phone, a faux pas in Hollywood that Peter constantly reminded me of as he thrust pink phone message slips at me frowning in disapproval, his expression telling me I was single-handedly raping the planet of its natural resources by forcing him to use small pink paper made from endangered rainforest trees. I was unquestionably a technological Luddite.

The script, a poor attempt to bring emotion and empathy to suicide bombers, was wasting my time and making me angry. It was awkwardly phrased, full of typos, and the character's dialogue was childish. No one would ever want to see this movie. Fuck! Why had I agreed to read it? Unfortunately, relationships were everything and occasionally one had to do favors to grease the wheels of the entertainment business. Reviewing this amateurish script was one such favor.

Oh well. I couldn't complain too much. All in all I'd been very fortunate. Writing screenplays for two very, very successful movies had financed my way into producing. Several successfully produced movies that I'd also written had purchased the expansive Beverly Hills mid-century modern bungalow residence I now called home, and furnished it rather lavishly. I was, as is the nature of Hollywood, the flavor of the month, the reward for my success a coterie of sycophants who shivered and orgasmed at my every suddenly-prescient word, awed by my erudition on how to succeed in the fickle movie industry. And yet for all of my success, fleeting no doubt, I was alone, isolated from life, lost in my large home, and deprived of strong emotions by being coddled in the lap of luxury. With the exception of Peter, I let no one get close to me, repulsed by the artifice of the Hollywood crowd - those that worked harder on their artful contrivances than real skills. I'd felt more alive back in cold, raw, unpretentious, Clinton, Ohio.

The Hollywood Glitterati's shallowness couldn't be contained or managed. They'd hang on to my narrative frolics as if I was God himself, then badmouth me behind my back in jealous vengeance to make themselves feel superior, to ease their sense of failure, if just for a moment.

I hadn't cracked the secret of how to live happy. Then again, I was thirty-four and had a lifetime to figure it out . . . if I had the stamina.

Tossing the disappointing script onto the table, I stretched, arms up over my head, stomach muscles tightening, and yawned. I checked my watch. Four-fifteen. It was almost time for a drink, one of the highlights of my weekend. How sad.

The voice, when it came, floated on the air, light, lilting, and full of emotion. It stopped me in my tracks, sending chills down my spine and raising the hair on my arms, goose bumps forming. I didn't recognize the song; it didn't matter. She, whoever she was, scared me with the clarity of her voice, letting single notes hover in the air and fade, only to echo through my mind. I found myself holding my breath, waiting for the next note, and sighing with relief when it finally arrived just as the previous note faded into lonely silence. The tonal perfection was truly unsettling. I couldn't see the singer. But she was my neighbor, or visiting my neighbors, the Mastertons; the song drifting to me from the other side of a white-painted, wooden, six-foot tall privacy fence.

For a few incredible moments, the world seemed to fade away. Birds stopped twittering, nature held its breath, distant traffic paused, and the sound of an immensely talented voice filled my world. Her voice was utter perfection, one of those rare voices that sound effortless despite the range; comfortable, as if you knew she'd never waver, never falter, and never slip off-key. I was still staring at the fence in astonishment long after the voice faded into empty silence, waiting and hoping it would come back. A void formed inside me, a discomfort, a need to hear it again. That alone gave me pause.

How could a voice affect me so powerfully? How could a voice tug at my soul? It was strange, to say the least. I left the useless script on the table, stood and went to get a refreshing beer. Who was she? I wondered. She'd sounded young. But that voice . . . a soprano voice with a resonance that reminded me of Cornélie Falcon, the same slightly deeper range, an almost dark timbre that gave the voice character.

There are events in life that take you on a ride; wild emotional roller coaster rides that leave you stunned at the end wondering what the Hell just happened, dazed, and reeling. Then there are events that seem small at the time, yet linger inside, a ghost of a memory hovering over you, ever-present. Those events haunt. Those events are the ones that seem to prey on your mind, a constant companion through the day and into the night, ethereal, not understood. You can't forget or dismiss them, they're just there on the edge of your consciousness.

That song, that stunning voice, haunted me throughout the next week. It resonated inside me, distracted me, and followed me from meeting to meeting, an unseen presence. It made life pale and wan, an uninteresting passing of time. It drained everyday satisfactions leaving me feeling unsettled, as if I'd achieved nothing and never would.

The week passed.

I sat at the patio table observing the well-tended garden, roses and azaleas in bloom, lawn perfectly manicured, edges trimmed, and flower beds still dark from being turned and watered. Sounds drifted in; water burbling in the crystal clear sky-blue swimming pool, tree leaves rustling in the slight hot breeze, birds chirping. It was Saturday. I had nothing but a newspaper - the Los Angeles Times - and a mug of coffee on the table; no plans, no work. The sun was low in the eastern sky. It was still early morning. The air had a crystalline quality, recently scrubbed clean by a Pacific wind and not yet polluted by the daily buildup of Los Angeles smog.

I wasn't interested in the Saturday L.A. Times. In fact, I wasn't interested in anything. I hadn't been for a week. I was sitting in my khaki shorts and a T-shirt, barefoot, waiting and hoping. I felt like an addict, wanting to hear that voice sing just once more. Just once and then I'd be satisfied, and the world would regain its balance. I knew, like the addict, that once more would turn into twice, then three times, and on into an endless, voracious, self-consuming cycle. However, that morning I convinced myself I would be happy with once to start with.

In the stillness of the morning, with the sound of rustling leaves, water, birds chirping, and the occasional car passing in the street, I drifted to sleep, lethargy brought on by a tasking week and sleepless nights.

An angel's voice woke me. It floated across to me, a singularly spectacular voice singing Ave Maria, each note piercing me. Hair stood up on my arms and neck. I felt chills down my spine, once again enraptured by the perfection of her voice.

I didn't move a muscle, afraid the slightest movement would shatter my pleasure and chase that voice away. Then fear hit, panic setting in, my heart thumping suddenly. Like an addict I worried, what if I didn't hear it again? I rose from the chair, driven by a need to see the angel. Who was she? How could she possibly have a voice so pure, so crystal clear, a voice that seemed completely effortless?

There's a strange quirk in human nature. It's the feeling of being irresistibly driven to do something you're fearful of. Like worrying a loose tooth, you know it'll be painful, yet you can't resist playing with it, masochistically moving it while you wince. Or picking at a scab, knowing it will hurt and bleed if it comes off, and still you pick. I felt that quirk as I walked towards the fence. I knew I shouldn't see her. Nothing in this world could match the beauty of that voice. I was in for a disappointment of supreme proportions. Yet I had to see. I had to put a face to that angelic voice that haunted me. I had to see who was capable of singing with such ethereal beauty.

As I approached the fence, courage fled. I stopped, head bent, eyes closing, enchanted by the voice, lost in the song, goose bumps rising along my arms, shivering at such perfection. It was almost a painful experience making me ache inside. Light seemed to fade as the final notes hung in the air, echoing through my soul and drifting away, leaving me empty and doomed. Silence descended. I felt like I had lost a love or a vital part of me.

"You have a beautiful voice," I said softly, standing next to the fence. "I could listen to it for the rest of my life."

A light laugh sounded. "Thanks."

Could I look? Dare I? She suddenly sounded very young; a child. With a pounding heart, I rose onto my toes, grasped the top of the fence and peeked over.

There is nothing in the world that can describe what happened. I'll try but will never be able to do it justice.

I looked over the fence and my heart stopped. It stopped beating. I stopped breathing. I cannot explain why it happened. I can only tell you that it felt like I'd been electrocuted, my heart pausing then suddenly racing, arms numb, fingertips tingling. For a second I thought I might faint, blood draining from my brain leaving me lightheaded and dizzy. The air became too heavy, like trying to draw treacle into my lungs. I was going to suffocate.

If I thought her voice was beautiful, it had nothing on her beauty. I may have been enchanted by her voice, but when I saw her, I saw the woman she would become and it shook my world, as if the ground were being pulled out from under my feet. There was no rational explanation for my reaction. There was no rhyme nor reason nor logic to it. I could never explain. But she affected me like no one I'd ever set eyes on.

She was small and delicate, wearing lemon yellow Capri pants that ended just below her knees, the slim pants making her legs appear long and very, very slender. She was barefoot, her toenails painted a matching yellow. As I moved my eyes up, I saw a lime green spaghetti strap tank top. She was, I was to eventually learn, just shy of twelve years old. But nothing could prepare me for her face. Behind small frameless glasses, I saw the stunning beauty of large, exotically-shaped, smoky gray eyes framed by long dark eyelashes; eyes that sparkled with intelligence and spirit and inquisitiveness. Her nose was slim, straight, small, and flaring attractively around her nostrils; a perfect nose made delicate. Rich dark brown hair shot through with almost black strands, cut short in rough layers and soft spikes - as if it had been chopped with kitchen shears - framed her face. She appeared almost bedraggled and that only made her prettier. And then her mouth curled in a wide, blinding, smile that pretty much knocked the common sense out of me and into the middle of next week.

I wanted to smile with her. I had to; her smile demanded company. It was radiant and compelling. I smiled and felt stupid.

Her head tilted slightly to the side as she looked up at me, her hands clasped behind her back. She was wiggling little toes in the grass, her body subtly moving as if she was listening to a private song in her head. I wanted to run my hands through her hair and push those tendrils back behind her ears, cup her face, and stare for ever into those amazing almond-shaped eyes. It almost felt like I was in love. I couldn't be, I rationalized, yet that's what it felt like, an aching and yearning feeling mushrooming inside me; a feeling that I already missed her.

I opened my mouth to introduce myself and croaked like a bullfrog.

Her smile broadened into a dimpled grin; lips curving and parting, small perfectly white teeth appearing. The sun intensified, brighter and all-of-a-sudden hotter. Then, when another croak escaped, she giggled at me. A sledgehammer slammed into my chest. I couldn't breathe. I could feel my face flush with embarrassment; me, a thirty-four-year-old blushing! But dear God! I was tongue tied by this child!

Clearing my throat, I tried again, enunciating slowly. "Hi . . . I'm . . . Mike."

"Hello . . . Mike," she said, imitating my slow cadence, a glint of amusement in her eyes.

For a moment I stared, still quite stunned by my reaction to her. I'd never reacted to anyone so immediately or so strongly. It was visceral and confusing.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Um . . . You have a beautiful voice," I mumbled.

"You said so already. Thanks," she responded brightly.

I felt like an adolescent; at a loss for words and finding it difficult to form coherent thoughts while those stunning eyes looked at me. The air was now thin and I was breathing heavier, almost panting, my heart pounding. A trickle of sweat ran down from one armpit as I struggled for a rational thought, something to say, a question. Come on! Come on! My mind was a blank slate. I searched and found no thoughts, nothing, a void. All I could do was stare in awe at her intense beauty.

"Bye, Mike," she said, waving a small hand at me before she turned and strolled to the house.

Panic set in. Who was she? Would I see her again? Did she live there or was she just visiting? Would she sing for me?

"Wait!" I yelled far too loudly. "What's your name?" I asked. She stopped and turned just inside the back door. Why was I holding my breath?

She smiled. "Amelia." Then, with a small wave of a hand, she disappeared through the door.

Chapter Two

I had a bad week. But Peter, my assistant, had a really horrible week.

It wasn't his fault. It wasn't mine, either. It was Amelia's. At least that's what I tried to convince myself. But of course it wasn't Amelia's. It was mine, all mine. I felt like I had back when I was fourteen with a crush on Ruth, the sexy redhead with large boobs and a plunging neckline full of teasing promise. I was feeling the same ache, an unreasonable desire to see Amelia, to hear her voice, see her smile, and watch those magnetic eyes. I even missed her wiggling toes.

It was so ridiculous, so outlandish that I, a thirty-four-year-old, was mooning over a small girl that I became angry at myself and, thus, took it out on Peter, the poor sod.

I cursed delays on one project, a movie of the bittersweet homecoming of a financially successful Wall Street executive shunned by old friends who had lost their life savings. I threw scripts at the wall yelling at them when I found typos, and some jerk changed the brand of coffee on me without asking! It tasted different, less satisfying; just terrible for God's sake.

It was, I decided, an addiction. It had all the same symptoms; preoccupation with her, a feeling of being disconnected with everyday life, pleasurable activities no longer feeling as good, impatience, short-tempered, meetings driving me nuts with boredom, and worst of all, restless nights full of visions and tossing and turning. I was waking up more tired than when I'd gone to bed, a progressive deterioration.

It was no surprise when I got up at five-thirty in the morning after a night of no rest. My raccoon eyes looked quite spectacular staring back at me from the mirror as I shaved. I tried out a smile and shuddered; it scared me, looking more like sneer than a smile. With a mug of strong black coffee and the Saturday L.A. Times under one arm, I made for the patio full of desire to see and hear Amelia, and yet scared as Hell to see her again.

It was a horrible day. The sun was rising, sending glorious rays of spun gold into a cloudless powder-blue sky. It was an awful day; the temperature perfect, warm, a breeze bringing the sweet scent of a blossoming orange tree to me. I looked around the back yard with deep dissatisfaction at how perfect it was, every bush beautifully trimmed, roses insulting me with glorious blooms, and the pool annoying me with its perfect crystal clarity.

I was annoyed at Mr. Akita, the Japanese gardener I'd hired to take care of everything. He was all bones and sinew, had a wizened face, a friendly smile, and looked as if he was one hundred-and-thirty years old. Somehow, he'd kept my garden in unacceptably perfect condition.

I was annoyed. Amelia had not appeared.

As mid morning arrived on this awful sunny day, I decided I'd trim some roses. They were mine. If Mr. Akita had a heart attack when he saw what I was about to do, so what? Thus, deep red blooms became an enemy target. Armed with kitchen scissors, I growled at the rose bushes and, muttering to myself about their impossible perkiness and annoying utter perfection and unacceptable glorious fragrance, I approached with evil intent in my heart.

Then I heard myself, muttering and swearing, full of piss and bitterness. I burst into laughter. I laughed louder and harder, bending at the waist as tears started, my stomach cramping. Jesus! I was muttering and considering murdering a plant! What a hoot! Was I really that pathetic?

"What's so funny?"

I heard her voice over my laughter. Still laughing, I went to the fence and looked over, wiping tears from my eyes. I inhaled, my laughter fading to a chuckle, the chuckle fading to silence. Amelia was wearing embroidered jeans and a lemon yellow t-shirt, her small feet bare, yet again. Her hair was still in a gorgeous spiky, glossy, dark brown mess, her beauty just as powerful as it was last week, her eyes behind frameless glasses trapping me in their intense smoky gaze.

"I was laughing at myself," I said, grinning when I realized I could actually talk in her presence. That, I decided, was a significant improvement.

She smiled. I felt it. "I like your laugh," she said.

I wondered what her laugh would sound like. Probably perfect.

"So, when did you move in?" I asked. "Hey, want a pop? I need some coffee. Want to come over?" I added hopefully, thinking she might like to move in with me, take the spare bedroom, and sing to me every night and every morning.

"Sure. Let me tell Aunt Betty, okay?"

I watched her disappear into the house. I was quite pleased when I only suffered a passing pang of loss at her disappearance. When she came out again, my heart skipped. What was it about her?

"Where do I get through?" she asked, looking up at me, head tilted slightly, sunlight flashing off her frameless lenses. Damn it was cute!

"Oh. Um, I think you'll have to go around the front." The wood fence had no gaps, providing privacy the way it was designed to.

"Kay. See ya in a bit."

She skipped away. I turned and hustled to the front door to wait for her, feeling surprisingly nervous.

AMELIA RAN DOWN THE drive, turned left sharply and up Mike's curving drive. His house was different from Aunt Betty's and Uncle Harold's. Mike's house was more modern with large floor to ceiling windows and a feeling of space. She saw him standing at the open front door. His smile was really nice. She liked it. He must be a nice guy with a smile like that. Aunt Betty told her she liked him.

"Do you live here alone?" Amelia asked, eyes taking in the nicely decorated home as she followed Mike. It had a large entry hall and a big, big living room off to the right. "Hey! You have a Grand Piano! Can you play?"

"A little bit. Not very well, though."

"Do you sing?" she asked.

"A bit."

Everything seemed so neat and, as he led her into the kitchen, her eyes opened wide at the expanse. His kitchen was huge, too, with a large table in front of a wall of glass showing off his spectacular garden. "Nice kitchen." He had a sitting area, too. A couple of comfortable looking couches and, to the right of the fireplace, a huge flat-screen TV. The whole house was an open plan, except for a hall to the right. Probably bedrooms and bathrooms.

"Is this all yours?" she asked, thinking he was so young to own the house.

I WATCHED AMELIA INSPECT my house, suddenly nervous she wouldn't approve.

"Yup. All mine. What would you like to drink? Would you like to sit outside or move in with me?" What the heck? Where the Hell did that come from? "I mean sit inside," I clarified.

Amelia smiled at me and wandered through the den sitting area checking out the leather couches, and the coffee table covered in movie industry magazines. "Do you have Orangina?" she finally asked.

"What's Orangina?"

"A drink," Amelia replied, studying the huge television.

"Um, no. I'm pretty sure I don't have whatever that is. Do you buy it in grocery stores?"

AMELIA TURNED AND LOOKED at Mike, liking his unruly mop of dark hair, as though he forgot to brush it when he woke up. She liked his face. It was really friendly, kind, and very easy to look at. Soft brown eyes twinkled brightly at her. "Yup. How about Fresca?" she asked.

"Hmm. Let me see."

He disappeared below the counter. She heard a fridge door open. Walking to the glass wall, she stared out, hands on the glass, admiring all the blooms; roses, some strange big blue ball-shaped flowers, an orange tree with white flowers. His pool was crystal clear and looked so inviting in the sunlight. Aunt Betty didn't have a pool.

RISING WITH A CAN of Fresca in my hand, I said, "Here we are." I paused to watch Amelia, her hands up shading her eyes as she peered through the glass. Her hair was so lustrous in the kitchen light, appearing almost midnight dark and glossy. Wisps and soft spikes fell over the nape of her slender neck and partially over her ear. Once again I felt the urge to push it behind her delicate ear with my finger, feel how soft it appeared to be.

"Do you want ice?" I asked.

"Yes please," she answered without turning.

With a mug of coffee for myself, I led her out to the patio, placing her drink on the glass-topped table.

"You've got a pretty back yard," she said as she hitched herself up onto the chair.

"You've got a beautiful voice," I replied. "Care to trade?"

Her bright laughter and amused smile made my chest constrict just a bit. Very few people in the world were graced with smiles like hers; smiles that dominated everything, seemed to brighten the day, and capable of befuddling you. It could easily become addictive.

"You're funny. Do you swim a lot?" she asked.

"No."

"Then how come you've got a pool?"

"It came with the pretty garden."

Amelia laughed lightly and reached for her soft drink, sipping, putting it down absentmindedly, her eyes locked on the pool. "Can I swim in it sometime?" she asked. "We don't have a pool. I miss swimming."

"Sure. Whenever . . ." I began, then stopped. Amelia had turned to look at me, her beautiful gray eyes staring. She tilted her head slightly to the side. It felt like a puff of air passed through my mind, softly blowing every thought out of my head. I wondered what it was I was going to say.

"Whenever what?" she asked, beautiful eyes twinkling.

Blinking, I looked away from her and down at my mug of coffee. Thoughts rushed back to fill the void. "Oh. Um. Whenever you like, I was going to say. As long as I'm here and it's okay with your Aunt."

"Great! Today? This afternoon? Oh. I can't, sorry. I've got singing practice. Tomorrow maybe?" she asked hopefully.

"I'm always here on the weekend, so whenever you want," I answered, picturing her swimming in my pool. "How long are you staying with your Aunt?"

"I'm living with them for ever, I guess," she answered with a shrug of her small shoulders, her attention back on the pool. She took a sip of Fresca. "What's that blue flower?" she asked, pointing.

"I think it's a hydrangea. Where's your mom and dad?"

"They're both gone. They're in heaven." She sipped her Fresca. "What's that smell?"

For two hours, I talked to a remarkably articulate girl, a girl that seemed to have an endless curiosity, unafraid to ask questions. I discovered a strange phenomenon that afflicted me in her presence. Whenever she looked at me with her enchanting eyes and tilted her head just so, I felt that puff of air in my mind gently blowing away thoughts and leaving me scrabbling to remember what I was talking about. It was far too easy to lose myself in her gaze. I took to staring at the garden, a plant, a bloom, and only looking at her when she was talking to me. It was disconcerting. Yet as we chatted, she charmed and warmed me, making me feel alive.

Amelia announced her departure suddenly, just before lunchtime. "I've gotta go. Thanks for the drink." She slipped off the seat.

After escorting her out, I returned to the patio and sat in a semi-stupor. The rest of Saturday passed with little happening, my mind mulling over everything Amelia had said.

She'd calmly told me she was an only child, Mom and Dad passed away. She talked about how singing now made it easier for her and, when the vicar had heard her, he'd asked her to join the church choir. "But I don't like the vicar," she'd confessed in a whisper to me. "I just like singing in the church. It has nice echoes."

Amelia talked about school, singing classes, and living with her aunt and uncle. For two hours she gently wrapped me in her world, gave me a glimpse of her personality, and left my house far, far too soon.

I knew I was addicted. It showed in how I was unable to read a book or follow a TV show that night. I was restless, feeling as if something was missing, something left unfinished. I tossed and turned that night, desperately seeking sleep and, like a kid on Christmas Eve, wished morning would come faster. I knew I was addicted to her when I woke and my first thought was whether I'd hear Amelia sing, whether I'd see her.

I didn't.

It was a bad week. Poor Peter was beginning to question his career choice, reeling from my disjointed directions. Someone changed the brand of coffee again. It was even worse, if that was possible. By Thursday, Peter had had enough and handed me his resignation. I pleaded, begged, complimented, and finally he agreed to stay . . . for a slight raise . . . fifteen percent . . . and a promise I'd seek professional help from a psychiatrist.

Thankfully, Friday arrived, which meant Saturday was next. I was temporarily happy. So was Peter.

Four-thirty-five in the morning I was sitting at the patio table, a mug of coffee steaming into the chilly morning air and muttering to myself, huddled to ward off the last of the night chill, and frowning at the growing light revealing what promised to be an unacceptably pretty day.

I did nothing; just huddled and drank coffee. I waited.

Five endlessly long hours later I was rewarded, the sound of a spectacular voice floating on the air.

"Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
that saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost, but now am found;
Was blind, but now I see."

The hair on my arms stood up as I listened to her, wishing I'd had the presence of mind to bring a digital recorder. The last notes faded away. I felt their loss.

"Mike?"

Jumping up, I went to the fence, peering over. "Hey! Nice song."

"Thanks."

"Would you like to come over? Have a drink? Some food? A swim? A million dollars?" I asked.

She laughed brightly, her eyes sparkling. "I'll ask," she said, turning and heading to her house. I watched her, feeling pleasantly excited at seeing her. My world felt right, balanced, and full of possibilities.

At the sound of the front door bell ringing, I glanced at Amelia's back door and headed inside.

Beautiful smoky eyes looked up at me when I opened the door, her head tilted slightly. A soft breeze blew away all thoughts in my brain and I stared at her like a moron.

"So can I come in?" Amelia asked, bringing her hand up and shaking a bag. "I brought a swim suit."

Five minutes later, we were sitting at the patio table, Amelia studying the yard while sipping the Orangina I'd bought with her in mind. She never changed into her swimsuit. I'd asked her about music, what she liked, and how she started singing, and that was it.

For an hour and a half Amelia talked, her hands moving as if directing the melody of her voice. She was completely absorbed, her face animated, beautiful eyes sparkling with excitement. When she listened to me, her hands would settle. However, the restless fingers of her right hand continued to move as if conducting a phantom orchestra to music only heard in her head.

At one point she asked, "How long have you played the piano?"

When informed I'd been at it for seven years, she insisted we go in so she could hear me play.

"Sing, too," she encouraged, perching her bum on the armrest of an armchair, her foot swinging.

Making myself comfortable as I sat at the piano, I flexed my fingers and, with aplomb, started playing. My voice joined the piano in an harmonious baritone. I thought I was doing quite well until Amelia burst into laughter.

"No, really, sing properly," she insisted, much to my annoyance. "Quit being silly."

I stopped and frowned, not impressed. "I am singing," I insisted. Raising my hands theatrically, I plunged into the song again, this time with vigor and enthusiasm, determined to gain her approval.

Amelia proceeded to fall off the arm of the chair in a fit of giggles, her amusement forcing me to smile despite the fact that she was laughing at me. I stopped playing suddenly. Try as hard as I might, I couldn't frown, her amusement was too charming. I grinned instead.

Amelia lifted her glasses and wiped her eyes. "You're really funny," she insisted.

"Can you play the piano?" I asked, expecting her to say no.

Still laughing, she nodded and eventually said, "Uh-huh."

With easy familiarity, Amelia sat next to me on the piano bench. I shuffled down to give her room. She studied the ivory keys, touching them reverently, tenderly, almost a caress. The first simple notes sounded, singular notes, clean. Both hands began to move and another layer of notes joined in, slow bass notes in counterpoint to the dancing treble notes creating pleasing harmony. Tempo changed, a rolling wave of harmony filling the living room, faster, slower, faster, slower, the music alive and vibrant, and suddenly, Amelia's playing became soft, quiet and soulful, making my hair stand on end. The tempo slowed, harmony ended, and notes became separate, simple notes played gently, singular notes full of feeling, almost mournful. Bass notes faded away leaving clean, crisp treble notes echoing a final lament. Her hands stilled. The last of the music hung in the air and faded away like a wisp of smoke.

Silence.

I was stunned. If I hadn't just heard it I'd never have believed someone could put Samuel Barber's brilliant, powerful, Adagio for Strings to piano.

It wasn't fair! It was unjust for one so young to have so many talents. Mesmerizing gray eyes turned up to look at me.

"That was Adagio for Strings. Did you like it?" she asked brightly.

I nodded, still not settled enough to trust my voice.

Amelia continued, "I like it. I like playing music that wasn't written for the piano. It's fun trying to make it sound good." Her fingertips caressed the keys. "When you get it right the piano sings, too."

"Do you play music written for the piano?" I asked when I found my voice.

"Uh-huh." She tilted her head in thought. A smile broke out that just about stopped my heart. "This is one of my favorites," she announced and, with the same motion, her fingers touched the keys in a caress as if introducing herself to them. Her hands stilled. She began.

The piece was immediately recognizable. It was one of my absolute favorite piano pieces. She took me away with the delicate tinkle of high notes, the rhythmic bass notes, the ebb and flow of pure, beautiful music. And then I noticed. Amelia had her eyes closed. She was playing blind, perfectly, full of emotion, a haunting piece. She scared me to my core. No one could have such talent. It wasn't human.

As the final notes of Evgeni's Waltz faded into nothingness, it left me empty and drained, hair raised on my arms.

Chapter Three

Betty and Harold Masterton, my neighbors, were retired and in their late sixties. Harold had made his money in real estate development way back in the heady eighties. They'd been my neighbors when I bought the house, some two years ago. In those two years, we'd conversed occasionally when bumping into each other at the end of our drives.

The seclusion and privacy of Beverly Hills was designed to discourage familiarity but I couldn't help notice how Betty and Harold seemed to have classic cocktail parties three or four times a week, the big band music and babble of voices reaching me when I sat on my patio. Their soirées would go on into the early hours. It never bothered me. It wasn't as if I had guests that were being disturbed by the noise. Besides, it was a sign of life in the neighborhood.

Through Amelia, I discovered her aunt and uncle were fun-loving lushes, inebriated almost every night. Neither mistreated her. By all accounts, they were pleasant and generous. Amelia's only complaint was she'd occasionally miss singing classes because they were a bit forgetful when they'd drink. It was one such occasion that saw the deepening of our friendship. A Saturday morning.

The ringing of the front doorbell, a melodious chime from tubular bells, caught me off guard. It was exceedingly rare for anyone to visit me, aside from FedEx, or UPS, that is. Opening the wide front door, I found Amelia standing and looking up at me. She seemed different. It took me a moment to catch on. Amelia was wearing a lemon-yellow dress, white ankle socks and brown shoes. Her hair was lustrous. Big, beautiful eyes filled with hope stared from behind frameless glasses. She tilted her head. A puff of air passed through my brain. My thoughts vanished.

"Hi," I said, concentrating on her hands. "You don't have to ring the bell, Amelia. Just enter whenever you want to."

"I wasn't sure cuz it's early. Can you do me a favor?"

"Sure. Anything. What?"

"Can you give me a ride to my music class? Aunt Betty's sick again and Uncle Harold isn't awake."

"Sure. Hold on while I find my shoes."

That morning, I sat in the music room and watched as she sang, her tutor making small comments, providing direction, making her repeat sections she wasn't happy with. They talked about the song, its meaning, the tone and emotions in it. Amelia was intensely focused and serious. This appeared to be very important to her. But, every so often, she'd glance my way and a big, blinding smile would flash at me and consume all the oxygen in the room.

I was enchanted by her. She'd taken over my consciousness, cast a spell over me, all without my permission. Amelia was ever-present in my mind. What would happen in the future? How could I restore my life to the normal one I'd had just a few weeks ago? Did I want to?

Chapter Four

AMELIA LOOKED OUT THROUGH her bedroom window at the faint stars in the inky-black sky. From downstairs, the hubbub of loud conversations, sudden bursts of laughter, clinking glasses, and the music of big bands filtered up to her through her closed door. They were sounds she was used to hearing.

Her mind turned to Mike as he sat watching her so intently at music class. His eyes had been so focused on her, his return smiles crooked and really cute, really nice and warm.

Her mind drifted back further, to darker thoughts . . .

----------

Amelia glanced up from her desk when her name was called. Mrs. Kinsey, the Principal, had her head poking around the classroom door, Mr. Logan, her teacher waving his hand at her.

"Amelia, please go with Mrs. Kinsey," he repeated, waving her up. "Come on. Hup-hup. Don't keep her waiting."

Leaving her books and backpack at the desk, Amelia left. The classroom door closed behind her as she followed Mrs. Kinsey.

"Relax, Amelia. You're not in trouble. Someone wants to talk to you," she said, striding down the hall, her mid-calf skirt swishing.

Amelia hurried to keep up, wondering Who, Why? At the office, when Mrs. Kinsey opened the door to a meeting room and gestured at her, Amelia entered. The door closed behind her.

Standing at the grimy window was an old man. He was slender and well dressed in a gray overcoat with black edges at the collar, a funny hat on his head. He turned and smiled at her, his pale blue eyes twinkling.

"Hello, Amelia. I'm sorry it's taken me so long to get here," he said, moving to the meeting room table. He pulled out a chair and settled into it gingerly. "Come. Sit next to me. We have things to talk about."

Eyes studying him, Amelia climbed into the chair. This close she saw the fine wrinkles of age on his face, skin sagging under his sharp and observant eyes.

He held out his hand. "How rude of me. Please forgive my lack of manners. My name is Darren Faith," he said, his eyes twinkling. "I've been looking forward to meeting you."

Amelia shook his hand. It was dry and papery, liver spots on the back of them. "I don't understand," she said.

He cleared his throat and smiled. "I know. Just bear with me and you will. I've come to help you."

"Help me what?" Amelia asked.

"Find your voice again," he said gently, leaning closer to her.

Tears brimmed in her eyes uncontrollably. "How did you know?" she whispered.

He smiled, a gentle smile, comforting. "I know everything, Amelia. I know you have a beautiful voice and it left you when your Mom and Dad died. I know how you can't look at a piano any more without being sad and how, when you do, all you see is your mother sitting next to you teaching you how to play.

"I know how scared you've been and how you cry yourself to sleep at night. I know how confused you've been, and how hard it's been to adjust to living here in California when you don't know anyone.

"I know everything, Amelia. I'm here to answer your questions. I'm here to help you find your voice," he said softly.

Amelia said nothing. A tear welled and fell, brushed aside with the back of her hand. She stared at him. "How do you know all that?" she asked softly.

"That's a long story. You have to trust me. I know." He smiled kindly, his bright pale blue eyes studying her. His smile broadened, perfectly even ivory teeth showing. As if hearing her think, he commented, "That's a good question. Go ahead and ask me."

Amelia paused, wondering how he knew what question popped into her head. Steeling herself, she asked in a small voice, "Did they really go to Heaven?"

There was a short silence before he answered, his expression compassionate. "Yes, they really did. God needed them."

"Why? I need them."

"God needs them more. But they're happy, Amelia. Your Mom and Dad watch you every day. They're proud of you. They want you to be happy." He paused, studied her, and smiled again. "That's why I'm here."

"Are you an angel?" Amelia asked, her voice a whisper. He didn't look like one.

Darren Faith chuckled. "No. I'm no angel. I'm just a voice. Speaking of voices, do you miss yours?"

Amelia nodded.

Darren Faith leaned closer to her and said in almost a whisper, "I'll tell you a secret. Your voice didn't leave you. It's just hiding."

"Where?" Amelia asked.

"Inside you."

"Why?"

Darren patted her forearm lightly. "Like you, it's scared and sad. But it's there, Amelia, waiting to come back." He smiled. "You were meant to sing. You were meant to share your gift with the world and you will."

Amelia wasn't sure. Could she believe him?

He patted her arm again, a grandfatherly touch, and sat upright. "You're going to have a long and happy life. You're going to be celebrated and loved, and you're going to experience the joy of singing again. You know how I know?"

Amelia shook her head.

"Because Heaven has a plan for you, Amelia. Because your Mom and Dad believe in you. Because you have a gift to give the world that cannot be hidden away. Because in your heart you're dying to sing."

He leaned in towards her and smiled. "Your mom told me to tell you, 'Just start by humming it in your mind, sweetheart.'"

A flood of tears returned unbidden. Amelia remembered Mom telling her exactly that every time she struggled with a song. Was it that simple?

He passed her a cotton handkerchief. She dried her eyes and handed it back. "Thank you."

Darren cleared his throat again. "Well, I've taken too much of your time, young lady." He stood and buttoned his overcoat up, picking up his hat from the meeting room table. "Hmmm. Yes, better get along."

Walking towards the door, he paused and turned back. "How thoughtless of me. I forgot to mention. You're a very lucky lady." With a twinkle in his eyes, he added, "Your future husband is quite the man."

Nodding he grabbed the door handle and paused again. "In case you're interested, he's a man by the name of Michael Hope. He'll fall in love with your voice first, then your eyes, and then fall in love with the rest of you. He'll have trouble thinking around you. I dare say it will be amusing to see. Well, nice meeting you, Amelia."

With a tip of his hat and a smile, he left, the door closing behind him.

----------

Amelia rolled in her bed, turning onto her side, the party noise from downstairs ignored. In her mind, she saw Mike and smiled.

That strange man, Darren Faith, had been right about so much. She'd started humming to herself in her mind, the songs she loved, the ones Mom had taught her. Within the week, she started humming aloud. A few days later her voice came back, filling her soul with joy, freeing her spirit. She sang for an audience of two; Mom and Dad. With her voice, she found peace.

But Mike was altogether different. She could still picture him peeking over the fence with that expression on his face, as if he'd been smacked over the head. And the croaking! So funny! She liked him, but didn't love him; not like she loved Mom and Dad.

As she did every night, Amelia hummed a song, seeing the notes dance through her mind, such a magical and beautiful language. She wasn't conscious of her fingers moving with the music.

Chapter Five

IT TOOK A MONTH and a half for me to regain my equilibrium. Amelia visited often, but never enough. I found myself working harder so I could pack a full day's work in and be home by three. Peter was back to his optimistic self, and someone finally changed the coffee back to what it used to be; high-test caffeine.

I still experienced momentary thought loss around Amelia. She'd turn her head, tilt it, and stare into my soul with her beautiful smoky gray eyes behind cute glasses, and I'd descend into a fog. Sometimes I had the impression she did it deliberately, a test, or just for fun. She almost always giggled at my condition.

Amelia became a part of my life over the next nine months. She'd come visit and charm me with unsurpassed intelligent conversation for someone so young. She gave me her cell phone number so I could text her, which I did whenever I had something funny to say. I'd acquired a Smartphone just to receive her texts and had Peter give me lessons. He'd threatened to resign after an hour of frustration at my ineptitude.

Amelia started swimming in my pool. So did I.

That first time in the pool, Amelia wore a one-piece bathing suit that she was growing out of. It was the first time I'd ever noticed how female she was. Now twelve years old, small buds on her chest were announcing the onset of puberty. The suit fit her so tightly, a cute camel toe formed on the lush pad of her pussy. While gangly in physique, that first time brought awareness that Amelia was all female.

And thus, over nine months, my life began to focus into two areas; life with Amelia and work - my life without her. One brought immeasurable joy, the other mild angst; when would I see her again?

I grew to love Amelia's company. I wasn't infatuated as much as addicted, needing at least a weekly dose of her. But, like the fickleness of actors' popularity, fate took a turn on a Saturday, January fifteenth.

Chapter Six

It happened inadvertently. By that, I mean Amelia living in my house. The night was cool. We'd finally been blessed with a breeze, so I'd left my bedroom double doors open. I liked fresh air and Los Angeles' version of cold was Clinton, Ohio's version of late spring. Gauzy curtains rustled quietly with the breeze coming in from the patio.

Yet, despite it refreshing me, I hadn't been able to sleep; my mind preoccupied with a new film in development, the script for which I was still wrestling with. Thus, when flashing red strobe lights briefly lit my ceiling, I became curious.

Rising from bed, I glanced out the window. The lights were coming from next door. Worried something might have happened to Amelia, I pulled on a pair of jeans and headed out.

In the Masterton's drive, a police car and an ambulance had their lights flashing; red and amber lighting the front garden turning blue blossoms black. At the bottom of their drive, a fire truck sat, with firemen patiently waiting. What had happened?

Running up the drive, I was just in time to see medics wheel out a stretcher, Harold Masterton wearing an oxygen mask. Following close behind, Betty emerged from the front door looking flustered and worried in a rumpled dress.

"What happened?" I asked.

"It's Harold. He's gone and had a heart attack, the idiot," Betty answered, her eyes turned to watch her husband being lifted into the ambulance.

"Can I help? Can I do anything?" I asked.

Betty looked at me with a vacant expression.

"Do you want to go with Harold?" I asked. "I can keep an eye on Amelia."

"Oh, goodness! Amelia! I almost forgot about her." She started looking around, her hands wringing.

"Betty," I said softly, placing my hand on her shoulder. "Why don't you go to the hospital with Harold? I'll keep an eye on Amelia." I gave her a gentle push towards the ambulance and, almost zombie-like, she headed over.

I found Amelia sitting in their living room, a grand old room decorated in lemon yellow, large, formal furniture, and elegantly decorated with Degas and Monet paintings. Amelia, dressed for bed in her pale lime cotton pajamas, looked lost.

I sat next to her and draped my arm over her shoulders. "How are you doing?"

She stared at the drawn curtains, amber and red lights playing an eighties disco-like show through them.

"Will Uncle Harold be okay?" she asked. "What happened to him?"

"He's had a heart attack," I told her.

She looked up at me, her eyes wide and frightened behind her glasses. "Is he going to die?" she asked.

"I don't think so."

"I don't want more people dying around me, Mike," she said very seriously.

"I'm sure he'll be fine."

But he wasn't. The call came early the next morning. I'd put Amelia to bed in one of my guest rooms. Sun was just peeking over the horizon casting a pure white light that turned the violet blue sky into royal blue.

Harold had passed away. Betty was distraught, understandably so, and she asked if I could look after Amelia for a few days while she came to terms with Harold's death, made funeral arrangements, informed their friends.

I, of course, didn't hesitate and told her I would.

I'd never been exposed to silent tears. I didn't cry, myself. However, as silent tears welled up in Amelia's enchanting eyes and rolled down her cheeks in large drops after I told her about Uncle Harold, I saw pain, a pain I wasn't used to. Amelia hurt, not physically but emotionally and it wasn't a hurt I knew how to ease. I could never understand the pain of losing an uncle after losing both parents. I could never understand how it felt to a young girl; that feeling of desertion, alone in a world full of people. I had no concept.

I did the only thing I could think of; comfort her. Taking her hand as we sat at the breakfast table, I pulled her into my lap, hugging her. Amelia melted against me, her head finding my shoulder and she cried, silent tears changing into small choking breaths, and as full tears arrived, her slender body trembled in my arms.

I murmured to her, little nothings that just let her hear the sound of my voice, and held her tight. She cried with such deep-felt angst it made my eyes prickle and I vowed, if it was in my power, I would never let her hurt like this again.

Chapter Seven

BETTY LEANED FORWARD AND poured herself a cup of tea from the pot. She added a drop of milk, picked up the small teaspoon, and stirred, all absentmindedly, her mind lost and worried.

The sound of the front door bell drew her attention. She rose slowly and, out of habit more than concern, checked herself in the hall mirror before opening the door. She wondered who was calling. She wasn't expecting anyone.

Opening the door, she studied the gentleman standing before her. He was older than her, slender, mid-seventies, she thought. Dressed in a gray coat with black piping around the collar and a black Trilby hat on his head, he looked like a true gentleman from an age long ago in her youth.

He smiled, removing his hat, intelligent pale blue eyes alert, looking at her. With a smile, he extended his hand.

"Hello, Betty. I've come to have a chat with you."

From years of politeness, Betty shook his proffered hand. She noticed his fingernails were spotlessly clean and trimmed, his hands liver-spotted. His grip was warm and dry. "Hello."

"May I come in? I don't suppose I could impose on you for a spot of that tea you've just made? I'm rather parched."

"Of course. Please come in." Betty didn't even think twice why she was letting a stranger into her house, but something in his demeanor, his old-worldly manners, reassured her he wasn't dangerous.

"You have a lovely house," the gentleman said, taking in the living room. "That's a beautiful Monet."

Removing his coat, he revealed a neat, charcoal gray pinstripe suit, a crisp white shirt and a muted dark burgundy tie. A gold tiepin winked in the light. He folded and laid his coat over the arm of the couch carefully, and set his Trilby down on the coffee table as he settled onto the couch next to her, turning slightly towards her.

Betty poured him a cup of tea.

"Yes, please. A drop of milk would be fine," he said just as she thought about asking him. "Thank you," he added, taking the cup and saucer. He sipped. "Ahhh. Earl Grey. Lovely. It's such a shame the art of making tea is being lost to the younger generation."

He placed the cup and saucer on the coffee table and looked at her. "Goodness gracious! Where are my manners? Please, forgive me. My name is Darren Faith. I'm sorry I'm so late."

"Why are you here?" Betty asked.

Darren Faith smiled gently. "I'm here to help you, Betty." He paused and studied her. "I know you're hurting and worried. I know how you miss Harold. Rest assured he's waiting for you and watching over you."

Reaching out, he patted her hand. "Harold asked me to tell you something. Let me see . . ." He covered his mouth with his fist and cleared his throat.

In a lower baritone voice, he said, "Betty, my dear, you make the finest dry gin martinis west of the Rockies. Death Valley has nothing on you."

A sob escaped from Betty, tears welling. That was exactly what Harold said every time she made martinis. How could Mr. Faith know? Pulling her lace handkerchief from her sleeve, she dabbed at her tears.

"How could you know that?" she asked.

"I know many things, Betty. For instance, I know how you feel your will to live is slipping through your fingers like fine sand, and how hard you're trying to hold on. I know how scared you are for Amelia; how worried you are for her future."

Betty sat silently, tears still welling. She did. She felt like life was slowly ebbing away no matter how hard she fought, Harold leaving such a huge hole. She felt distanced from everyday life, as if life was a movie, her an observer.

"Is he happy?" she asked, wiping her eyes again.

"Yes. He's waiting for you."

Darren Faith touched her hand, leaving his dry fingers on her.

"I'm here to tell you everything will be fine." He paused, studying her. As if reading her mind, he continued, "Yes. Even Amelia is going to be fine."

"How do you know?"

"Let me ask you. When did you know you loved Harold?"

Betty cast her mind back and smiled at the still-sharp memory. "I was fourteen, almost fifteen. It was at Larimar's Diner on Broad Street. I was eating with friends when Harold entered." Her voice became dreamy, younger. "Even at twenty-four he was a big, burly, handsome young man. I was staring when he spotted me and smiled. Harold had the handsomest smile. It would show in the twinkle of his eyes."

She paused, smiling gently. "He came over to the table and ignored my friends, took my hand and said, "I have just met my love. What should I call you?""

Darren Faith smiled. "Yes. And then you knocked over your glass of soda."

Betty laughed at the memory, and then quieted. "How could you possibly know that?"

"As I said, I know many things. For you, it was love at first sight. Not many people are given that gift, and some are too blind to take it when it's offered. They're destined to be alone, never to find love again. It's such a shame, don't you think?"

He reached out and retrieved his tea, sipping it. "Mmmm. Very good indeed.

"I know you have questions and I've come to answer them. Like you, Amelia has found her one true love; Michael Hope. He's a good man, Betty. He'll take care of her and help her flourish. He's going to love and cherish her for the rest of his life, just like you and Harold.

"Amelia doesn't know she loves Michael yet, but she soon will." Darren paused and smiled to himself. "Amelia's a remarkable child. She has a gift to give the world and she will. And the world will be a better place for it."

"But, how . . ."

For the next forty-five minutes Darren Faith talked and, as the time passed, Betty felt better and better, a weight lifting from her mind. Not once did she question his advice. She trusted the strange man, Mr. Darren Faith.

"Well, I must be off," Darren said, rising and shrugging into his gray coat, buttoning it carefully. He bent to retrieve his Trilby, settling it on his head. Smiling, he took her hand gently in both of his. "It was good to meet you, Betty. Unfortunately, I have to run. I'm late yet again. I'll see myself out."

Betty sat quietly long after the front door closed. She replayed the strange conversation. Without hesitation, she reached for the telephone and dialed.

"Jeffren, Lister and Associates. How may I direct your call?" a young female voice asked.

"Could I speak to Gerald Lister, please?"

Chapter Eight

LIFE TOOK A STRANGE turn over the next three weeks. I wondered if two people could be so in love that, without their partner, their will to live left with their mate; as if they were two souls meant to be together, never separated, neither here on Earth nor in Heaven.

Betty went downhill rapidly. She'd been a robust, stout, white-haired woman with a larger-than-life-personality everyone loved; a Bea Arthur twin. But she aged, the life simply departing, skin sagging from lost elasticity. I saw it in her eyes. She had no spark left in her. She lost weight. Even having Amelia in her life couldn't compensate for the void in her soul.

She knew it, too. On a Thursday evening, she visited me and made a strange request.

Seating her in the living room, pouring her some Darjeeling tea - she seemed so frail and chilled now - she turned to me on the couch.

"Michael, I don't know if you know this, but I'm the only family Amelia has left. Harold, bless his soul, had no one left on his side after his younger sister passed away. I'm mentioning this because I need to plan for Amelia."

"You're not going anywhere," I said with false conviction.

Betty sipped her tea. "I can't live without him," she whispered, a tear emerging. With a lace handkerchief she wiped her eyes, braced herself, and looked at me. "I cannot let Amelia be hurt. I can't leave her to the foster system. She's been hurt enough for two lifetimes. I know she adores you and you like her. You're the one I'm supposed to trust to take care of her."

Reaching down, she opened a small portfolio, pulled some papers out and placed them in her lap, her hands resting on top of them.

"I'd never ask this of you. I know it's a burden and you're so young. But I can't leave Amelia to fate, the vagaries of the social welfare system. You hear such horror stories about children in their care."

Glancing down, she patted the papers, sighed, and handed them to me. "Would you consider this?" she asked. "For Amelia?"

I read the top sheet and my world tilted. Petition for the Appointment of Guardianship for Amelia Destiny.

A decade-old memory flashed back to me; Darren Faith. My hands shook. He'd been right! All this time when I'd thought I was in charge, I hadn't been! Like the Michelina's frozen dinner, so long ago, my life was being influenced and directed.

"Are you okay, Michael?"

How blind had I been? And yet, would I change anything in the past decade? I saw Amelia in my mind's eye, so beautiful and talented. Peace settled over me like a warm, familiar blanket. Had I been given the chance to influence things, to be able to direct my future, if I'd known then what I know now, I wouldn't change a thing. Not one thing.

"Michael?"

Glancing up from the legal papers, I smiled at Betty.

"I'm fine. Of course I'll look after Amelia if anything happens to you. But, I think you're going to be around for quite a while. Just give it time. You'll always miss Harold but every day it will get better."

She smiled ruefully. "Tell me that when you've lived with someone for half a century."

After she left, I read the legal documents carefully. In my hands, along with the legal guardianship papers, were copies of Betty's will leaving everything to Amelia in trust, and the details of an existing trust for Amelia's inheritance from her parents, all to be administered by me.

I discovered Betty was an astute woman. For almost two months, she had Amelia staying over at my house with increasing frequency, until Amelia was, for all intents and purposes, living with me. I became the caregiver, ensuring Amelia got to school and her singing lessons. Every day more of her belongings would find their way into the bedroom she was using. My work took a back seat - something my assistant Peter wasn't pleased with, but understood. And every time I saw Betty she looked ever more frail.

Chapter Nine

On a warm, balmy, and clear April 7th, with the sun beating down, I held Amelia's hand as Betty's casket was lowered into the ground next to Harold's grave. Betty had "taken to bed" six days ago and quietly passed away in her sleep.

Mourners drifted away from the grave as the final service ended. Amelia gripped my hand, hanging on to me. Silent, large tears dripped down her cheeks but she showed no emotion, just smoky eyes full of anguish and something else. I bent and scooped up some soil, handing it to her. She tossed it into the grave and let me gently lead her away.

Amelia was subdued throughout the rest of the day. She obeyed any suggestion I made, ate dinner as if it was a rote chore, and I waited for sorrow to be released. It finally was.

At nine-thirty that night, Amelia came out of her bedroom and settled onto the couch next to me. She curled up at my side making herself small and then whispered.

"Please don't die, Mike."

I understood that other emotion I'd seen in her eyes - fear of abandonment.

Wrapping her in my arms, such a frail girl, I assured her I wouldn't. "You're stuck with me, honey." Eventually Amelia cried, some of the poisonous sorrow oozing out of her.

Still, recovery wasn't fast. I noticed it in her music. Amelia began to play mournful songs on the piano. She sang less and the songs were of loss and sorrow, sung with such sadness and agony I had a lump in my throat. Her remarkable voice expressed such haunting it made me go cold. And even the beauty, the perfect clarity of her voice, couldn't overcome my fear for her. I was afraid she'd slipped into depression and I'd never hear her laugh again, and that thought both saddened and worried me endlessly.

As her thirteenth birthday approached, I wrestled with what to get her. It couldn't be music. It had to distract her and bring back her smile. I thought long and hard, and steered every conversation with her into happier memories of being with her mother and father, and finally I found the answer.

On the Saturday morning of Amelia's thirteenth birthday, I got up extra early. Excitement at the gift I had for her felt good. I smiled. If this didn't do it, nothing would. As coffee percolated, the front door tubular bells chimed; right on time.

When I opened the door, Peter frowned at me. He reminded me of Tintin, his short, brush-cut red hair moussed into a spike on top in the middle.

"Here!" he stated. "I quit!"

I took the leash from him and smiled at the rambunctious chocolate Lab puppy. "You can't quit. I need you," I informed him.

"I've picked up enough feces and mopped up enough urine for a lifetime. I hate animals," he claimed, shaking his leg as the puppy latched onto his pants with his mouth, growling playfully, tail wagging.

"What's it going to cost me?" I asked.

"Two extra weeks' vacation," Peter responded immediately.

"Done."

I didn't miss how he bent and ruffled the puppy's head before leaving. Peter was a real softy wrapped up in gruffness.

"Well," I said to the dog, "don't pee on my floor."

The puppy's whole body wiggled as his tail moved. He grinned at me, tongue lolling, eyes bright and intelligent. Damn he was cute.

"Hey! Sleepyhead!" I yelled. "Get up. I have a present for you! Amelia! Get up!"

The puppy attacked my toes as I waited. His teeth were quite sharp. "Heel!" I tried. He ignored me.

Amelia walked out of the hallway, somewhat bedraggled, hair now not only rough shorn, but spiky, and wearing wrinkled pastel blue pajamas. It was a magical moment. Life stole into her magnificent eyes, pure delight at the sight of a misbehaving puppy.

"Oh m'God! Oh m'God!" she exclaimed.

The dog, spotting another potential playmate, scrabbled to gain traction on the hardwood floor and launched himself at Amelia, yanking the leash from my hand. Amelia dropped to her knees and welcomed a wriggling, tail wagging, bundle of loving joy. Laughter burst out, making me smile. Finally, finally, Amelia was happy again.

"Happy birthday!"

Shocked, Amelia said, "He's mine?" and promptly burst into giggles as the puppy washed her face. "What's his name?"

"Sir Rufus Peealot," I informed her.

"How come?"

And, as if on cue, Sir Rufus demonstrated by weeing on the floor in his excitement. Amelia laughed with pure delight. "He's so cute!"

"Maybe you should take him outside," I suggested.

"Kay! C'mon Rufus!"

After cleaning up the mess, I washed my hands and started breakfast, pausing to sip coffee. I couldn't stop smiling. In the back garden, Amelia was running around in her pajamas, chased by a stumbling, yipping, excited Rufus, her laughter the sweetest music filling the air.

I'd originally hoped to give Amelia a surprise birthday party with her friends, but talking to Mrs. Sorensen, her headmistress, I'd discovered Amelia had few friends, her hectic schedule with music interfering with interpersonal relations. Instead, I planned a dinner out at Ruby Tuesdays, a fun diner-style restaurant.

That plan fell apart, too. Amelia informed me she couldn't possibly leave Rufus alone, so we ordered in. It worked out well. I was thoroughly entertained, luxuriating in Amelia's joy. Every so often, she'd call out from some part of the house, "Mike! Bring paper towels!" - Rufus was living up to his name.

"Stop exciting him," I suggested.

Amelia just laughed. "But he's so cute!"

We ate a huge tub of messy BBQ wings, delivered hot with a big box of fries. I had to lay down the law with Amelia, forbidding her from giving Rufus wings. At first put out, she understood when I explained about chicken bones sticking in his throat.

Amelia promptly deboned some wings and fed them to the rambunctious puppy. Clearly, I would have to take Amelia to puppy training classes, maybe Rufus, too. I made a mental note to sign them up, tout de suite.

We watched movies. Actually, we let movies play on TV and I watched Amelia as she sat on the floor playing with the effervescent furball. I was still smiling at her joy.

Rufus was a real champ. He raced, played, and gave Amelia his all. However, at just past nine, he collapsed suddenly, curled up, and went to sleep, tuckered out. He was calmer when Amelia took him out to pee, which he dutifully did, then curled up and went back to sleep. Finally, Amelia sat next to me, still hopped up and excited.

By ten-thirty I was done. Amelia carried Rufus to her room. And not five minutes after I'd settled in bed, Amelia arrived, Rufus in her arms.

"I'm not sleepy, Mike. Can we watch a movie together?"

"Sure. It's still your birthday until midnight."

Amelia smiled, placed Rufus on the bed at the foot and climbed up to lie next to me.

"What movie would you like?" I asked.

"Anything."

I knew she'd say it. Amelia had little interest in movies. They just weren't her thing. Music was her passion. And that gave me an idea.

"Hold on." I slipped out of bed and went to the den, hunted through the huge selection of DVD's and found what I was looking for. Returning to the bedroom, I put it on and settled back on the bed, rose again to open the windows to let cooler air in, and settled. June was hot, but evening breezes were nice. I was quite comfortable in boxers around Amelia. She'd seen me most mornings drinking coffee in my underwear.

Moulin Rouge started, and, as if objecting, Rufus farted, the pungent stink almost suffocating me.

"Rufus!" Amelia exclaimed, covering her nose with the bed sheet. Rufus didn't even stir; his opinion already delivered.

"I warned you not to feed him wings."

Amelia giggled. "Next time I won't." Then her attention was taken with the first song.

I pulled the sheet over us and fifteen minutes later, not hearing a peep from Amelia, I fell asleep.

AMELIA WATCHED THE MOVIE, absorbed in Ewan McGregor's rendition of classic pop songs, the remixes very good. She enjoyed Nicole Kidman, too. They both surprised her with their voices. At one point Rufus rolled onto his back, paws in the air, his tail wagging slowly as he dreamed. Amelia smiled. She already loved Rufus.

She glanced across at Mike. Over the last several months, as she'd lived with him, she'd seen how concerned he'd been. But she hadn't been able to shake the sorrow that haunted her. And she couldn't handle the fear that Mike would die, too, leaving her alone in the world. It seemed to her, everyone she cared for died.

He'd been so patient, never complaining, always kind, and constantly trying to distract her. This morning was typical Mike. She hadn't wanted to get up, only reluctantly at his yelling. It was her birthday and she wasn't in the least excited.

But then.

Seeing Mike with his sneaky grin, warm brown eyes twinkling with amusement, and Rufus, the cutest puppy in the world, something changed. Somewhere inside she changed; peace settling over her, anxiety melting away.

Rufus was the best present ever. How had Mike known she'd always wanted a dog? And Rufus was such a character! He was gorgeous.

Glancing at Mike asleep, his unkempt hair unruly and too long, she understood what had changed, what that feeling of peace was. She loved Mike. She loved his kindness and intelligence. He was funny, yet he could be stern in a gentle way. He never said no, only explaining why something might not be a good idea. He was wonderful. She loved him.

Rolling close to him, she whispered in his ear, "I love you, Mike."

Smiling, she fell asleep to the sound of music, the fingers of her right hand moving slightly to the tempo.

Chapter Ten

"Cut!"

I SQUIRMED ON MY canvas folding chair trying to relieve the numbness in my rump, brought on by inactivity and boredom, the script perched on my lap. When I crossed my knees, it fell to the concrete floor with a loud splat. I left it there.

I had once heard that shooting TV commercials was to experience long periods of mindless inactivity interspersed with bursts of utter boredom. It was true. I checked my watch. Three-twenty already. Watching drying paint was more interesting.

I wondered why it took three days to shoot a thirty-second ad? If Hollywood filmed movies at this pace, each movie would take, hmmm, let's see - two hundred and forty days of shooting!

The new challenge of trying to write a Super Bowl commercial had dazzled me. This one was going to be my first and last.

As I observed key grips shifting equipment around, the young director throwing out orders, and what seemed like another fifty people standing and watching, I tuned the disaster out of mind. I had better things to think about, namely Amelia.

Her birthday had been a resounding success in more ways than the obvious; the joy expressed by a young girl getting a long dreamed-for present. I'd been gifted, too. In fact, my gifts far outstripped Amelia's.

Waking up the morning after, I'd been gifted with finding Amelia still in my bed, curled up next to me. I'd been gifted to be able to study her as she slept. There was, in her face, an innocent purity I associated with some of the very greatest child actors; Shirley Temple, Dakota Fanning, just prettier. Amelia, quiet and relaxed in sleep, was younger, her face missing the influence of her personality. Small nostrils flared gently with each silent breath. Short, dark hair, still roughly cut, had a silken texture, darker streaks adding shade and depth to the color. In repose, her mouth changed, lips more lush; a bowed upper, the lower more plump.

For half an hour I studied her and found beauty that touched me deeply. If Rufus hadn't woken, I could have watched Amelia for as long as she'd have allowed me. Instead, I'd slipped out of bed, started the coffee machine, and taken the ball of fur for an early morning walk in the back garden.

Like a champ, he'd peed, pooped, and come alive. It must have been passing those wings that took such weight off his mood, because he became rambunctious once again, chasing a butterfly, and flopping at the edge of the pool, oversized paws hanging over, tasting the chlorinated water with loud slurps. How could a dog like the taste of chemicals?

A rare stray twig had kept him happy while I'd poured coffee and took the mug out onto the patio, sipping it in the cooler June morning air. There were high Cirrus clouds in the sky catching the first rays of a waking sun, their eastern edges glowing amber as if about to catch fire.

Rufus, suddenly scrabbling up and tumbling, with excited barks, alerted me to Amelia's arrival. And another gift was bestowed on me; Amelia gently hugging me from behind, whispering, "Thanks for a great birthday, Mike."

Another precious gift arrived when Amelia, playing with Rufus on the grass, broke into song, her voice absolute purity, tone-perfect, effortless. My gift was to hear her sing a pop song by Destiny's Child, Say My Name, a song of love and empowerment, upbeat and bright. Gone were the sad tunes of before.

I received another gift that day; the sound of her laughter filling my house with brightness and light as she played with Sir Rufus Peealot, regularly calling out, "Mike! Bring some paper towels!" Despite the inconvenience, I'd grinned every time.

But, the greatest gift of all, a gift beyond compare, better than winning an Oscar or a Golden Globe, was Amelia carrying Rufus into my bedroom, placing him at the foot of the bed and climbing in next to me. With music playing softly, just before I fell asleep, at that last moment of consciousness when the world loses hard reality and soft dreams beckon, I heard her whisper very, very quietly, "I love you, Mike."

I couldn't imagine a better gift.

"Quiet on the set! Tapes rolling? Let's get some room tone, now."

I grinned to myself. I found 'room tone' funny for some reason. It was one of those things most people never thought about or noticed unless it was missing. In commercials, room tone was added in-between scenes or added to edited inserts. Every studio has different sounding silences. You can't insert digital silence to film or you'll notice; a deadness that makes you think you've lost your hearing and need to clear your ears.

I waited while they filmed and recorded room tone. It was the last job on a shoot. The shoot over, they'd be in post production for three weeks, followed by extensive qualitative and quantitative research, then back to re-editing the commercial. Because they wanted it for the Super Bowl, it wouldn't surprise me if I heard from them again, asking for a rewrite. Seven hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars for thirty seconds, the equivalent of one hundred and eighty-six million for a two-hour movie. These guys were insane!

Staying silent while they recorded room tone, I visited with memories. Amelia, for the last five weeks, had flourished, fully recovered and busier than ever. I'd added puppy classes to her hectic schedule, so she was now swamped. A busy Amelia was a happy Amelia and made for a happy me.

But something else had emerged. I'd helplessly succumbed to her gentle charm. She still took my breath away every time I'd study her. And, without consciously being aware of it, I was no longer enamored with her; I'd fallen in love. It was hard not to. She was a very rare person.

I'd loved her as a sweet and considerate girl, as a beautiful soul, as a pure voice, and as her guardian. But, over the last year since she'd been a part of my life, Amelia had changed. I first noticed it when she went for a swim and fearless Rufus, after barking his warning that she might drown, lunged into the pool to save her; a twelve week old puppy to the rescue. At first, I worried he would drown, but, no. Rufus took to water as if born to it, happily splashing as he swam to Amelia – a total natural. She grabbed him, laughing with delight, hugging him, and carried him up the semi-circular stairs at the end of the pool. That was the moment I saw Amelia had changed and grown into a young lady. She'd sprouted to over five feet tall. Now a lanky teen, she'd developed some amazing curves; a subtle waist, a sensual swell to her bottom and the top of her thighs giving me a seriously attractive rear view, and two small breasts had emerged. In her yellow bikini, Amelia had transformed from a cute cygnet into a beautiful swan.

At that moment, my affection had changed from loving her to being in love with her.

"That's a wrap! Thanks, folks," the director shouted out.

With no small measure of relief, I made my way over to the director, the ad agency executives, and "The Client," as they were referred to, and congratulated them all, shaking hands and giving the ladies the Hollywood kiss; air kisses on both cheeks as befitted our symbolic close personal friendship, paying careful attention so no actual personal contact was made.

"It's going to be great, Mike!" the director assured. "We MUST work together again!"

In your dreams buster. "Absolutely. Call my agent," I suggested with a smile, even though I didn't have one; another no-no in Hollywood.

I greeted the blindingly bright, sunny outdoors, squinting after a long day inside the dark sound stage, inhaled the delicately smog-scented air, and made for my car. I'd abandoned my Mini Cooper after Rufus joined the family. It was too small.

My new pride and joy awaited me, shiny and black, sun flashing off the restored chrome work, with whitewall tires adding to its authenticity – an out-of-place value amongst the glitterati. Standing at the tail end of the perfectly restored 1962 Cadillac four window Sedan DeVille was my ever-loyal assistant, Peter, holding Rufus' leash like it was a plague infested snake.

"He pissed on your car," Peter announced, handing me the leash.

Rufus, having grown like a damned weed, jumped at me, proving puppy classes were an owner's wishful thinking more than a puppy's education. I rubbed the soft fur on his head. "Anything that needs attention before I head home?" I asked Peter.

He pulled out his iPhone, tapped and swiped. "Got a call from Chris Hemsworth's agent. Chris apparently read the script to your latest movie, Even Angels Cry, and wants to play Cory in the lead role."

"How'd he get a hold of the script?"

Peter studied Rufus.

I sighed. "He's an action star. Why would we want him? The movie's a fantasy romance."

Peter looked at me with the expression he gets when I'm missing something, which happens frequently. "I know what the movie is, Mike. But Chris is hot right now. He'll draw audiences, especially the important young female crowd. He needs to expand his repertoire, so we could get him without forking over millions."

"Who would he play against? Who plays Mia?" I asked. "There needs to be some serious chemistry there."

"I'll think about it. Maybe talk to Gracey. She's pretty good at casting."

I turned around in a circle to unwind the leash and opened the back door to my restored Caddy. Rufus leapt in. "Okay, talk to her. But no response to Chris until we find a co-star." I glanced at my watch. "Shit! I'm going to be late. Get in."

The heavy V8 purred into life. Power steering, as light as a feather, responded to my touch, a tap on the accelerator and the huge car took off, three hundred and twenty-five horses surging. The restoration was worth every penny. I felt like a mafia Don.

"I have to pick Amelia up. I'll drop you back at the office after we fetch her."

Peter, fending off Rufus' tongue in his ear and shoving him into the back seat, grunted his assent.

The building was unassuming and very Los Angeles; white stucco, three stories, and very plain. Ice cold air greeted us when we entered. From down the hall a voice floated out. Rufus, hearing it, started tugging at the leash, all training forgotten. His nails scratched on the marble floor as he tried to carry me forward; "Hurry! Hurry! That's Amelia!"

"How are those puppy training classes going?" Peter asked dryly.

"Shut up!"

We pushed through the door and the full impact of Amelia's voice hit. My hair stood on end. On the far side of the room, standing next to her music tutor playing the piano, Amelia was singing, eyes closed, the fingers of her right hand accompanying the notes as she sang, a tune I recognized; Alone, by Heart. She sang with such stunning strength, so easily projecting her voice, and with such feeling it made my chest ache. Once again, I was stunned speechless by her extraordinary talent.

Peter leaned towards me and whispered, "I never knew she had such an impressive voice. She's seriously talented."

I nodded, holding a leash firmly. "Sit!" I hissed at Rufus. He sat on my foot, glanced up as if to say, "See? I learned something," then concentrated intently on Amelia.

We listened until the song ended, her tutor making several observations, Amelia nodding. Then Amelia spotted us. I was crushed.

"Rufus! Come here, boy!"

Rufus took off like a bullet, crashing into a laughing Amelia holding her arms open. Why couldn't she greet me like that?

Chapter Eleven

Music meandered out from the living room, reaching me in the kitchen/den as I prepared dinner. I caught myself smiling and mindlessly chopping mushrooms in time with her song. Dangerous. Shaking myself, I concentrated on the veal Cordon Bleu I was creating, adding a cooked mushroom and shallot paste to the traditional Swiss and Black Forest ham filling.

Amelia, for all her incredible talents, was as good a cook as Kim Jung-un was a leader of North Korea - completely inept. She couldn't fry an egg, and somehow, even with simple boiled eggs, the shells would stick to the eggs, un-peel-able. Peanut butter and jam sandwiches ended up so overfilled they had the shape of an apple turnover, and would squirt their contents with the first bite. She could serve herself a bowl of cereal effortlessly, but I didn't consider that a skill.

I cherished her weaknesses like a miser his money. Her musical talent was so overwhelming, so impressive, I loved experimenting to discover her shortcomings. They rounded out her character, made her human; more like me.

Flattening the veal, timing the smack of the flat side of the frying pan to her tempo, I prepared the veal and left it in the refrigerator, washed my hands, poured a glass of Robert Mondavi Fumé Blanc and headed to the living room.

Rufus was asleep, lying on the floor under the piano bench, all fifty pounds of him, and still a puppy. Amelia, in light taupe shorts and a fashionable pale blue and yellow cotton top, was playing barefoot, her head bent forward as if listening to the keys.

I sat in an armchair, hooked one knee over the other, and sipped wine, relaxing to my private concert.

She stopped in mid-song and looked at me. Right out of left field, she asked, "How come you haven't kissed me?"

It took me a moment to reorient myself. "Because you're young. Because you haven't asked me to," and adding in a softer voice, "Because I'm waiting for you, Amelia."

She smiled, bright eyes behind frameless glasses twinkling with personality, and turned back to the piano. Soft, individual, melodic notes were born that pierced the air, a gentle cadence forming. In her painfully pure voice, Amelia started singing.

"I've been alone with you, inside my mind
And in my dreams I've kissed your lips, a thousand times
I sometimes see you pass outside my door
Hello!
Is it me you're looking for?
I can see it in your eyes
I can see it in your smile
You're all I've ever wanted
And my arms are open wide
'cause you know just what to say
And you know just what to do
And I want to tell you so much
I love you"

Hair stood on end, a prickling sensation, and numbness emerged in my fingertips. My heart thumped uncomfortably in my chest. Even Lionel Richie would have been moved by his song, Hello.

Setting the wine down, I stood. I felt like I was in a fog. I walked over to her, and with the edge of my finger, tilted her face up to me. Beautiful eyes behind frameless glasses watched me, so alive, so vibrant. Her hands stilled on the keys, the last notes lingering, and then fading as her foot lifted from the damper pedal. Silence arrived.

I bent and kissed her. Her small lips were silky, soft, warm. It was a perfect kiss, lips gently expressing more than affection - love. When it ended, with my face close enough to inhale her clean breath, I smiled and kissed her again. I felt it; heart racing, warmth flooding me, soft arousal stirring. I finally understood what had motivated Roman Polanski.

When the kiss ended, Amelia smiled softly. She reached up to brush my lips with the pad of her index finger. "It took you long enough," she said. "You're pretty dense, Mike. Go. Sit. I haven't finished my practice."

I sat, stupefied, stunned at my reaction to the sweet kiss. It wasn't until we were eating dinner that it hit me.

"What did you mean, me being dense?"

Amelia, sipped her Orangina, and answered. "I've been dropping hints for the last two weeks hoping you'd kiss me."

"What hints?" I asked, casting my mind back.

"See? Dense."

That night, as if we'd been together for ever, Amelia slipped into my bed. Rufus leapt onto the foot and settled. Amelia smiled, leaned into me and kissed me.

"Night, Mike," she said, eyes twinkling. Then she settled against me.

I fell asleep with a smile on my face. I'd never felt better in my life.

AMELIA LISTENED TO MIKE'S slow breathing. Her hand on his bare chest tracked each breath. She smelled him; the woodsy scent of new paper and underneath, the scent of a guy, undefinable but distinct and very nice.

She smiled to herself. It was true what they said. Guys could be thoughtful and considerate, but they really were clueless in getting subtle messages. Since seeing Mike standing in her music class with Peter and Rufus, and seeing the expression on his face when she sang, the adoration in his kind eyes, she'd been overcome with the desire to kiss him. She couldn't remember being adored so much.

But, Mike was clueless. So she'd planned the song today and decided if he wouldn't make the first move, she would - thirteen years old or not. And, God, was the kiss wonderful; a kiss that rocked her world, gentle yet full of love, tender yet exciting; her first kiss and it couldn't have been better!

She smiled again. That strange old man had been right. Her voice had brought her Mike, and she was never going to let him go.

Glancing up at him, his face relaxed, so handsome, his dark hair unruly, she whispered, "I love you, Mike," something she did every night. She could never tell Mike she loved him too much.

Chapter Twelve

THE LATE JUNE SUN, even at five-fifteen in the afternoon, was still hot enough to make me sweat lightly under the expansive cream-colored canvass umbrella. I jotted some changes to the script for Even Angels Cry, trying to ignore the report on the glass-topped table next to me, but it was like a spoiled actress with airs - pouting at me for attention.

I was a wimp. I didn't like having serious conversations with Amelia when the serious subject was her grades. She'd amassed a plethora of C's and D's, the lone exception being an A in Music. I wasn't prepared to let her ride her music talent through her schooling. Yet, even so, I couldn't help but find it amusing. I'd uncovered another weakness with her. She was ever more normal with each discovery, and more enchanting for it.

The cordless phone saved me when it trilled into life.

"Hello?"

"Why don't you answer your phone?" an irate Peter asked.

"In case it slipped by you, I am answering my phone," I pointed out pleasantly.

"Not this phone. Your cell phone."

"I lost it."

"Again? Where?"

Did he understand how Kafkaesque this conversation was becoming? "If I knew that, it wouldn't be lost."

"Oh. Right. I'll get you another. This makes three, Mike. Maybe you should consider a lanyard."

I didn't want to tell Peter the truth. Rufus had found my lost Smartphone in plain sight on the coffee table. Being the considerate puppy he was, he'd tested it to make sure it was working. Gorilla Glass didn't live up to its hype; it couldn't withstand a teething Labrador Retriever.

"I'll think about a lanyard. What's up?" I asked my fickle assistant.

"I got a call. Ryan Reynolds' agent called. Ryan's interested in playing Cory in the lead role."

"How the hell are they getting my script? I haven't even finished it."

There was a guilty silence at the other end.

"Peter, stop handing it out!"

"But it's Ryan Reynolds!" he shot back. "Do you have any idea how hot he is right now? We could play Ryan off against Chris and lower the fee."

The sound of silence was loud. "So that's a no for Ryan?" he asked.

I sighed. Peter was, despite his recalcitrance, an enthusiastic fan of my work. "Tell the agent we'll consider it . . . WHEN I've finished the script. What else?"

As he talked, my attention was drawn to Rufus. Covering the mouthpiece, I yelled, "Rufus! Stop eating the flagstone!"

Rufus paused, looked back at me and grinned, tongue hanging, wagged his tail, and went back to chewing the patio.

". . . so we could move preproduction up to November if we find a director."

"What?" I asked.

"Warner Bros. wants to target for a summer release, when girls are out of school."

"You've been discussing release dates with Warner Bros?" I asked incredulously.

"They called after reviewing the script," Peter informed me. "What was I supposed to do? You weren't answering your cell."

Lord have mercy!

"Tell them we'll discuss timing once I've polished the script."

"Okay. How's Amelia?"

"In trouble with school grades," I answered.

"Oh-oh. I better go. The other line's about to ring."

The phone went dead. I had to smile. If left on my own, I'd happily write scripts and never bother producing them. I loved the creative process, but movie production was a yearlong headache. I'd decided to take the summer off to be with Amelia and finish the script. Peter was resisting, especially when I'd told him he was running the office in my absence. When he complained, I reminded him he was the highest paid assistant in Hollywood. That shut him up. But, clearly, he was trying to hustle the project along.

Glancing at the report on the table, I yelled, "Amelia Destiny!" and girded myself.

"You don't have to yell," Amelia announced, stepping out through the open sliding glass wall. She wandered over.

"I . . ."

"Rufus! Stop eating the patio!" she ordered.

Rufus looked back at her, his eyes so alert to her voice. He froze. His tongue started pushing pieces of stone out of his mouth, his expression talking, "This stuff tastes awful. I was only doing it as a favor to Mike."

He rose slowly, probably laden with stone, and walked over to the pool, flopping down, paws hanging over the edge, and proceeded to drink pool water. Cleaning his palate for the next delicacy, I thought with a grin. I didn't miss how he'd ignored me but obeyed Amelia. I had a sneaking suspicion I was no longer the Alpha in this family.

"What did you want?" Amelia asked, settling in a chair.

I tapped the report on the table, St. Bartholomew's logo prominent on the cover.

"Oh." She fell silent.

"It's not good enough, Amelia."

"But the classes are hard!" she pleaded.

"Music is hard, too. Have you put as much effort into your other courses as you have into music?" I asked reasonably.

"Maybe not," she admitted, no longer looking at me, her fingernails suddenly fascinating, one nail scraping off flaked blue nail polish from another.

"Do you want to go to college?"

"Not really."

"You mean to tell me you don't want to go to Juilliard? Because if you do, you'll never get accepted with these grades."

"But I got an A in music!"

About to inform her one subject wouldn't suffice, Amelia tilted her head slightly, smoky eyes twinkling as she smiled at me. A gentle breeze blew thoughts out of my mind.

Glancing away, I said, "Don't do that!"

"Do what? Aren't you proud of my A?"

Watching Rufus drink at the pool, I informed her she was in for extra tutoring, summer classes, and less music if she didn't pull up her socks and improve her grades.

She scratched more nail polish off, frowning. "Okay. I'll try."

"You'll do more than try."

"Kay," she answered. Her voice brightened. "It's hot! Want to go for a swim with me?"

I should have known by now how fickle fate is, especially when it comes to Amelia. As I relaxed in the pool, letting cool water refresh my body, Rufus barking in excitement from the sidelines, Amelia emerged in a plain white bikini, one I'd never seen her in.

She smiled, removed her glasses, set them on the patio table, sashayed to the pool, and dived in gracefully. Rufus immediately barked his warning and lumbered up before leaping into the pool with a massive belly flop. For five minutes or so they amused me, playing, Rufus slapping and biting the water in delight as he swam after Amelia. Sooner than usual, he retired to the steps and sat, water up to his neck, intelligent eyes alertly watching Amelia, and occasionally taking a slurp of chlorinated water.

Amelia swam over. She hooked her arms around my neck, studied my eyes, smiled gently, and kissed me.

My life, as I knew it, changed.

Once again, I was transported. Her soft lips pressed to mine in a more-than-sweet kiss, pressure communicating attraction, affection. When she pressed her body against me, she communicated love and desire, something I hadn't associated with her. I reacted. Swimming trunks couldn't hide my response. Kissed by a beautiful young girl I adored so deeply, I slowly grew erect, the water feeling warm. I held her slender hips and let myself go, losing myself in a sweet, sensual kiss.

Amelia broke the kiss and studied me, her eyes looking at each of mine. What was she thinking?

"I excited you," she said softly, pressing against me.

"Yes."

She smiled shyly, studied my mouth, and, with a slight tilt of her head, she kissed me again. I closed my eyes and fell headlong into a passionate kiss, touching her lips with the tip of my tongue, tasting her for the first time. Her reaction was immediate, the tip of a small tongue touching mine. Wrapping her slender body in my arms, our kiss intensified, tongues teasing. And then Amelia opened her mouth. Desire slammed into me, a physical urge unlike I'd ever felt.

I ended the intense kiss with a suck of her plump lower lip, my heart racing. Amelia smiled at me with that sexy tilt of her head and laughed brightly, pushing away from me to swim to the steps.

For a moment I was relieved, and thankful for the respite. The immediate, intense desire I'd felt was too powerful, too dangerous. But, as Amelia walked up the steps, I saw the magical effect of water; her plain white bikini had transformed, becoming translucent and tightly plastered to her young body. First I stared at the valley formed by two cute, but very sexy buttocks. When she turned and called Rufus, her front quite took my breath away.

Small, perfectly formed breasts were clearly visible, so much so I could discern the shadow of her areolae. Amelia had gorgeous little breasts. My eyes trailed down her slender, slender body and my erection strengthened. At the juncture of her thighs white material was plastered to her, outlining the sensual delta of her pubis, camel toe and all, and, stunning me, a dusting of dark pubic hair shadowed behind white.

I ached. Amelia was a vision of beauty, a young girl on the cusp of womanhood; a perfect blend of innocence and sexuality. It was powerful, intense, almost overwhelming. Desire for her hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest. It was painful. I'd never wanted anyone more.

When Amelia wrapped a towel around herself and disappeared into the house, I was still standing chest-high in water, still erect, stunned into immobility.

How had this happened? How had I changed so drastically, so suddenly? I'd known how I was attracted to Amelia, but it had been wishful musings, an expectation that one day, when she was older, our relationship might develop into full intimacy - Amelia my lover and partner. But I'd never considered her as a lover at thirteen years old! There wasn't a trace of doubt I now was; her blossoming puberty was powerfully attractive.

No.

I'm the responsible one. I'm the adult. I'm Amelia's guardian. I have more mental rectitude than this! Satisfied with a return to normalcy and a softening erection - the fever abating, I finally exited the pool.

Chapter Thirteen

Like Adrien Brody's short-lived fame for The Piano, my moral rectitude faded fast; that night, in fact.

Amelia entered the bedroom wearing a simple spaghetti strap white camisole and matching string bikini panties, her midriff bare. I'd never seen the outfit, but, simple or not, it was very sexy; too sexy. Was it me, or was she truly blossoming into a sensual female?

Rufus struggled to jump onto the bed; probably weighed down with flagstone.

Amelia pulled the sheet down, slipped onto the bed, on her side, and looked at me, slightly shy, exotic eyes questioning. We hadn't discussed our kiss in the pool, but it hovered between us. I noticed a host of new things: her small breasts clearly defined and still pert even when on her side facing me; the sensual dip to her waist and rise to her prominent hip bone; the swell of her petite bottom and shape of her thighs; the way those panties outlined the erotic mound of her pussy so perfectly; the camel toe where cotton pressed at her cleft; and a sensual gap just below.

My response was visceral, again, blood flowing south. All moral rectitude collapsed when faced with such sexy beauty and it felt liberating. Smiling, I reached out and fluffed her rough-shorn hair before curling it behind a delicate ear.

Amelia smiled.

I rolled towards her and drew her into my arms, her scent of orange blossoms filling my nose, her beautiful eyes capturing me. It felt right. I felt like she belonged in my arms. The attraction I had for her felt both familiar and exciting. She fit me, physically and emotionally. She completed me.

"What changed?" I asked.

Amelia pressed herself against me. "I decided the old man was right. You're my lobster."

Confused, I asked, "What old man? Right about what? And what's a lobster got to do with anything?"

Amelia started talking. A chill went down my spine as she told me about an older man visiting her in school, how he'd helped her to find her voice again, how her singing would bring her to me, how we were destined to be together. She talked about not believing him, about not being in love with me at first, and how she'd changed.

"You're my lobster, Mike," she ended.

"Was the man called Darren Faith?"

She nodded. "I think so."

I had no more doubts, none. My future had been preordained and, it seemed to me, I had been gifted for some unfathomable reason. Looking at her, I was absolutely sure there was no one else I'd ever want in my life.

"What's with the lobster?" I asked, caressing her back.

"Lobsters mate for life." She added with a grin and twinkling eyes, "See? I did learn something other than music!"

"So did I," I informed her, moving close, face to face, inhaling each other's breath.

She smiled again and rubbed the tip of her small nose against mine. "Eskimo kisses. I learned that in school, too," she said softly with a light giggle.

I adored her charm. Her giggle faded away when I kissed her, and once again I experienced the joy and sensuality of intimacy with Amelia; something I was sure I'd never tire of.

Soft lips touched mine, pressure growing. Amelia's endlessly expressive eyes twinkled as the tip of her tongue took the lead, touching my lips. Her eyes closed as my tongue met hers. She moaned quietly, a soft, loving purr, and, as her mouth opened, I fell into that vortex of desire. Kissing Amelia was so exciting. My hand slipped down to cup her panty-covered bottom and I discovered it's gorgeous shape. Soft panties slipped over small mounded buttocks, my hand almost spanning both. They were delectable, rounded perfection, and so arousing. My body reacted, an erection slowly forming between us. Amelia's tongue paused briefly, and then she pressed her body against it, the feel of her soft stomach strengthening my erection.

The kiss ended. I was breathless, heart beating hard. Gorgeous eyes opened. She smiled shyly and touched my lips with the pad of her index finger.

"I like kissing you," she whispered.

I smiled. "I love kissing you."

We kissed and necked, a sexy activity. I thoroughly enjoyed sucking on her plump lower lip, and I adored cuddling with her. It was the first night I fell asleep with Amelia in my arms.

We woke up to morning light, and Rufus throwing up, a gagging, hurling sound.

Amelia bolted upright. "What's wrong, Rufus?" She crawled to the foot of the bed and peered down. "Mike! There's something wrong with Rufus! He's vomited."

"Stones?" I wasn't worried. Dogs frequently eat things that upset their stomachs.

"Last night's dinner . . . and some stones."

"So don't worry. Come back to bed and give me a kiss."

Amelia smiled and crawled back towards me as I stretched on my back. Still in her white camisole and string bikini panties, the top drooped open and gave me a flash of small, delicate breasts with dark pink areolae and tiny nipples.

Desire flushed though me; warm heat and intense yearning. Amelia was so sexy, so pretty. She paused when the sheet twitched at my groin. Mystical light stole into her eyes. She smiled, as if satisfied.

To me, Amelia was a different person now. It was like John Bishop, a close friend in my teens. He'd been tough and daring, game for anything. Yet, one incident exposed his homophobia; a nasty trait I'd never been aware of. From that moment on, everything he did was shed in a new light; his behavior no longer tough, but mean-spirited and bigoted. I'd dropped him like a hot potato. Amelia had changed. My awareness of her sensuality had for ever altered my perception of her. Now, I noticed her small seductions, her shy, hesitant moves towards me, the intimacy she was hinting at in the hope that I'd respond. She was revealing herself to be a wonderful girl full of newfound attraction and I was her happy lab rat.

As she reached me, I drew her to me. She settled half on and half off me. I felt the pressure of her young breasts on me, her delicate weight, the warmth of a young girl. She smiled as my hand cupped a gorgeous panty-covered ass, the other on her back.

I didn't miss how, as she kissed me softly, her knee eased up my legs to settle over the lump of my erection. I couldn't control its response; a strong flex. Amelia's eyes closed. Her mouth opened, and yet again, I found myself in a deeply sensual kiss, so very arousing. Another thrill hit me when Amelia pressed her pussy against my side, a clear sign of her arousal, and I was helpless. I moved my hand off her bottom and up her side. Kissing her deeply, erection straining under the sheet, I cupped her sexy, young breast over her cotton camisole and shuddered. It was my first intimate touch of Amelia, my first touch of a thirteen-year-old girl transforming through puberty, and it was an incredible experience; her breast so petite, firm, so intensely feminine. My hand was far too large, her breast far too small, yet I couldn't remember being so excited. It was illicit and thrilling.

Amelia trembled slightly at my touch. Her tongue talked, telling me she liked my intimate caress, how excited she was. She murmured into my mouth, her fresh breath wafting against my cheek. Kissing her was so incredibly sexy.

Disorienting arousal, like a sea fog, rolled towards me, slowly enveloping me with dreams of full intimacy; Amelia my lover. In my mind's eye I saw us together; a slender, young girl naked against me. My erection pulsed with excitement.

Rufus gagged loudly and vomited, completely ruining the mood.

The kiss ended. "There's something wrong with Rufus," Amelia said, her eyes full of worry, all heat now gone.

With a sigh, we separated. I sat up and peered over the foot of the bed. Rufus was licking the bare hardwood floor as if it was an ice cream cone, two piles of undigested dinner next to him. He turned and looked at me, his eyes so alert. There was no happy grin, just a weak tail wag, an "I'm sorry, Mike, but I don't feel good."

Now concerned, I reassured him, "I think we"ll take you to the vet, just to be sure. Okay?"

Rufus wagged his tail slightly and went back to washing the floor.

Two hours later, Amelia and I waited in the examining room at Beverly Hills Animal Clinic, a one-story tan stucco, faux Spanish-style building off Sunset Boulevard.

"He'll be all right, won't he?" Amelia asked with worry in her eyes.

If she could have carried the fifty-pound puppy, she would have. I had that honor, and, while holding him in my arms as we entered the clinic, I realized, I, too, had grown to love him.

"He'll be fine," I assured her.

"I wonder what's wrong with him?"

"A belly full of stones, I'd bet."

Dr. Jameson, a slender young man who looked as if he'd graduated high school only last week, entered the examining room carrying an x-ray. He smiled. "Well, I think we've found the problem."

He slipped the x-ray onto a light box and pointed. "This is the problem."

I stared at the point of his finger. Amelia leaned in, too. All I saw was a bright, white, blank spot, like a hole in the x-ray, and unidentifiable shapes in shades of gray around it.

"Now, this is sitting in Rufus' stomach. We're not sure what it is, but it's metallic. Can you see how bright it is? That's a sign of metal. Has he eaten anything?"

Dr. Jameson looked at us. I shrugged. "Not that much. The flagstone patio, a pair of shoes . . . Stuff like that."

"And part of the pool noodle," Amelia added. "And Mike's Smartphone." After some thought she added, "And several sheets of music, and twigs, and a bathroom sponge."

Dr. Jameson smiled with amusement. "He's a puppy. He'll eat anything. You should train him not to. Anyway, we're going to put him under a general anesthetic and see if we can remove that metal object through his esophagus. But," he warned, "if it's too large, we'll have to operate on him to remove it. Hopefully, that won't be the case." Noticing Amelia's forlorn look, he placed his hand on her shoulder and said, "Don't worry. It's not serious. Rufus will be as right as rain in a couple of days."

"When will you operate?" Amelia asked.

"This afternoon. I'll call you and let you know how it goes and you can pick him up late tomorrow."

A subdued Amelia responded with a quiet, "Kay."

She was silent on the way home, at one point asking, "He's not going to die, is he?"

When I heard morose piano music coming from the living room, I decided distraction was in order. I'd take her to Rodeo Drive.

Later, while strolling and window shopping, Amelia not that interested, her iPhone trilled a musical number. She answered. Her smoky gray eyes lit up behind frameless glasses. A smile emerged that brought sunshine to her face. I watched her whole posture change; shoulders straightening, spine stiffening, and a lightness return to her steps.

"Okay. Thanks!" She turned to me. "Rufus is okay! They had to operate on him but he's woken up. We can get him tomorrow. Isn't that great?"

She hugged me tightly, let me go, and danced some weird dance that looked like she was having an epileptic fit. It looked ridiculous and it made me grin broadly. I'd just discovered another flaw; she had no coordination . . . none! I loved it!

"Let's go shopping," she exclaimed, grabbing my hand.

Aiming us towards the nearest clothes boutique, Amelia yanked me back towards the car. "Let's go to PetSmart. I want to get Rufus some toys. Maybe we can buy him a bed, too."

I was exhausted by the time we arrived home. Amelia was a world-class shopper and no effort was too great for her beloved Rufus. We'd covered three pet stores and she'd inspected every dog bed; plush, denim, leather, wicker. Either the bed was the wrong color, the wrong size, the material not comfortable enough, or wouldn't keep him cozy enough. I pointed out Rufus was a dog, he'd sleep on concrete. Amelia informed me I knew nothing about Rufus' feelings. Eventually, she found a large corduroy beanbag bed that met her demanding criteria.

I prepared dinner; a roasted chicken Alfredo pasta casserole, fresh, crisp green beans, accompanied by a simple romaine salad. Amelia's piano playing kept me company.

With a glass of white wine - a dry Chardonnay, I headed to the living room to enjoy another private concert. Amelia smiled at me and changed her song as I sat.

A melodious voice filled the room, the piano pelting out a rhythmic tempo, light and energetic.

"I'm dreaming of one kiss from you
A love long and true
We'll go on and on and . . .

I don't wanna hear that I'm too young
To know it's love that makes me feel this way
'Cause I don't have to feel the heat of the sun
To know it's shining on me every day
When it's warm outside
And the look in your eyes
Is longing to show me the way
I don't want to wait

Just one kiss from you, and suddenly
I see the road laid out in front of me
You give me strength, you give me hope
And when you hold me in your arms
You make me whole
And I don't know just what I would do
Without one kiss from you"

I recognized Britney Spears' One Kiss From You. She watched me as she played, eyes twinkling. I wondered how her library of music had become so immense, with a broad variety from classical to modern. I had to smile. Amelia really used music to communicate.

She stopped playing when I stood, smiling at me. She turned her face up as I bent, and again, I was transported by her lips, the sensual, intimate brush of her tongue, the way her mouth opened slowly, the kiss deepening.

I had a partial erection and a strong desire to cart her off to bed. For a moment, just a moment, I pictured her naked, and my erection surged. Without thinking, I gently covered her gorgeous breast, shuddering at how petite yet perfect it was.

A quiet moan from Amelia almost took me over the edge. Breaking the kiss, I was happy to see her breathing harder. I sure was. I adored the sweet arousal in her eyes. They'd darkened; ever more beautiful.

"Why did you stop?" she asked softly, reaching up to touch my lips with the pad of her finger, giving them a gentle caress.

"Because we're in the living room. Because I'm hungry. Because what I want to do with you requires a bed."

She smiled with delight. "Kay. I'm hungry, too. We didn't have lunch." A sweet blush emerged. "And bed sounds good, too."

There was a new awareness of each other as we ate. Sexual desire is an almost physical emotion. It makes your heart beat harder and adds weight to your chest. It makes you more alert; you notice small things. I noticed how Amelia looked at me, not with her eyes clear and smiling, but with darker, sexier eyes full of something exotic. Her eyes darted away from me when I caught her staring, a small blush flushing her cheeks. She fidgeted on her chair and pushed food around her plate, taking small nibbles.

Conversation was limited to Rufus and, long before I'd finished, she pushed her plate away, three-quarters full.

"I'm not hungry any more," she said.

"It wasn't good?"

"It was good, but I've lost my appetite."

"Why?" I asked, innocently. I knew why. She never ate when she was excited; food an inconvenience.

"Dunno. What time is it?"

"Ten after nine." It was lovely watching her try to maneuver me into suggesting we go to bed early.

"Want to watch a movie?"

I smiled. "Sure. Go turn one on," I suggested with a nod over to the TV.

"Um. Maybe we could watch one in bed?"

A slight rosy blush emerged on her cheeks. She was so damned cute. Relenting, I agreed. She smiled brightly and took her plate to the sink.

I looked at my half-finished meal and debated. No. It was no contest. Amelia feeling kittenish or casserole? It was like a choice for a lead actor between Jack Nicholson and Peewee Herman. No contest at all.

I missed Rufus not jumping onto the bed. Amelia made up for it. She'd obviously planned carefully. In a silky ruby camisole with intricate lace at the top and matching silky pajama shorts, she looked sweet. The top draped on her beautifully as only silk can do, giving shape to her beautiful breasts, her pajama shorts revealing long, slender, bare legs. Yet, looking at her face, I was taken by how young and sweet she was; a deeply attractive blossoming beauty. Innocent, yet sexy. A powerful combination made stronger by her character.

She slipped under the single, white, Egyptian cotton sheet, studying me shyly, waiting for my reaction to her first attempt at being sexy, aware that this time she was getting into bed as a lover.

I smiled gently and reached for her, drawing her to me. "You're the sexiest girl I've ever seen."

She smiled. "Thanks."

"Just so we're clear," I added, "You're mine. I'm never letting you go."

Her smile broadened into radiance. "Kay," she whispered.

She was a slight girl in my arms, so young. I kissed her, a gentle touch of my lips to hers, a wave of soft pleasure washing through me. Amelia pressed herself against me and teased my lips with the tip of her tongue, her gray eyes sparkling, then closing.

We tumbled into a sensual kiss, an all-consuming sexy kiss that I felt to my toes, an erection forming against her. I fondled her spectacular bottom and pictured it naked, exposed for my pleasure, my cock swelling. When I caressed her hip, Amelia eased her body away from mine in an invitation and, with growing excitement, I slipped my hand under her silk camisole. Her skin was warm and soft, her body slender, and, as I caressed her upwards, my heart beat faster.

That first touch was thrilling. Amelia's breast was perfectly formed, gravity defying, sexy and so petite. It pressed to my palm, warm and firm, yet yielding to pressure. It changed my tastes; large breasts couldn't hold a candle to hers; simply exquisite.

The kiss ended. Her eyes opened, my hand still cupping her delicate breast. She looked at me. "Are they too small?" she asked, sweetly shy.

"No. They're perfect, simply perfect."

"Kay," she whispered.

I kissed her again, harder, so aroused by her, and wrapped her in my arms, slipping my hands under her camisole to caress her bare back, her skin so soft.

Rolling, Amelia lay on top of me, her body pressing against a full erection. She broke the kiss and sighed, her face nestling to my neck. My nose was full of her, the scent of orange blossoms and sweetness. When I caressed her glorious buttock, Amelia moved; a slight hunch.

Suddenly, we were dry humping against each other, Amelia pressing her pussy against my shaft. Her breath was warm against my neck. Her arms wormed around my neck to hug me, her body gently humping. It was fantastic, this intimate game, sexy and exciting; a young girl experiencing pleasure with a guy for the first time.

I drowned in her movements, how her pussy caressed my shaft, my erection swelling, so hard, precum emerging. We humped slowly, pleasure flooding my body.

Still humping me, Amelia lifted her face, looked into my eyes, hers now a dark, smoldering, smoky gray. She looked at my mouth, smiled slightly, and kissed me, a sweet, gentle kiss, her eyes closing.

She humped me slowly, her breath washing against my face, and teased my lips with her tongue. When I responded, Amelia opened her mouth, so sexy, and kissed me harder. Her pussy pressed against my shaft more firmly, hunching and rubbing herself on me, her beautiful buttocks flexing in my palms. Breathing grew more intense, her body more insistent, her legs falling to my sides.

Suddenly, the kiss ended. She buried her face against my neck, holding me tightly. Her body trembled, rhythm briefly lost, then regained with more vigor. An almost silent snort, breath sharply inhaled, and Amelia shuddered. She fell into her quiet climax, panting quietly, body shaking, pussy humping, humping, urgent and hard. Through my hands, I felt her buttocks clench as she froze at her peak, and relax with a deep sigh as she melted on top of me, her body limp, with hot breath on my neck. I was still achingly erect but stopped moving. I'd just experienced something I'd never experienced before; a young girl's sweet, gentle climax, and I wanted to burn it into my memory. Nothing could compare to it. Nothing! It was so different; not the gasping, furious, loud, almost fake climaxes I'd experienced with other women. Amelia's was honest and sweet and intensely beautiful, and I knew, if I could spend a lifetime giving her pleasure, I'd be a happy man.

A limp Amelia sighed. She moved slightly feeling my erection against her. Her head rose, softened eyes studying me. "You didn't . . ."

I smiled and brushed her rough-shorn hair behind her ear. "No. But I don't mind."

A small blush emerged. "Can I . . .?"

"No. You've given me more than enough pleasure," I told her. My heart tripped at her smile.

"Kay."

Her wonderful scent teased my nose when she slid off me to my side. "You smell of orange blossoms," I murmured into her hair.

"Mmm-hmm."

"How come?"

"My soap. Do you like it?"

"Very much."

"Kay."

Chapter Fourteen

Throughout the night, every time Amelia moved or rolled over, I woke up and drew her back into my arms. I couldn't get enough of her. She calmed me with her aroma, sleepiness muting her orange blossom scent. She was warm and soft and cuddly, and I just couldn't get enough. Like an opiate to an addict, I needed more.

The intimacy we'd shared changed our relationship. It was evident as soon as Amelia woke up in my arms.

She looked at me with intensity, and said, "I forgot to tell you I love you last night," almost apologetically.

"That's okay."

"No, it's not," she insisted seriously. "I have to tell you every night so you won't forget."

My heart lurched. "I won't forget, Amelia."

Still serious, she informed me, "I have to tell you every night."

"Why?"

"Because." Her eyes brightened. "We're getting Rufus back today!"

In a flurry of energy, she rolled out of bed, her mind no longer on me. I grinned and headed to the shower. My morning erection was dealt with to memories of fondling her scrumptious bare breast, the remarkable shape and firmness of a thirteen-year-old's bum, and the sexiness of kissing her. Release was exquisite but had no impact on my yearning for her. I was besotted.

The day passed quickly with chores. I had to clean up before the weekly visit of our maid; a lovely, mid-twenties Peruvian lady who sang as she worked. Amelia got along famously with her.

By four-thirty, Amelia was vibrating with excitement, hounding me to go pick up Rufus.

At just after five, Dr. Jameson entered the examination room with Rufus.

Amelia immediately knelt. "Rufus! Look at you!" She held her arms open and Rufus woofed, wagged his tail and dashed, knocking Amelia onto her butt, bright laughter making both Dr. Jameson and me smile.

Rufus wore some strange opaque white cone around his neck that reminded me of His Master's Voice gramophone logo, except with the dog's head poking through the sound cone. Giggles erupted as Rufus washed Amelia's face.

I looked at Dr. Jameson. He smiled. "Rufus should wear the collar for the next three days. It will stop him licking his stitches."

That ought to be interesting.

When Amelia finally stood, Dr. Jameson placed a clear Ziploc bag on the examination table.

"We extracted this," he said. "It looks like a round chrome plated brass door or cabinet knob. We also found one sock - dark brown, one Dole banana label, a one Cent piece, a plug from headphones, part of a plastic frame we can't identify, and what looks to be stones of some sort."

"Wow!" Amelia inspected the collection. "Is that part of your Smartphone?" she asked me.

I'll be damned! It was. But the other items? "He's a vacuum," I observed.

"It's a bit odd to have that selection of non-edibles," Dr. Jameson said. "You might want to keep an eye on him and train him not to eat anything but food."

Amelia turned to me, her expression deadly serious. "We're taking Rufus to more obedience classes, Mike."

I thought that might be a good idea, especially after being presented with the vet's bill!

Aside from a shaved bald spot on his stomach and a plastic cone, Rufus was his usual rambunctious, happy self when we made it home. Amelia tried to fuss over him; he wanted to play. The doctor had suggested he be kept calm so stitches wouldn't be torn, but Rufus hadn't got that message. Our house was once again filled with delighted laughter and ever-deepening barks. Amelia was briefly disappointed when Rufus ignored his new beanbag bed, but soon forgave him. "He's too happy to be home," she claimed.

After dinner, Rufus curled up on the floor and slept. Amelia and I watched television for a while and, at bedtime, she carried the beanbag to my room, placing it at the foot of the bed. "He'll like it more here," she informed me.

He didn't. One leap and he settled on the bed.

Amelia eventually arrived, her hair slightly damp from a shower, her pale gray nightshirt setting off her eyes very nicely. My heart picked up a beat until she crawled onto the bed and cuddled with Rufus, whispering something to him before kissing him. He must have liked it, his tail wagging slowly.

My disappointment was short-lived. Amelia crawled up and slipped under the sheet, her eyes alive with happiness.

Deep satisfaction settled over me when she came into my arms, the scent of orange blossoms mixed with fruity shampoo filling my nose. She cuddled and I sighed aloud. I didn't understand why, but my world was at peace with her in my arms.

"He knocked off that cone twice," Amelia informed me, her foot worming between my legs.

I groped her succulent ass. "It'll never last three days."

"Yes it will," she insisted, her knee sliding up to press to my groin. "I'll make sure of it."

Smiling, I said, "You aren't around all day. You have . . ."

Words died away. An erection slowly formed. Under my caressing hand, her nightshirt had rucked up and all I touched was bare, silky skin, two glorious glutes and a sexy valley. She was naked!

Amelia's eyes twinkled briefly. Then she blushed. Simply gorgeous.

"You have a fantastic butt," I observed, caressing her naked buttocks. She smiled, pleased. I kissed her smile.

As her lips touched mine, I wondered if I'd ever overcome the absolute awe I had for her kisses. They were so sweet, so loving, so arousing. Amelia murmured quietly, her mouth opening, and I fell into the seductive fog that seemed to overcome me every time.

Tongues toyed, then caressed in a sensual kiss. My hand explored the shape of her slender thigh, rising up to her small hip, sliding down the dip to her waist, drawing the nightshirt along with me. Her side was silken and, as my hand moved higher, Amelia eased her body away from mine, and, suddenly, I was cupping her gorgeous breast again. A surge of desire hit me, stronger, more intense this time. God, I wanted her.

When I teased her nipple with my thumb, Amelia shuddered lightly, her nipple responding, growing into a small, hard bead. I adored the sensual shape of her breast, firm, so petite - a sexy half lemon. My erection strained, thick and demanding.

The kiss ended. Still fondling her breast, Amelia looked at me. "Before I forget to tell you, I love you, Mike."

She did, too. Her eyes were replete with adoration, with love, and it made my heart ache. She was so sweet, so beautiful in my eyes.

I smiled. "I love your ass. I love your breasts. And I love your kisses."

Amelia frowned. "What about me? Don't you love me?"

"That, too."

Her frown deepened. Her gray eyes darkened, a storm threatening. Just gorgeous. Smiling broadly, I reassured her, "I love you, Amelia Destiny, more than all the other bits of you."

The weather cleared in her eyes. She smiled, pleased. "And you'll love me for ever, right?"

"Right."

"And one day we'll get married, right?"

Grinning, I agreed. "Right."

"And we'll have kids together, right?"

"Right."

"You promise?"

I stopped smiling. Amelia was deadly serious. "I promise."

She studied me intently. "Kay," she said softly. "You can kiss me now."

I did. Somehow, lost in her amorous kiss, I lost my caution; lost the reins of maturity that held my desire in check. It seemed so right to ease her nightshirt up and off. It seemed so right to slip my boxers off. And Lord Almighty, it seemed so right when we were pressed together, naked, a sexy girl in my arms.

She fit me perfectly, physically and emotionally. She was warm and sweet, a naked Goddess gifting me with her love and her body. Naked together, we were in another universe, a world away, on our own.

Amelia smiled at me. She rubbed the tip of her nose against the tip of mine. "Eskimo kisses," she whispered, before touching my lips with her finger. A smile of satisfaction emerged and she kissed me gently, "Mmmm," murmured into my mouth.

The kiss intensified, her mouth opening, and a whirlwind of desire hit me, disorienting, powerful, almost overwhelming, my erection surging. Holding her beautiful bottom, Amelia started writhing against me. Precum suddenly made us slippery, my tip gliding on her. Still kissing deeply, Amelia reached down between us and touched my erection, first the tip, then the side, then slowly, gently, she wrapped her hand around me. I hunched, unable to stop myself. Amelia stroked me. A wave of horniness slammed into me and I humped again, her hand stroking me. Precum flowed. Dizzying desire for her took control and, suddenly, I was moving rhythmically, Amelia stroking me, her hand slippery with precum. The kiss broke when I gasped. She squeezed and stroked and I came. My erection swelled, ached, and semen raced up to burst against her. I gasped and another hard surge hit, cock expanding, cum spurting hard, hard. Amelia stroked my pulsing erection as I came like a teenage boy, thrusting and spurting in an intense orgasm, hot cum soaking us. And as the crest arrived and passed, I pulled on her bottom, capturing her hand between us, bodies tight together, and came more softly, each pulse exquisite, semen making us slippery. The pulses slowed and ended weakly. I was drained. Embarrassment arrived, shoving aside lingering pleasure.

Pressed tightly together, my softening erection still in Amelia's hand, I apologized. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for that to happen."

Amelia smiled. "S'okay. I wondered what it would feel like. Now I know." Her hand explored the mess of warm semen. She blushed. "I like it. I like that I can make you . . . you know, cum."

God, she was sweet. "Maybe I should clean up," I suggested.

Amelia turned her eyes away and asked softly, shyly, "Would you like to take a shower together?"

The shower was the final step in our intimacy, the last wall between us crumbling. When I nodded, she eased away from me holding the sheet off her body and slipped from bed. I followed and, frankly, ogled her. Amelia, in the lead, had an exquisite bottom, a rump just beginning to gain feminine shape, small and compact, a ripening pear shape. She turned the shower on, still facing away from me, and stepped into the glass enclosure. I followed. She paused as if girding herself, then turned to face me.

Amelia quite took my breath away. Slender as a gazelle, with hints of curves, she was gorgeous. Delicate breasts highlighted by a bikini tan rode high and firm, her areolae dark pink, tiny nipples beaded. She watched me intently as I studied her. Narrow hips curved into sensual, slender thighs and, at their juncture, Amelia had the thinnest pubic hair; soft and wavy, still not covering the swell of her mons, her pussy narrowing with deep creases to curl between her thighs, her vulva rounded and full. I could see her long clitoral hood cradled between plump labia, and a light dusting of almost black pubes where her labia met. She was stunning; no longer a child, not quite a woman, but a perfect blend of the two.

Then I noticed my thick semen slipping down her lower stomach and gathering in her sparse pubic hair. Disorientation set in. It was like being tossed around in an angry sea. I'd never seen a sexier sight.

AMELIA WATCHED MIKE STUDY her. She saw adoration in his soft, sexy eyes that thrilled her. She stood naked, letting him look, the first guy to ever see her naked, and it didn't embarrass her at all. With a flash of insight, she knew why. She loved Mike so much her stomach hurt.

All her preconceptions had been wrong. Feeling Mike cum, seeing him experience so much pleasure, had thrilled her. Feeling him cum was wonderful. And she'd done it! She'd made him cum! Her!

She smiled to herself. Now, the thought of experiencing sex with Mike excited her. She wanted to try everything, absolutely everything. With Mike, she felt no shame. How could she when he looked at her like that? As if he was besotted with her, such love in his expression. She liked being naked for him.

Amelia finally looked away from his handsome face and studied his body. Light chest hair dusted his chest from nipple to nipple and trailed down in a thin line to his belly button, and again down to his thick pubic bush. His penis was soft, circumcised, smaller than it had been in her hand, below, his testicles.

He had a swimmers body, broad shoulders, narrow waist, muscled legs. She wondered what his tush looked like. She wondered what he'd do if she kissed his nipples. Were they as sensitive as hers? They were at the perfect height for her lips. She liked how he rested his chin on her head when he hugged her. She liked cuddling with him. She loved his scent; like new paper in a notebook with a hint of guy adding spice.

A bark made her jump. She smiled at Rufus, his excitement at the shower, a new game. He pawed the door. Magnets released. The door opened.

Mike shut it. "Stop that, Rufus. Sit!"

Rufus wagged his tail, eyes alert and mischievous. He pawed the door again, adding a deep bark.

"Rufus! Sit!" she ordered.

Rufus sat, tail wagging. He chuffed and whined, a garbled sound. Amelia laughed. Rufus was talking! Wasn't he cute?

"Why doesn't he listen to me?" Mike asked grumpily.

"He does. He just doesn't obey you," Amelia answered. She shivered at the look Mike gave her; as if he could eat her up.

"You are, without doubt, the sexiest girl in the world. I'm never letting you go, Amelia."

Amelia sighed. "Kay."

"Let's wash."

She turned to dampen her hair, then turned again, reaching for the shampoo. Mike had it. He smiled.

"Let me."

Turning her back to him, she let him wash her hair. His fingers were strong, massaging her head, so relaxing she closed her eyes and luxuriated in the sensation.

Eyes closed, she turned and rinsed when he told her to, and melted when he washed her hair again. It was a sensual experience. Hair rinsed, she jumped when his soapy hands started washing her shoulders from behind. Warm water cascaded down from the rainfall showerhead. His gentle hands felt good washing her back, exciting as he washed her behind, and arousing as he reached around to wash her stomach, edging higher and higher.

Large, soapy hands gently covered her breasts sending a shiver of pleasure through her, her nipples awakening, sensitive. She relaxed, leaning back against him, eyes closed, and enjoyed his caress, her breasts feeling fuller, heavier, a spark of arousal blossoming in her pussy. She shivered when his fingers teased her areolae, and sighed when he cupped her breasts again, gently massaging them. This was fantastic!

His kiss on her neck felt wonderful. One hand slipped down, her stomach clenching. He cupped her pussy. A surge of pleasure hit her. She could feel every move of his hand as he washed her pussy, more like a loving caress, exploring her, and she shuddered when he found her clit, a spike of pleasure radiating up through her, warmth growing in her pussy, small pulses of pleasure.

Amelia melted back against Mike, her heart racing. His hand caressed her breast, his other rubbing her clit. Her knees felt weak, and actually shook when his finger eased into her cleft, touching her deeply, sliding up to rub her clit harder, waves of pleasure washing over her.

Mike whispered in her ear, "I love you, Amelia Destiny."

It took her over the edge, her pussy clenching, body tensing. Release hit her hard, her body shaking, pleasure cascading through her as she climaxed hard, so hard. She slumped, Mike's arm holding her up, pussy pulsing, ecstasy slamming into her. She gasped, pleasure pounding her and stealing the air. Her body ached, almost painful, his finger gently strumming her clit. Her body shook. She heard her herself cry out, her pleasure too much, too strong. Waves of ecstasy punished her until she thought she'd die, heart pounding, gasping silently, muscles trembling. Her climax peaked and slipped down into warmth, peace, her body boneless. As fading tremors shook her, she melted, Mike holding her up.

The sound of water returned. The shower stall spun momentarily when she opened her eyes. It had been a climax unlike any she'd ever experienced, a full-body orgasm, draining, exhausting, and wonderful, simply wonderful, and Mike had given it to her. Love flushed through her. She turned, looked up at him and moved in to hug him. He wrapped her in a hug. She was home, unquestionably home. Her sigh was deep.

In bed, cuddled naked with Mike, she listened to his steady breathing, inhaled his scent, and felt at peace. Washing Mike had fascinated her. His body was full of muscles. She'd finally seen his tush and it was crazy sexy. She'd always liked guys' rears and Mike's was fantastic. Amelia smiled, remembering washing his testicles and the heat and lust that had emerged in his eyes as she washed his penis. It had twitched and thickened slightly, so sexy, an experience she wanted to repeat again and again, maybe next time feel him become fully erect. How would that feel?

Amelia sighed. She adored him. "I love you, Mike," she reminded him in a whisper, closing her eyes. Sweet dreams filled her mind.

Chapter Fifteen

I TRIED TO HOLD onto the dream; me holding a naked angel, aroused by her, excited, loving her. It drifted away, a spectral wisp into a morning mist.

Her scent hit me first, a hint of orange blossoms overlaid with an intense aroma of sleeping girl; perfect.

I felt her, nestled to me, her back against me. Then I understood. Amelia's naked buttocks were pressed into my groin. My morning erection was held by soft thighs, her hand gently pressing my shaft to her pussy. My erection swelled. Amelia answered with a gentle squeeze. Reaching around her, I cupped her delightful breast, so sexy and arousing.

I kissed her neck. "Good morning."

Amelia wiggled her bum, an altogether sensual move. "Morning, Mike," she whispered.

My erection throbbed rhythmically, thick, rigid. Amelia moved slightly, a little hunch, buttocks flexing, the sensation amazing, with her hand pressing my shaft tight against her pussy. She moved again. It felt as if we were actually making love, so arousing. I responded, a gentle press forward, the tip of my erection pressing into her palm, and eased back, a silent sign of my excitement. She responded.

Movement began slowly, a sexy rub against each other, exciting, erotic. My erection pulsed and a whole new sensation hit me, precum making her palm slippery. Amelia clenched her thighs. As we moved, the slippery sensation expanded, each gentle, slow thrust spreading precum. I caressed her breast, soft squeezes, a tease of her nipple. She shuddered lightly, so sexy. Our movements stayed slow, my strokes between her silken thighs longer. To me, it felt like we were fucking, slow, sensual fucking, my arousal building. I kissed her neck again, then her shoulder. She murmured something, her hips now moving, rubbing her pussy along my shaft, hand pressing me harder against her.

I loved fondling her small breast. It was firm, resilient, yet yielding sensually, so perfectly shaped, just small. We moved together in perfect harmony, seductive, erotic, my heart beating harder, erection straining, rigid, feeling thick. It felt like for ever, this sexy dance, so intense, so beautiful. Then Amelia shuddered. She sighed loudly and whispered my name, her thighs clenched, relaxed, then clenched again, a gentle climax arriving; so incredibly sweet. With a flush of pleasure, I joined her, my cock swelling, cum rushing up to spurt against her palm. Amelia shook. Another strong pulse of pleasure hit me, semen spurting. We became slippery and wet and I came again, pulse after pulse of joy, cumming beautifully, powerful yet soft, loving. I came gently, hot cum spurting in an intense orgasm, a wonderful orgasm, complete and draining.

We stilled, hearts thumping. Lassitude arrived; that sweet peace from total release. I hugged my lover tighter. What a wonderful way to greet the day.

Over breakfast, the extent of our new comfort with intimacy showed. Amelia smiled, her eyes replete with . . . adoration. I was feeling a bit light-headed with this intimacy. It was thrilling and so different from anything I'd experienced with anyone else. I was addicted to Amelia in the worst possible way. I adored her.

Amelia, finishing a bowl of Cheerios, asked, "What are you doing today?"

"I thought I'd take you back to bed," I answered with a grin.

Amelia smiled with pleasure. "I have to practice piano. I have something I want to try."

Rufus interrupted the conversation, barreling through the open glass wall, his cone catching on the edge of the glass and popping off. He stopped and grinned, tongue lolling, as if he had planned it.

"Rufus! Don't do that!" Amelia ordered. "That's the third time he's knocked the cone off," she informed me, rising to pick it up. Rufus was no fool. With a scrabble of nails on the floor, he took off through the house.

"Rufus! Come here!" Amelia ordered, and grinned at me. She shrugged her shoulders and tossed the cone over the couch. "I'll keep an eye on him. He doesn't like the cone."

I kept my opinion to myself.

Late morning, as I worked on the script, the sound of piano music meandered out to me. I stopped working and listened, not recognizing the piece. It concerned me; mournful notes floated in the air, lingering only long enough to be shadowed by a slow, dark, melody full of anguish. I was too sensitive to Amelia's music selections. They matched her mood and forewarned me of her feelings. This one bothered me, as beautiful as it was.

Leaving my study, I went to the living room. Amelia was playing gently, eyes closed, her head slightly bent forward, fingers caressing the keys.

"Amelia?"

She stopped and looked at me. "Yes?"

"Are you all right?"

"Yup," she answered brightly. "Do you like it?"

Relieved at her smile, I said, "I do. It's quite exquisite. But I don't recognize the piece."

"Do you really like it?"

I nodded.

Her smile broadened into radiance. "It's mine. I wrote it. Want to hear the whole song?"

I nodded. "Sure."

She turned to the piano. Her eyes closed. Fingers touched the keys in a caress. Music started, slow and mournful, the music rolling like distant thunder into darker notes, full of pain, sharp notes like flashing lightning adding depth and feeling. Lighter notes emerged to dance with the thunder and gradually took over, soaring up into the heavens in a complex, beautiful melody, bright, full of light. As brightness faded, she plunged down into the precipice, darkness and sadness, only to be lifted up again into intricate beauty. It was, without doubt, one of the finest, most emotional pieces of music I'd heard in years.

I was floored, stunned. It wasn't fair! Didn't she have enough talent for ten people already?

She looked at me expectantly.

"I'm not much good with words. You are. I was hoping you'd write the lyrics for me," she said.

"Me?"

"Uh-huh. I read your script for Even Angels Cry. You can express things I'd never be able to. So will you?"

"What's the song about?"

She turned on the piano bench to face me. "It's a song for Mom and Dad, to tell them how I wish I could have had just five more minutes with them so I could tell them how much I love them, and ask if they're happy, and are they proud of me, do they miss me as much as I miss them? I want to tell them I'm okay, and how happy I am, and how I found you, and how much I love you, and that they don't have to worry anymore."

Weak in my knees, I dropped into the armchair. My throat closed. How could she be so achingly beautiful at thirteen years old?

Smoky gray eyes watched me, waiting for my response. I cleared my throat. "Amelia, you don't need any help with lyrics."

She disagreed. "The words have to be perfect. Mine don't have the right cadence and the syllables are all wrong. I need your way with words. So will you?"

I didn't agree with her. I could never improve on her words. "I'll write them," I said, seeing how important it was to her.

She jumped up, smiling brightly, walked over to me, and hugged me. "Mom and Dad are going to be so happy when they hear it," she said.

Had I understood how those three simple words, "I'll write them," would affect our lives, I would have given it much more sober consideration.

Chapter Sixteen

It took me ten days to craft the lyrics. If it was important to Amelia, it was important to me. Amelia bugged me daily asking if I'd finished and wanting to look at what I'd written. However, her constant pestering wasn't curiosity. She was very serious about it. I refused to show her my draft, which only made her more curious, so I took to locking the draft in the desk drawer.

But, on an early Thursday afternoon, as Amelia played the piano, I finished it to my satisfaction, and took it to her.

"Here ya go," I said, handing it over.

Amelia's eyes were bright with excitement. She became absorbed in reading the lyrics, so I parked myself in the armchair.

Rufus arrived, tail wagging and sat in front of me. In his mouth, he had my new Smartphone. Where had he gotten it? I thought I'd put it out of reach on the kitchen counter!

Grabbing it, I stroked the soft fur on his head. It looked like he grinned at me before standing and walking over to Amelia. He flopped down next to her, head resting on his paws as if settling in for a private concert.

Amelia was still reading the lyrics.

"They aren't that long," I commented.

Without looking at me she responded, "I'm memorizing them. Don't distract me."

Properly chastised, I shrugged and played with the Smartphone. One icon caught my eye. That would be fun. Pressing the icon, a video app started. I fiddled with it, recording my feet. Satisfied I could operate it, I waited.

Amelia, bent and reading the music sheet with my lyrics, nodded, sat up straight, and closed her eyes. She caressed the keys. Music started.

I started recording, just for the heck of it.

The now familiar song filled the living room. And then Amelia began to sing. She sang with angst I didn't know my words had, with the pain of loss, with sorrow, a heart-rending lament to her mother and father. The Smartphone shook as I listened to the exquisiteness of her talent. Then a lighter musical melody emerged, her voice soaring, louder, joy and brightness filling the living room, only to pass and plunge into angst again.

A chill passed down my spine when I noticed tears slowly rolling down Amelia's cheeks, her head tilted slightly, and then her voice soared into the heavens again in a final, powerful goodbye.

I actually had tears prickling my eyes when silence arrived. She'd shaken me deeply. I'd never seen anything so moving, so heartfelt, so emotional. And then she opened her eyes and looked at me.

"The lyrics are perfect, Mike. I think Mom and Dad will like it."

I nodded. My throat was choked up.

Two days later, sitting in our production office, a small bungalow on the Warner Bros studio lot, I waited for Peter to get off the phone.

My three months off work was a Hollywood vacation. Actors and directors measured their self-worth in publicity and attention, unable to accept being out of the spotlight, the center of attention, their egos too big and fragile. My vacation was four days a week away from the office, two calls every day from Peter, and a coterie of sycophants whining for my attention, for validation. Media called, hoping for a delicious tidbit of gossip, driving Peter, and thus me, to distraction.

We had two projects in development, not counting my latest screenplay. Each required shepherding, nurturing, or it would die a silent death. Each was scheduled for production in the new year. It promised to be a busy year.

"That was TMZ," Peter informed me, ending the call. "They heard a rumor Liana Liberato had been picked to play the lead in your new screenplay."

It infuriated me. "I told you to stop handing out copies of the script, Peter!" Then I paused. She was excellent in Erased. She'd make a perfect Mia. Maybe we should consider her.

Peter looked hurt. "I didn't. They didn't know the name of the movie, just rumors. Relax."

"Sorry."

He studied me. "I thought this vacation was supposed to relax you. Is everything okay?"

I leaned back in the chair and smiled. "Yeah, everything is fine. Better than fine, actually. I just don't like this constant interruption with work."

Peter looked at me, his expression serious. Finally he spoke. "She loves you."

"I know."

"I didn't express myself correctly. Amelia's in love with you. You better not hurt her, Mike."

"How the Hell would you know that?" I asked forcefully.

He smiled. "We talk all the time."

"You do? When?"

Peter chuckled. "When I take her shopping. Do you think those clothes she has just magically appear?"

I was flabbergasted. "When?" I thought I knew every minute of her days.

Peter laughed at me. "When you work, you're oblivious to everything. Amelia calls me and I take her shopping. She's back before you ever emerge from your study. She's a real clothes horse," he added.

Thinking about it, I saw Amelia in different outfits, a constantly changing appearance. Why hadn't I noticed before?

"How much money have you spent on her?" I asked, thinking I'd reimburse him.

"Nothing, except for parking and gas," Peter responded with a laugh. "She buys her own clothes."

"With what?"

"Well, money is the coin of the realm."

"What money?" I asked, increasingly confused.

"Mike, money is kept in a bank account. When needed, it's withdrawn . . ."

"Shut up. I've never taken her to a bank."

Peter sighed deeply. "Amelia pays with her iPhone."

"Huh?"

Peter grinned broadly. "Mike, you're the most technologically challenged person on the planet. There's more to computers than that Mac you use for video editing at home." His grin expanded into his eyes. "Amelia transfers funds to her iWallet and pays with her iPhone."

"You can do that?" I remembered her trust fund, an annual allowance transferred every month. That must be it. Then Peter's earlier comment hit me like a ton of bricks. "She talks to you about me?"

Peter nodded. "Who am I to judge if she's attracted to an older man? I'm gay. It's nature, weird but nature."

"But you don't prance around or . . ."

"Act gay?" Peter finished.

"Sorry. I don't care one way or the other. You know that. You're entitled to your private life."

"As are you. I'm just saying, Amelia deserves the best, so be the best."

Relaxing, I smiled. "Did she tell you about her song?"

"What song?"

I shoved the Smartphone across the table. "You should watch it."

Peter's eyes opened wide. "You videotaped it? You? How did you figure it out?" He grinned at me.

"Smartass. Watch it."

He picked up the cell, thumb swiping and tapping. Familiar music started. Her voice rose.

One minute later, Peter whispered, "Ho-lee-shit." Amelia's voice, even tinny, sent shivers up my spine. The video ended. Peter looked at me, his eyes moist. "Holy shit, Mike!"

"I know."

"Email the video to me." He noticed my expression and laughed. "You don't know how, do you?"

"Just take the frigging phone."

An hour later Amelia hugged me, releasing much of my stress. "I missed you," she informed me.

"Get ready to go out," I suggested after inhaling her scent.

"Where are we going?"

"You and that unruly dog are going to advanced obedience class."

"Kay!" she said brightly. "Rufus!"

Rufus, no longer a puppy, came barreling around the corner, all fifty-five pounds of him banging into my legs as he skidded to a stop, his tail wagging like crazy. I ruffled his head. More of my stress melted away. Dogs are such special beings, capable of endless love and affection, never demanding, a source of amusement, and, ultimately, a faithful companion unlike any other. I was sure all dogs must go to Heaven. How could such pure love and devotion go anywhere else?

Perhaps it was Rufus' operation. Perhaps Amelia was maturing in leaps and bounds. But, over the next four weeks, she and Rufus became a team. Rufus paid devoted attention to her every move, look, and command, joyous when rewarded with her affection. I knew how he felt. Amelia grew as well, finding confidence in her ability to communicate with Rufus. When she'd congratulate him, she'd sing to him, a song of love and admiration. I wasn't jealous . . . not really.

Our relationship blossomed. Amelia stopped blushing at intimacy, only blushing when she'd suggest something new. And she did, much to my pleasure.

In spite of the wonderful sexy play we had, and the amazing orgasms she'd bring on every time, it was her kisses I loved to death. It was the way she'd rub the tip of her nose against mine, smile, and whisper "Eskimo kisses." It was so sweet. And it was the way she'd melt into the kiss, her lips pressing, mouth opening, her tongue titillating me. I'd never tire of them.

But, one night, as we cuddled naked together and kissed and fondled, as I groped her scrumptious bum and traced the sexy valley between gorgeous buttocks, and as she fondled me, Amelia ended the kiss. She looked at me and blushed slightly. I knew she had something in mind.

"I heard guys like oral sex. Is it true?"

Smiling, I assured her I loved giving oral sex, excited by the prospect.

Amelia shook her head. "That's not what I mean. I mean . . . um . . . me giving you oral sex."

My erection surged in her hand. She smiled. "Is that a yes?"

Arousal swayed my decision. I nodded.

She said, "I'm not sure how good I can do it. Will you tell me if I do it wrong?"

My heart rate spiked. I nodded.

She pushed me onto my back, rose to her knees at my side, resplendent in her naked glory, and drew the sheet down. My erection bobbed up off my stomach. Amelia studied it, then gently took it in hand. She brought it upright, squeezed it gently as if testing my rigidity, smiled shyly and bent, her lips kissing the tip.

I found the sight of a young girl kissing my erection profoundly erotic. She glanced at me when my erection flexed, her eyes twinkling, bent again and kissed it. She stroked my shaft carefully and, in an exquisite move, pressed her lips to the tip. Her mouth opened. Slowly, ever so slowly, she took the crown into her mouth, warm, moist heat making me shudder. She sucked lightly, cheeks indenting, and I groaned when her tongue gently caressed me.

She backed off. "Am I doing it right?" she asked, looking at me.

Not trusting my voice, I nodded.

Amelia shuffled down from my side to settle between my legs. She raised my erection and repeated herself, pressing her lips against the tip, slowly opening her mouth, my cock oozing into her mouth. Did she know how erotic it was? How arousing it was?

Her tongue teased the tip, and caressed my crown. She stroked my shaft and took more in. God it felt good. No. It felt fantastic, the visual and physical stimuli almost overwhelming. When Amelia took even more in, the tip of my erection touching the back of her mouth, and looked up at me, her mouth stretched wide, I reached down and eased her off. It was too much. I was close to cumming in her mouth, faster than I would have believed possible.

"Did I do it wrong?" she asked.

"No. God no. But . . ."

She stroked my erection and I came, semen spurting onto my stomach. Amelia smiled with satisfaction and stroked my shaft faster. My cock swelled. A massive spurt of cum launched out hitting my chest, pleasure pounding me. I came again, gasping, and again, semen spurting, Amelia stroking me, bliss hitting. My stomach tensed, orgasm cresting, and each pulse of semen weakened leaving me gasping for breath.

Amelia moved up to my side, cuddling. I caressed her bare back while trying to recover, eventually reaching out to grab some tissue and clean myself.

"Was it really okay?" Amelia asked.

"Did you see how fast I came?"

She glanced at me from the crook of my shoulder. "Would you like it more if I let you cum in my mouth?"

I combed fingers through her short, shorn hair. "Maybe someday. I like it just fine this way. You didn't have to do it."

"I know. But . . ." She paused, then continued, ". . . if we're going to be together for ever, I want you to be happy, like me."

"I'd be happy just to have you in my life, Amelia, even without sexy play."

"But, it's better with sexy stuff, don't you think?" She snuggled against me. "Besides, I want to try everything with you." In a softer voice, she added, "I like sex with you."

Rolling her onto her back, I rose onto my elbow. "My turn," I announced.

"Your turn to what?"

With a feather-light touch, I teased her areola, liking how it stippled in response. "To do this," I answered, bending to kiss her other delicate breast. "And this," I added, sucking her areola, tongue caressing an awakening nipple. "And this," I murmured, kissing her soft stomach. "And this," I whispered, my lips gently touching her mons, silken, wavy pubic hairs tickling me. I caught her scent, a hint of earthiness with something more.

Amelia watched me when I moved down, easing her legs apart, knees up, and settling between them. She returned my smile, eyes attentive. Beautiful breasts mounded proudly on her chest, topped by sexy dark pink areolae, tiny nipples. I looked down and admired her pussy. It was beautiful, small yet so sexy.

Her wavy, dark pubes, still excitingly thin, didn't cover the swell of her mons, a plush, arousing pad. Rounded labia cradled her clitoral hood, and below, her small cleft parting just enough to give me a glimpse of moist pinkness. Nestled deep at the base, I saw the dark entrance to her vagina, so incredibly small. Amelia's pussy was so damned sexy, her sparse pubic hair decorating the edges of her labia; on the cusp of bursting into maturity. Below her pussy, small buttocks bulged where they pressed to the bed. I found the sight profoundly erotic.

With her eyes still watching me, I smiled and bent in, kissing the top of her mons, her scent more pronounced; sex, arousal, a hint of earthiness yet clean. Her mons yielded to the pressure of my lips, bulging seductively. I kissed the top of her cleft, my hands caressing silky thighs. Amelia trembled slightly when I kissed the tip of her clit, and I finally tasted her. She was delicious, the ambrosia of sex, light tasting. It was an intense experience that had me trembling, excited. Opening my mouth, I covered her cleft almost completely, sucked gently, and, with my heart rate elevated, caressed inside her cleft with my tongue.

She was silky smooth, slippery, and warm, very warm. Her thighs trembled, eyes narrowing, expression serious. I probed at the entrance to her vagina, tasting her beautiful arousal and feeling how small she was; a tight entrance still protected by her hymen. Drawing my tongue up, I teased her clit, brought my lips together and sucked. Amelia groaned quietly, thighs shaking, her eyes closing. Watching her, with my mouth glued to her clit, I reached up from under her thighs to cup her breasts, squeezing and caressing them, rewarded with a moan of pleasure, a little twitch of her pelvis, her pussy pressing up against my lips.

For minutes I sucked and licked, enjoying her response; a slow, steady increase in pelvic curls, eyes closing tightly, her nostrils flaring. Then she opened her mouth to pant, groan almost silently. Her hands curled into fists. I sucked her clit harder and she tipped into her climax with a louder grunt, body curling, a brief pause, then all Hell broke loose, her body heaving, scrubbing her pussy against my mouth, an expression of pain on her face. She moaned and gasped, a sheen of perspiration emerging on her face, her pussy undulating and suddenly moist, very moist. When she peaked, as I sucked her clit and teased it with my tongue, her body shook and shivered almost violently. She cried out cutely.

"Stop!" she gasped, reaching down to push my head away.

Amelia rolled and curled up into a small ball, her body still wracked with hard tremors, the frequency slowing.

Moving up, I hugged her from behind. I could feel residual waves of her climax pass through her. Eventually, she calmed. She snuggled back into me like a kitten seeking warmth. Her heart was still thumping. She smelled different; stronger, orange blossoms mixed with sexual arousal, and it was a heady aroma, indeed.

Eventually she spoke.

"That was painful. Is that how it is for you?" she asked quietly.

I was quite sure she'd just experienced a full-body orgasm. "No. I think yours was stronger."

"I'm tired now."

As she slipped towards sleep, she whispered, "I love you, Mike."

Chapter Seventeen

Dawn broke, warm with clouds in the sky. I sat on the patio sipping coffee while Rufus did his business, meandering through the flowerbeds, around bushes, and inspecting tree trunks. The daily L.A. Times lay on the table unopened. A very unusual event was forecast; rain. I'd believe it when I see it. Early August was far too hot for precipitation.

I thought back to the conversation Amelia and I had had two morning ago.

I'd woken up to find Amelia awake and naked in my arms, a wholly wonderful way to greet the day. She'd studied my face and smiled softly.

"I think I'd like us to go all the way, Mike . . . make love," she said seriously. "Can we?"

Despite a knee-jerk reaction to agree, I didn't. The memory of how small her pussy was had lingered in my mind. "I think you're too young."

"I'm not," she answered immediately, still serious.

"I didn't mean young that way. You're too small."

"I'm five feet four inches tall. I'm not too small," she informed me.

Grinning, combing her dark, shorn hair back, I clarified. "I mean down there. Too small to take me."

"Oh." Silence followed. "Can we try?"

I kissed her brow. "I think it would hurt a lot."

Her finger touched my lips and traced the edges. "I'd like to try, Mike. Don't you want to have sex with me?"

I did. I really, really did. However, the thought of causing her pain outweighed my desire. "Yes, I want to. But give me a couple of days. I need to check something."

Amelia smiled, eyes bright. "Kay. Friday night, Mike," she informed me, as if I didn't know what day that would be.

Today was Friday. I'd researched about sex and young girls. As it happens, thirteen-year-old girls are capable of having intercourse. All the references I could find talked about emotional maturity being the most critical aspect, that real love, not a crush or infatuation, made first times better. So physically, Amelia was capable. I knew she loved me. Emotionally she was capable. But was I?

She was back there, behind me, still sleeping in my bed. Did I want to make love to her? Hell, yes! Did I have enough self-control not to hurt her? Hell no! And that was the dilemma I wrestled with. She could kiss me into a fog of desire, that state where I forget, where I want, where I become selfish.

The cordless phone trilled on the table. I checked my watch. Six-fifteen. Early.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Mike. You're up early," Peter said.

"If you thought I'd still be in bed, why call this early?"

A moment of silence ensued. He really could say the nuttiest things.

"Good point," he finally admitted. "I thought you'd get a kick out of this. Amelia's trending on Twitter."

Had I entered the twilight zone? Maybe I needed more coffee. "She's doing what on what?" I asked.

"Trending, Mike. On Twitter? . . . The Internet? . . . Social media? . . . One hundred and forty characters?"

"Oh. Got it. I heard about that. How can anything intelligent be expressed in a hundred and forty characters?"

"That's not the point. Hashtag Amelia Destiny and hashtag A Song To My Parents is trending!" Peter informed me excitedly.

I was still confused. "Trending how?"

"Jesus, Mike. Someday you need to join us in the 21st century. Trending means she's a hot topic."

"Why?"

"The video of her singing on YouTube. Can you believe she's had almost a million hits?"

"A million what? Hey! Hold on! How did that video get on the Internet?"

Another silence. "I posted it," Peter finally said.

A burst of anger hit me. He'd gone too far this time, invading our privacy. "I can't believe you'd do that without permission, Peter," I snarled.

"Hey! Take a chill pill! I did have permission. I asked Amelia. She said to go ahead."

"Sorry. It's early. I haven't finished my coffee." I took a sip, hoping caffeine would hit my brain soon. "So what's the big deal?" I asked.

"Big deal? Amelia's a star! I've had calls from the media. Even Ellen's booking agent called. They want her on the show."

"No."

"What do you mean no, Mike? Maybe you should ask Amelia what she wants."

"No. I'm her guardian and I'm telling you, no. She's thirteen years old, for God's sake!"

Peter grew firm. "I'm going to talk to her. Is she awake?"

Drawing a deep breath, I tried again. "Peter, she's a kid. She doesn't need this distraction. Her plate is full as is. And I don't want her in the spotlight so young. It never works."

Peter was silent for a moment. "Okay. I'll brush off all the calls."

"Thank you. Anything else?"

"No. Are you coming into the office today?"

"I think I'll skip it," I advised him. Somehow my mood had deteriorated. I cut the connection and dropped the cordless phone onto the glass tabletop, my mind preoccupied.

Rufus barked and raced back from the end of the garden, tail wagging. Amelia must have woken up.

"Hi, Rufus," she said. Her arms wrapped around me from behind. "Hi." She kissed my cheek. "Can you make me breakfast?"

"Okay."

"What's wrong with you?" she asked. "Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed?"

Amelia followed me into the kitchen, parking her butt on an island counter stool.

"What do you want?" I asked, still upset with the news about her music video. I couldn't understand why it bothered me. Perhaps it was the threat of a media spotlight being shone on us, the risk of discovery; a Roman Polanski-like future. Or was it the threat of how attention would change Amelia? She was so sweetly innocent, with no trace of arrogance or entitlement. Media attention - stardom - always came with a price, especially when young. The thought of Amelia turning into a diva worried me.

"Fried eggs and sausages," she announced. "With toast, please. So what's bothering you?"

Pulling out the frying pan, hunting in the refrigerator, and setting up, I asked, "Did you tell Peter he could post that video of you singing on the Internet?"

Amelia looked confused. "Yes. Why? He asked if he could. What do I care?"

"Maybe you want to be famous," I suggested.

"Why would I want that?"

"You love singing. Don't you want people to hear your songs?"

Amelia stared at me, her gray eyes inquisitive, a serious expression on her pretty face. "Is that what's bothering you? Me maybe being famous?"

"No . . . Well, yeah. You're still so young. I love you the way you are. Fame changes people."

Amelia thought about it. "You really are clueless, Mike. I want to sing, and maybe write music, too. But, I only need an audience of three; Mom, Dad, and you. I don't care about anyone else."

Eggs sizzled when I cracked them into the hot frying pan. The toaster popped. I turned the sausages in the second pan, browning the other sides.

"That's what almost every celebrity thinks before fame hits."

"Mike?" Amelia paused, waiting for me to look at her. Her face was very serious. "I'll tell you a secret. I'm scared of performing alone in front of people. I don't want to. A video doesn't bother me. So, see?"

I didn't see. Almost every actor I'd worked with suffers nerves before a performance. Their acting was more compelling for it. Egos inflated post-performance when they bathed in the adulation and attention after the fact. I didn't think Amelia understood.

"You're trending on Twitter. Peter called this morning to tell me. Your video has been watched almost a million times," I informed her, plating breakfast.

"Really?" she asked, eyes bright.

I slid a plate across the counter to her. Resting my hip against the island counter, I took a bite of egg and nodded. I didn't like the brightness in her eyes.

"Eat," I ordered.

"Boy, you're in a pissy mood," Amelia observed. "Drink some more coffee." She started eating.

My grumpiness followed me through the morning and into early afternoon; an unpleasant, prickly ghost haunting me. I couldn't shake the feeling that everything was on the cusp of changing just as I was finding happiness and fulfillment with Amelia. Even her laughter and play with Rufus didn't bring my spirits up.

Just past three in the afternoon, as I puttered around in the kitchen - my day having been completely unproductive and unsatisfactory - Amelia emerged with her iPhone.

She smiled at me, her magnetic eyes twinkling. "I've got something that will make you feel better."

She dropped her iPhone into the dock on our music system and swiped the screen, tapping something. She was dressed for early August heat; sky blue shorts, bare feet, and a matching sky blue and pale green short-sleeved cotton top. She was a study in gorgeous, her dark, shorn hair feathery with soft spikes, frameless glasses adding to her elfin-like cuteness, and a slender body hinting at approaching adolescence. She was perfect. My mood darkened.

"Ready?" she asked brightly.

I nodded.

She tapped the iPhone and dance music started, a light electronic bop. Bright, electric keyboard notes joined in, and, when drums and bass added a deep, rhythmic beat, Amelia smiled at me, swayed her body, and began to sing, accompanying the singer on the stereo. Amelia's voice was more powerful, more radiant, and much more compelling.

"Boy I see ya, looking at me
I feel your eyes on me, like you gotta have me
Watching every move, like it's for you
You can't help it, you're attracted like a magnet
My love ain't easy, you gonna have to put in some work
You can't buy me a drink, thinking I'mma fall for your flirt
You gotta make it right, if you wanna go spend some time
You gotta raise the bar tonight"

With a bright, bright grin, Amelia started dancing as she moved into the chorus; her nutty, wonky, loose-limbed dance that, with music, became mesmerizing, absorbing, and so damned cute. I laughed with delight. Her eyes twinkled with pleasure.

"Love me, baby treat me right
Make it eternity and not only one night
If you love me til the end of time
Then I will promise you the night of your life

So now love me, baby treat me right
And we'll be riding it from morning til midnight
If you love me til the end of time
Then I will promise you the night of your life
Night of your life, life, life
Night of your life, life, life"

Amelia smiled sneakily, stopped dancing, her hips now moving in time with the tempo. She pointed her finger at me. Damn, she was communicating with music again!

"I could have ya, if I wanted to
Down on one knee, in front of me, wedding bells ringing
I could claim ya, be your savior
Wrap your heart inside of these arms, and you'll never leave
I could have your hands tied, round my body, all up on me
Boy you'll be stuck to me, if I wanted, with no release
I'll have you begging, wishing now, I give you a piece
Baby you'll never be the same"

I couldn't help laughing when she started dancing again at the chorus; her manic, loose-limbed, fascinating movement, was riveting.

"Love me, baby treat me right
Make it eternity and not only one night
If you love me til the end of time
Then I will promise you the night of your life

So now love me, baby treat me right
And we'll be riding it from morning til midnight
If you love me til the end of time
Then I will promise you the night of your life
Night of your life, life, life
Night of your life, life, life

Taller than a mountain, deeper than the sea
You're boiling hot for me babe, one hundred degrees
I want you to love me, like your favorite dream
Let's make tonight a reality...

So now love me, baby treat me right
And we'll be riding it from morning til midnight
If you love me til the end of time
Then I will promise you the night of your life
Night of your life, life, life
Night of your life, life, life
Night of your life, life, life"

The song ended. My chest ached with love and adoration. I was grinning like a fool. Amelia was cute and sexy, and bursting with personality when she sang.

It hit me. All my objections to her being a public personality were driven by jealousy. I didn't want to share her. In that moment, I realized Amelia was Amelia, unique and different and unstoppable. She'd always be Amelia no matter what happened.

"What was that song?" I asked. "I don't recognize it."

"David Guetta's Night of Your Life. Jennifer Hudson sings it. So? Did you get the message?" Amelia asked, smiling at me, eyes bright.

"Yeah. You'll always be you, no matter how famous you're going to be."

Amelia's eyes opened wide in disbelief. "Are you kidding me? You're so clueless, Mike!"

"What?"

Amelia grinned at me and sang a cappella; without music accompaniment.

"If you love me til the end of time
Then I will promise you the night of your life
Night of your life, life, life
Night of your life, life, life"

"Oh! That."

She grinned. "Yeah. Oh. That. It's Friday, Mike!"

Suddenly my day brightened. We were going to make love! Sexy Amelia and me! Amelia sashayed over to me, eyes twinkling. She moved close, looked up at me, her arms slipping around my waist. She smiled.

Bending my head down, I kissed her gently, lips brushing, a soft loving touch. She hugged me, pressing her cheek to my chest when the kiss ended.

"Tonight, Mike. I'm so excited."

Now I was, too. I gave her a tight hug, loving how she fit against me, the top of her head under my chin.

The rest of the afternoon and evening couldn't pass fast enough. Amelia was her usual self, but to me, she was ever more sexy, her bare legs long, her small feet cute, toenails painted sky blue to match her short shorts. Her cotton top draped suggestively hinting at the sensual mounds of her breasts, and, in a moment of weakness, I cupped one in passing just to check. Amelia laughed brightly and twisted away. Yup. No bra. That only enhanced my desire; they were so firm they hardly moved when she did.

By eight-thirty, I was fidgeting on the couch. Light rain had arrived, enough to tease a parched Los Angeles, but not sate its voracious thirst. It was still light outside. I couldn't wait.

Standing, I grabbed Amelia's hand and pulled her up off the couch. "We're going to bed. Now!" I insisted firmly.

Amelia laughed brightly. "Okay." She stood, eyes glistening with amusement. Clearly, she liked being desired.

Waiting in bed, I was partially erect. Amelia had tugged her hand out of mine and disappeared into her room. I was excited and impatient. Rufus trotted into the bedroom, heralding Amelia's arrival, and jumped onto the foot of the bed, tail wagging as he grinned at me, tongue hanging. He chuffed at me. Maybe he was talking, telling me what a lucky bastard I was.

"You're right. I am."

"You're what?" Amelia asked, walking in.

She was gorgeous. She'd put on a pale pink, cotton camisole that hugged her body tight, ending just below her navel. Small matching panties emphasized her slenderness and narrow hips. Elastic dug deep forming a tight fit against the sexy swell of her pubis, a lush pad. A small fold of cotton hinted at her cleft, and the gap between her thighs showcased the sensual roundness of her small vulva.

"You're what?" she repeated, slipping into bed.

Studying her pretty face, full lips, cute nose, and dark smoky gray eyes, I smiled. "A lucky bastard."

Amelia smiled with pleasure. "You are," she assured me, and then added, "Does that make me a lucky bastard, too?"

Surprised, I answered, "I don't think so. Bastard is used for males."

"No it isn't. It's a name for illegitimate children, boy or girl." She grinned. "See? I learn stuff in school."

Chuckling, I drew her to me, both on our sides. "So I can expect better grades next year?"

Her arm sneaked around me, body pressing against me. "Maaaybe," she said softly. Her eyes seemed to darken. She gently rubbed the tip of her nose against mine. "Eskimo kisses," she whispered.

My heart swelled. Could she be any cuter? How did I get so lucky?

Our lips touched, a light, teasing brush, her mouth soft, her breath wafting against me. My nose picked up the scent of orange blossoms. Amelia's magical eyes twinkled, then closed slowly. Her tongue teased my closed mouth. Tongues touched in a caress, and then Amelia opened her mouth and I drowned, erection surging. I adored her kisses; powerful, sensual, exciting.

It was so arousing to slip my hand inside her little panties and touch her bare bottom; such perfectly shaped buttocks forming a sensual valley, her buttock fitting my hand perfectly, sweet and sexy.

Amelia's kiss intensified. Her knee pushed between my legs and rose to press against my testicles, sending a pulse of desire through me.

I eased the back of her panties down to expose her bottom just as she slipped her hand between us, fishing inside my boxers to find my erection, gripping it, squeezing it, assessing her ability to turn me on. God she did, like no one else on earth.

I caressed her gorgeous buttocks, my hand searching, following the valley between her cheeks until I touched her intimately; sparse, soft pubic hairs at first, then warmth, soft labia. Heart beating, I probed. Labia hugged my fingertip. Moisture. Heat.

Amelia squeezed my erection hard. The kiss broke. Smoky eyes opened and stared. She curled her bottom back and the tip of my finger slipped deep, pressing against the entrance to her vagina. My cock surged in her hand.

Amelia smiled at my response and rubbed the tip of my erection with her thumb. Precum leaked. This was so erotic, so sexy. But too fast.

Withdrawing my hand, I kissed her again, another mind-fogging kiss, desire rolling in like an avalanche, sweeping over me, disorienting. Slowing down was becoming a Herculean task.

Breaking the kiss, I inhaled deeply.

"What's wrong?" Amelia asked quietly.

I tried to explain the tumult she brought out in me. "When I kiss you, I drown. All I think about is wanting you now, immediately."

Her finger touched my lips again. "So?"

Combing her shorn, feathery dark hair back behind her ear, I said, "This is our first time. I need to cherish it like a fine wine, like a great movie; for it to be something we'll remember for ever. I don't want to rush it and diminish it."

Her eyes were locked on mine. I kissed her lips lightly, and continued. "When you kiss me, I come dangerously close to losing control."

A smile emerged, her eyes bright with . . . with delight, even pride. "So I'm the best kisser you've ever had?"

"Unquestionably."

"Lucky for you," she observed, eyes twinkling. "I'm the last kisser you'll ever have."

I chuckled. "Lucky me, then."

She laughed softly. "Uh-huh. Maybe, if you stop kissing me it will help you keep control?"

"Never." I kissed her smile. Amelia pressed her mouth against mine, expressing longing and desire. She almost purred, and opened her mouth, emptying my brain.

She pressed her slender body against me, her hand now holding my shoulder, her tongue caressing, then wrestling, then probing. And then she moaned into my mouth.

I was lost. Done. Beaten by a kiss.

Easing my hand up from her hip and under her cotton camisole, I cupped her sexy breast, shuddering at its perfection. I teased her nipple. Her tongue, God help me, became frisky and adventurous.

I wanted Amelia naked.

Pushing her camisole up, the intense kiss ended. Her lips looked slightly swollen, sexy. Tugging her top up and off, my eyes locked on her delicate breasts. I succumbed, bending to kiss one. Opening my mouth, I sucked her areola gently, my hand reaching down to push her panties the rest of the way off. She kicked them off and my palm settled on her lush pussy, soft pubes tickling, my finger tracing her short cleft down. I sucked her breast harder using my tongue to tease her nipple into beaded hardness. My erection surged, thick and rigid, when I touched Amelia's slippery arousal at the base of her cleft. I wanted her so much it was painful!

Amelia's hand caressed my shoulder, a gentle loving touch. Somehow it calmed me. It cooled the fever of desire I'd tripped into yet again, and I was thankful for it. Blind lust wasn't what I wanted as a memory.

I relaxed and lay next to her. "Don't kiss me like that," I said with a smile. "Your lips are lethal."

Amelia flushed with pleasure. "Kay." Her finger touched my lips. "But you're a pretty good kisser, too." She reached down and tugged at the waist of my boxers.

I helped, shoving them down and kicking them off, and then rolled back to her. A naked, beautiful, slender girl pressed herself against me, sandwiching my erection between us.

"This is much better," she observed. "I like being naked with you."

"Umm-hmm," I murmured kissing her.

She pressed herself against my erection. Precum made her skin slippery and silky. Cupping her bottom, I pulled her against me harder. She writhed, caressing my erection with her stomach, so sexy. It felt so good I thought about being inside her slender body, buried in her, and almost lost control at the storm of desire that surged.

We kissed lightly and writhed together, erection straining, Amelia's hand caressing my back. Her scent filled me, orange blossoms and sexy young girl. I sucked her lower lip, heart beating hard, and then kissed her again.

Amelia murmured and opened her mouth, the kiss intensifying, sensual, exciting. My cock surged. I rolled, moving on top of her. Amelia cradled me with her thighs. She was so slender under me, so intensely desirable. Our kiss deepened, lips moving, tongues playing, as we started humping each other. I still held her gorgeous bottom in my hand. I felt her movements, buttocks undulating. Precum made us slide smoothly against each other. Her mons caressed my shaft, thighs holding me, and I shuddered deeply. I was going to have sex with this gorgeous girl!

As if we communicated telepathically, our kiss ended. I looked at her. She smiled softly, a small curl of her lips, eyes full of love, now slightly shy. I kissed her softly, lips brushing together, her breath fresh and warm, and eased my erection back, the tip slipping over her mons and down along her cleft. I was so hard I needed no hands, the tip gently pressing against her pussy.

Amelia watched me, serious, eyes probing. What was she thinking? As if hearing me, her hands caressed my sides, moving to my waist. She pulled lightly. The tip of my erection pressed to her cleft. I pulsed, my erection harder than I could ever remember. Excitement thrummed through my body, muscles tight and trembling.

I kissed her cheek, kissed her chin, smiled at her, and rubbed my nose against the tip of hers. A beautiful smile blossomed on her face. "Eskimo kisses," she whispered, pressing her pussy at me.

We kissed again, lips brushing lightly. Pressing my erection at her, she responded, pressing her pussy at me. Our kiss deepened; little nibbles of her lower lip, a gentle suck. Amelia reached up and wrapped her arms around my neck. Gray eyes twinkled and, tilting her head to the side, her enchanting eyes closed, her tongue touched my lips, she opened her mouth. A fog of desire hit me, so strong I inadvertently thrust.

Soft labia hugged my crown. Amelia moaned into my mouth, her tongue caressing, sensual, exciting; too exciting. I thrust again, an automatic body response to my intense arousal and the kiss broke suddenly, Amelia inhaling, a sharp hissing sound of pain, a frown emerging on her face. I froze. Her pain was a bucket of ice water on my arousal.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I told you, you're too young."

Her frown intensified. "I am not!" she asserted, and shoved her pussy at me. She winced, and, unbelievably, I penetrated her!

She was so tight, almost excruciating, a warm, moist vise on my crown. My cock throbbed with excitement, but I'd hurt her again. I tried to ease back, lessen the pressure on my crown and ease her pain. Amelia wrapped her legs around my thighs, trapping me. She looked into my eyes and, slowly, very, very slowly, pressed herself at me.

The sensation was exquisite. With small motions, Amelia took me in, her tight pussy slipping down my shaft. I penetrated her deeper and deeper. It felt never-ending, a slow, intense experience, so damned erotic. I joined her, moving minutely, and slowly, eventually, I was buried inside her slender body, completely buried, held tight in a wonderful velvet grip. My erection flexed making her even tighter.

We both paused, looking at each other. "Does it hurt?" I asked.

Amelia nodded.

"Too much?"

"No. Just wait, please."

I did. I reveled in the feeling of penetrating Amelia. It was so sexy, so arousing, and felt so damned good I didn't feel the desire to move; just stay like this, erection rigid and thick, gripped painfully tight, her pussy a warm, soft embrace. I could feel my tip nudging against her end. I could feel my crown swelling with each pulse of pleasure; like warm, exciting waves washing through me. Amelia felt slender, almost delicate underneath me, and it excited me even more; her youth somehow adding to the thrill of first-time intercourse.

I kissed her gently. "You feel incredible," I murmured. "So tight, so beautiful."

I kissed her again. "I love being like this, just this; us joined together. I don't need anything more."

Amelia smiled softly. I felt her; her pussy gently tightening even more as she explored the new sensation of being full. It felt utterly fantastic. My cock swelled in response and Amelia's smile broadened.

"I felt that," she observed.

"Does it still hurt?"

"No. But, you feel ten times bigger like this. I'm stuffed."

"You're so tight," I murmured.

"Is that good? Do you like it?" she asked.

"God, yes!"

"Kay," she whispered, pleased.

A flush of love overwhelmed me. She'd given me her most precious treasure - her love. She'd chosen me as her first. She'd graced my life with joy. I loved her so much it hurt.

I smiled and whispered in her ear, "I love you so much, Amelia."

She pulled my head up, studied my eyes, smiled with satisfaction, moved my face close and rubbed her nose against mine. Her enchanting eyes twinkled and she kissed me, her arms circling my neck in a sexy, sensual move beyond her years.

As we kissed, I started rubbing my pubic bone against her clit, gently. The feeling was astonishing, my crown stimulated deep inside her. She moved, rubbing her pussy against me. With soft kisses, we moved together, just rubbing against each other, my cock straining, stiff, thick, the crown massaged.

Amelia broke the kiss and whispered, "This feels really good. I like having you inside me." Her eyes lost focus. "I don't hurt anymore."

I was relieved, but didn't feel the urge to stroke into her. I loved this; rubbing against each other sensually, my tip caressed, her pussy such an exquisitely tight grip. It was soft and sexy loving unlike anything I'd experienced before, and I wanted it to last all night. It was perfect for me.

With her legs trapping me, her arms hugging my neck, her smoky gray eyes watching me, we moved slowly, no rush, my erection thick and rigid, feeling so good. And then, I saw her eyes. They narrowed slightly, darkened, her brow creasing in a cute frown. Nostrils flared as she breathed harder, our groins grinding gently.

Amelia's eyes regained focus. She looked into mine and said in a whisper, "Mike." Her body tensed, legs pulling. She shook, eyes closing. With a cute grunt, Amelia climaxed, her pussy clenching me, relaxing, clenching, milking me.

I fell into my orgasm, erection swelling, crown straining. A wave of pain arrived and pressure released, semen pulsing up my shaft to erupt deep into her, a wave of pleasure, unlike I'd ever felt before, rushing in. Amelia's pussy clenched again and I exploded, hot, thick cum flooding her in an intense pulse, bliss making me dizzy, body shaking. I felt my orgasm in every beautiful sensation, cock straining, swelling, throbbing, cum spurting, ecstasy, ecstasy. I watched Amelia climax under me, her body trembling, arms hugging my neck hard, her cute face almost frowning, and emptied myself into her, cum spurting, sweet ecstasy wracking my body. My orgasm peaked gently, pulses slowing, weakening, passing. I was drained completely, warm pleasure flooding my body with endorphins, and my cock was still thick, still gripped hard by Amelia's pussy. Through it, I felt her waves of pleasure slow, small clenches weakening. She stilled.

I hadn't stroked into her once. Not once. And yet, it was probably the best orgasm I'd ever experienced! It was sharp in my mind, every detail from start to end, beautiful, perfect.

Amelia opened her eyes, her face relaxed. She smiled. "I think I'm going to like sex a lot," she said. "That was amazing." She squeezed my cock with her pussy. "You're still big. How come?"

"I don't know." With a soft kiss, I added, "But this feels so good I want to stay inside you. Am I too heavy?"

Amelia shook her head and pulled my full weight on to her. I nuzzled her neck and inhaled her wonderful scent, loving how delicate she felt under me.

Minutes passed. Eventually I withdrew from her, my cock still thick, her tight, tight pussy reluctant to release me.

I settled to my side. Amelia rolled and cuddled. I pulled the sheet up over us and hugged her, so slender, so beautiful.

Drained, relaxed, sleep drifted in. I heard her whisper, "I love you, Mike," just as I succumbed.

Chapter Eighteen

Amelia, pulling away from me, woke me. Morning sun was bright. Never a long sleeper, this time I'd slept longer than usual. I tried to hold onto her. She tugged her arm out of my hand.

"Let go, Mike."

Opening my eyes, I asked, "What's wrong?"

Amelia blushed. "I leaked all over the sheet. It's a mess."

I grinned. How cute. "Would you like to take a shower together?"

Amelia grinned. "Kay." Then she frowned. "But no funny stuff! I'm sore."

My heart ached. I loved her so much.

Five minutes later I had her giggling.

"Leave my girls alone!" she exclaimed with a giggle, shoving my soapy hands away from her pert breasts. She covered them with her arms and frowned. "I said no funny stuff, Mike!"

I adored teasing her. Rufus barked at me. Amelia had a guard dog now. "Your girls?" I asked with a laugh.

"What's so funny? Don't you have a name for your penis?"

"No."

"I'll figure one out for you. Pass the soap, please."

Over breakfast, I mentioned, "Did I tell you the Ellen show called Peter asking if you'd be a guest?"

"Really? Why?" she asked, stuffing her face with scrambled eggs.

Smiling at her innocence, I told her, "Because of your song."

"Oh." A moment later, she said, "I don't think I want to be on television. I'd be too nervous."

"I think you should do it."

"Why?"

"So you'll know what fame is like. You'll know if that's what you want."

"No thanks."

"So, how sore are you?" I asked.

Amelia laughed, clearly pleased with my desire for her. "Very."

Early evening, before dinner, we sprawled on the couch in front of the TV. Amelia stretched out her legs on the coffee table as we watched her selection; the usual run of sitcoms. Slightly slouched, and partially leaning against me, I caressed her shoulder and, feeling randy, slipped my hand down to cup her gorgeous breast over her cotton top. Nice. No bra. Amelia didn't object. She placed her hand on the back of mine, her other on my thigh, and continued watching television.

I was quite happy. A delectable breast in one hand, a glass of India Pale Ale in the other, and a beautiful girl next to me - my new and exciting lover, I felt very fortunate. When Amelia stroked my thigh, I felt even better. But, as her hand edged higher, I started caressing her lovely breast, enjoying how petite it was, how supple yet firm. When her hand settled on my groin, her attention still on a sitcom, an erection slowly formed, my jeans tightening. Her hand explored.

She glanced up at me, eyes full of amusement. "You're horny." She paused. "Is it all right to say horny?"

"It's a good word for my condition," I assured. "I've been horny since I woke up this morning," I informed her. "You, on the other hand, woke up sore, for some reason."

Amelia blushed slightly as she smiled. "Sorry."

"Don't be. I think I was the one responsible. As long as I can play with one of your ‘girls' I'll be happy."

She let out a quick laugh. Her face became thoughtful. Another light flush emerged; not a full blush, just rosiness on her cheek bones, a sign she had something intimate on her mind. "Do you ever play with yourself?"

Intrigued where she was going, I answered truthfully. "Yes, but not so much in the past few weeks. Do you?"

She turned back to the television. "Sometimes. Do you think . . . I wondered . . . Um."

When she didn't continue, I asked, "Wondered what?" A moment later, I asked again, "Wondered what, Amelia?"

"It's embarrassing."

"Not between us, it isn't. It can't be."

She glanced at me and looked away. "Would you let me watch, sometime?"

"Yes."

She turned her head quickly and stared. "Really?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"Wouldn't you be embarrassed?" she asked, surprised.

"Why would I be embarrassed doing something that's natural?"

"But, in front of me?"

I grinned at her. "Amelia, if you want to see me do it, you'll have to show me how you play with yourself, too." I added, "Why are you blushing? We've had sex together."

"I know. But it's different."

"It's not. Sexy play, no matter what kind of play, when it's with someone you love, can be very arousing. Let me ask you this. Do you feel embarrassed being naked with me?"

"No."

"Would you feel embarrassed being naked with, say, a random boy at school?"

After some thought, Amelia answered. "I think I understand." She pondered it a while longer. "Okay. Let's do it together sometime." Glancing up at me, she groped the lump in my jeans. "Are you really horny?"

"Are you really sore?"

"Yeah. But maybe . . ." Her hand moved. She rubbed me before reaching for the button. A slight struggle and it popped open. She lowered the zip and slipped her hand inside my boxers, finding and holding my erection. She squeezed, testing my state, and wrestled it out. Letting it go, she pulled my Polo shirt up exposing my stomach. What was she doing?

Shuffling to lay along the couch, she settled her cheek on my stomach. Watching television, she took my erection and stroked it. Then moist lips touched the tip. Lordy, Lordy! A warm mouth encompassed my crown. She stopped moving, then sucked gently, and stopped moving again. Her mouth popped off.

"That's hilarious," she announced with a laugh, pointing at the television.

Her mouth descended again, moist, exciting. She caressed me with her tongue and paused again. I waited. She sucked and stuck the tip of her tongue in my peehole, exploring. My erection throbbed. Her hand squeezed my shaft in acknowledgement and let it go, fishing down into my jeans to cup my balls. Damn!

I caressed her silky hair, hoping she'd get the message to move, do something, to stop teasing me. She didn't. She lay with her cheek on my bare midriff, the tip of my rigid erection in her moist mouth, and watched television. Eventually, it was too much for me, too erotic, too exciting. I thrust slightly into her mouth. As if she'd forgotten, she sucked and caressed with her tongue, her hand still holding my balls. I thrust slightly, sinking deeper into her mouth. Damn it felt good.

Her mouth popped off me. "Tell me before you cum," she instructed, almost conversationally, and then she settled her mouth over me.

I tried to wait for her to move. It was exquisite torture. Something about sitting in the den watching TV, with my erection in Amelia's mouth, was outrageously exciting. The fact that she seemed preoccupied with the television only added to the eroticism of the moment. I tried to wait but couldn't. With careful hunches, I started fucking her mouth. She sucked every so often, used her tongue to caress me every so often, or just let me move. Then her mouth popped off again. I groaned silently.

"Two Broke Girls is next," she said casually.

Without hands, she moved her mouth, capturing my now bobbing erection, lips slipping over the ridge, mouth warm and moist. She gave me a little suck, then stopped again.

I couldn't take it. Caressing her silky hair, I started moving, just a gentle thrust, rubbing the head inside her mouth. My body trembled from the pleasure, erection straining, hard, thick. I found it powerfully erotic, unlike anything I'd experienced before. Her hands caressed my balls. She sucked gently, her tongue now teasing me with a caress. Trembling with arousal, I fucked her mouth gently, excitement building. My erection pulsed and throbbed, ached to the point where I thought it might burst. Still she sucked and teased. Sitting up, I saw my thick cock sliding into her mouth. Her cheek on my bare stomach felt warm. Her lips stretched around my shaft. With mounting excitement, I watched as each gentle thrust pressed more of my erection into her, then withdrew, shiny with saliva.

A wave of pleasure hit. Leaning back, holding her head, I fucked her mouth slowly, just the crown, my cock aching, straining. It was so damned erotic! A familiar sensation emerged; balls tightening, erection straining, pressure building.

"I'm cumming," I whispered.

Expecting Amelia to pull me out of her mouth, she surprised me by sucking harder and moving her head, taking me slightly deeper. Her hand left my balls. She gripped my shaft and stroked. It took me over the top. With a deep groan, my erection swelled. Semen pulsed up my shaft and I came in her mouth. Amelia backed off and sealed her lips around my tip as another powerful burst of pleasure hit, semen spurting hard against her tongue. Another wave slammed into me, erection swelling, and a huge spurt erupted, cum jetting into her, dizziness hitting me. Amelia stroked me as I came, pulsing cum into her mouth again and again, bliss flooding my body. My orgasm peaked and released me. Pulses weakened and slowed and stopped. My heart was racing. I was panting and still in shock at Amelia's actions.

She eased her mouth off my softening erection and kissed the tip. Sitting up, she smiled. I expected her to spit my semen out. She didn't.

"That was interesting," she announced. "Gotta brush my teeth."

She'd swallowed my cum!

With her gone, I rose and found paper towel to clean myself. I was redressed by the time she returned. Amelia smiled and settled next to me.

"Bet you're not horny anymore," she observed with a light giggle.

Tilting her face up, her beautiful eyes twinkling with delight, I kissed her. "That was incredible," I told her. "Why did you do it?"

Amelia snuggled against me, her legs curled to the side. "I wanted to try it. Last time you didn't let me finish. Did you really like it?"

"I loved it," I assured her.

"Then we'll do it again sometime." Her attention turned to the sitcom. "I missed the first part. Can you rewind it?" she asked.

"Huh?"

"Never mind." She grabbed the remote and rewound the live show.

How did she do that? Since when could we rewind live TV?

That night, in bed, Amelia cuddled next to me. Aside from a few light, affectionate kisses, we did nothing. It gave me pause when I understood that I enjoyed her just as much when cuddling as I did when we'd have some sexy fun. It was, I thought, an indication of how deeply I loved her. Before, on those rare occasions when I'd have a female partner stay over, my mind had been single-mindedly occupied with sex. With Amelia, I was happy, utterly happy.

Sleep danced towards me, sultry promises of sweet dreams, enhanced by Amelia's scent of orange blossoms.

"I love you, Mike," she whispered from my side.

"You don't have to tell me, Amelia. I know you do."

"I have to tell you every night," she insisted with feeling.

That woke me up. "Why?"

She was silent.

"Tell me why, Amelia?"

In a small, almost childish voice, she said, "In case you die, you'll know how much I love you."

"There's more, isn't there? Tell me why?"

"I didn't get to tell Mom and Dad how much I loved them."

"I'm sure they knew."

In a small voice, so quiet I strained to hear, Amelia said, "They went to the theater. They wouldn't take me because it was a late show. Instead they got me a babysitter." Amelia looked up at me. Tears welled in her eyes. "I told them I hated them. It was the last thing they ever heard me say." Tears flooded her eyes, drops rolling down her cheeks. "I told them I hated them, Mike! That's the last thing they'd remember me saying!"

Amelia burst into sobs. She curled up like a small child. I held her and let her cry. She'd carried a heavy guilt for a long time. It was time for her to release it. I ached for her, and whispered, "They heard your song, honey. They know. They know the truth."

Amelia cried, deep, agonizing sobs that hurt me.

Chapter Nineteen

Two weeks later, I stood in Warner Bros.' studio set one, stage right. Amelia looked up at me, so worried. "I want to go home, Mike."

"You'll be fine."

"I think I'm going to be sick."

Hugging her slender shoulder, I told her, "It's normal to feel that way. Everything will change the moment you step out there. Just be yourself. I'll be here."

Smoky, beautiful eyes studied me, insecure, nervous.

"When they see you, they'll love you. It's impossible not to."

". . . so let's welcome our next guest. She's stormed the Internet with her song, and just thirteen years old. Please welcome Amelia Destiny," Ellen said.

A stagehand motioned to Amelia. With a forlorn look at me, she walked onto the set. Applause welcomed her.

I was so damned nervous for her my palms were damp.

Amelia looked hesitant. But Ellen, in her inimitable way, soon had Amelia smiling. When I heard her bright laughter, I relaxed. She was a natural.

Amelia, in her lemon yellow Capri pants, blue top, and yellow toenails in sandals, her hair dark brown with dark streaks, roughly shorn into feathers, and frameless glasses, reminded me of the first time I set eyes on her; just as cute, just as magnetic, but now taller, a budding young lady.

". . . and after the break, Amelia is going to perform for us; A Song To My Parents. We'll be right back."

I watched Ellen make Amelia feel at ease, smiling, laughing. Amelia glanced over to me and smiled.

"She's a natural," Peter said, leaning in from behind.

"Yeah."

Three minutes later, Amelia was sitting at a grand piano. The audience was quiet. She waited a long time before moving. Worry wormed through my gut. Then I saw her touch the keys in a familiar caress. Her eyes closed. Dark notes started in a familiar sound. Then Amelia started singing. The hair on my neck stood up.

She left a lump in my throat when she finished. I noticed her raise her glasses to wipe her eyes. The audience was deathly silent.

When Amelia opened her eyes and looked up, the audience went wild, standing, clapping loudly. The ovation rolled over me. I noticed several women wiping their eyes, too.

A future star had just made her debut. I wasn't sure how I felt about it.

Peter left to walk back to our production office, a short walk across the Warner lot. I greeted Amelia with a hug when her segment finished. I could feel her vibrating with pent-up excitement now that she'd finished.

In the car, she fidgeted on the passenger seat.

"They loved you," I told her with a smile.

"Do you really think so?" she asked, eyes shiny bright.

"I know so. How did you like it?"

Amelia thought about it. "I was so scared at first, but Ellen was really nice. I just concentrated on her and it was easier. One of the E-flat keys was a bit off. Did you hear it? I think it ruined the song."

I hadn't noticed. Then again, a piano tuner might not, either. Amelia had a sharp and sensitive ear for music. "I didn't notice and no one in the audience noticed."

She buzzed away, repeating every minute of her appearance, the good, the bad, and the ugly. At home, Rufus greeted us as long lost parents, going crazy with excitement until Amelia took him out to the back garden to play.

But, like a sugar high, when Amelia climbed into bed with me, she managed to cuddle, and whisper, "I love you, Mike," and passed out, her emotional exhaustion getting the better of her.

I, on the other hand, was wide awake. I wasn't sure how I felt. I was happy for Amelia, really happy. She had a talent the world deserved to see. But, I worried how her success would affect our relationship. I didn't doubt she loved me, but love wasn't permanent, especially with the young. These days people, especially in Hollywood, fall in and out of love with astonishing speed and for the slightest reason. Would she find someone else?

A small, warm, frisky hand woke me up. Morning light was just warming the sky. I opened my eyes.

"Good. You're awake," Amelia said, smiling. Her hand played with my penis and an erection slowly formed. She grinned. "You're horny. Me, too."

Clearly, she was still energized from yesterday. She rose onto her side, brought her face close, smiled, and rubbed the tip of her nose against mine. "Eskimo kisses," she informed me.

A rush of adoration hit me. I grabbed her. Amelia squealed and wriggled away, laughing as she made for the edge of the bed. I caught her foot and yanked her back, Amelia now laughing hard. We wrestled and in the confusion, I tried to pull off her cotton pajama top. Amelia immediately crossed her arms protectively, eyes bright with amusement. Taking the opportunity, I wrestled her pajama bottoms off exposing plain white cotton panties.

Amelia laughed harder when I went for her panties, grabbing the waist.

"I thought you're horny," I informed her, wrestling with her panties, my erection now complete.

"I am!" she exclaimed.

"So stop fighting! I'm gonna have you one way or the other."

Amelia roared with laughter. Her eyes twinkled. Suddenly she let the waist of her panties go. I ripped them down her legs and tossed them aside.

Her change was sudden. Laughter died. She smiled coyly and slowly unbuttoned her pajama top. Pulling it open, her delicate breasts were exposed, gorgeous little things. She lay quietly letting me study her naked body. It still thrilled me so, slender and young, contrasting with her emerging adolescence. I couldn't picture a sexier sight. When she shucked the top, I moved in. Her arms welcomed me.

"You drive me crazy, Amelia Destiny," I murmured, pulling her against me, finding her ear lobe and nibbling, her sleepy scent and a hint of orange blossoms settling over me.

"Kay," she whispered. "I'm glad."

Rolling on top of her, I trapped her legs together between mine, my erection pressed between us over her mons. Amelia smiled. I kissed her smile, lips brushing, breathing each other's breath. Her arms reached up to circle my neck. A twinkle emerged in her enchanting eyes. She pulled me into a kiss, tongue touching my lips. Then she opened her mouth and a familiar fog of desire rolled in.

The kiss was sensual, sexy, erotic. She moved slightly underneath me. I responded. Slowly we rubbed against each other. Excited and horny, I edged down just enough for the tip of my erection to press against her pussy. I throbbed and teased her with tiny thrusts.

The sudden release of precum caught us both by surprise. The kiss broke when Amelia inhaled sharply, the tip of my erection slipping down along her cleft between tightly closed legs, scraping across her clitoris.

She stared into my eyes as we moved in a sensuous, exciting, intimate dance, my crown caressing her cleft, slipping between her thighs, withdrawing. Desire intensified; my need building. I wanted Amelia. I needed her. It felt as though I wanted to own her, mine, only mine. We became very slippery, my erection weeping precum.

I didn't want to cum like this. I wanted to fill Amelia, thrust into her, take her. With a knee, I eased one of her legs aside. Amelia moved her other and I settled between them, the tip of my erection kissing her pussy. She brought her knees up, cradling my hips, and smiled knowingly, recognizing my desire and enjoying it. Pressing forward, I was rewarded with the feel of soft labia parting, hugging my tip. I shuddered. Poised to penetrate her, such a beautiful, slender girl, thrilled me. I wanted to see.

Rising, Amelia's eyes opened wide. When she understood what I was doing, her hands reached down to cover her pussy. It was such a shock, given everything we'd done. Seeing her shyness was cute beyond compare.

"I want to see us," I told her.

She thought about it for a moment, relaxed, smiled shyly, and slowly removed her protective hands.

I looked down. My God it was a beautiful sight. Her thin, soft, wavy pubes couldn't hide how her labia bulged round my crown, my erection as thick as her pussy. Her clitoris pressed against my crown as if kissing me, welcoming me. My shaft pulsed, rigid, poised to slip into her small pussy. It was a hugely erotic sight, and knowing she could take me made it evermore arousing.

"You should see how sexy this is," I suggested.

Amelia struggled up onto her elbows. Her body shifted down with the move and my tip penetrated her. She peered down at where we were joined. "You look too big for me," she observed. "No wonder it hurts a bit when you go in."

I pressed. Her labia stretched. My crown oozed into her, gripped tightly, warmth surrounding it. My heart rate spiked. Amelia lay back. She hooked her legs over my thighs as I knelt and used them to leverage herself, pulling at me. An inch slipped into her, her pussy stretched and snug. Need pounded at me threatening to take control, the sight too much for me to handle.

Leaning up and over her, I glanced down between us one last time; her plump mons with its cute little pubic bush, a thick shaft disappearing below. My erection swelled and pulsed hard. Slowly, carefully, I lay on Amelia, her arms welcoming me, a smile emerging.

Despite her tightness, it was effortless. A few small moves and I slipped into her, penetrating her completely, filling her, a warm silken glove holding me so tightly.

Amelia sighed. "That's better." She clenched her pussy, a wave of pleasure hitting me. "I like it when you're inside me," Amelia whispered. "It feels so good."

We moved. I pulled out, a long, slow withdrawal. Just as I breached, I pressed back in, sinking deep, all the way. Amelia sighed with pleasure. My heart raced. Reaching down, I cupped her buttock and withdrew again, reversing just as my crown emerged, thrusting in again, sinking deep until our pubic bones met, and the tip of my cock touched her end. My erection throbbed, feeling thicker, harder, her pussy tighter. Amelia sighed again, expressing such pleasure, as if I belonged inside her. I did. I was sure of it.

Withdrawing again, I thrust into her slightly faster, a wave of pleasure washing over me. I did it again, faster, excitement making my blood thrum, Holding her beautiful bottom, I withdrew and thrust again, harder, faster. Our rhythm increased. I started fucking Amelia, full withdrawals, exquisite thrusts, penetrating her slender body completely, cock aching. I fucked her harder, pulling her bottom up at me. Amelia grunted with each thrust. Moist slapping sounds filled the air. Amelia grunted, her body shoved up on the sheet with each firm thrust, her arms wrapped around me hanging on. Passion built. I wanted to own her. Fucking her harder, thrusting harder, my pace increased, heart racing, cock thick and straining, so close to Nirvana. Amelia grunted and clutched at me. Her pussy clamped down hard, hard. Her body heaved. She cried out, "Mike!" and tumbled into a climax, body shaking. I let myself go and fucked her hard, cock swelling, ache arriving and, in a massive explosion of bliss, I came, hot semen erupting into Amelia's heaving body. Gripping her bottom, I thrust and came, each explosion of cum bringing an explosion of ecstasy. I throbbed, swelled and erupted, cum flooding her. Amelia hung on, body heaving, and still I thrust, cumming hard. An ache emerged in my groin. Fucking her now slippery pussy, I pulsed and came until nothing was left but dry heaves. Suddenly it passed, my orgasm releasing me, pain abating. I slowed and came to a stop, utterly exhausted, drained, sated.

Weak, I let all my weight down on her, my body limp.

Amelia melted, her knees falling to the side. Eventually she opened her eyes and smiled. "What happened?" she asked.

"I lost it. Did I hurt you?" I asked, now worried at my rough selfishness.

Her eyes lost focus, her pussy gently squeezing me, and then focused on me. "I'm sore."

I'd been too rough. "I'm sorry," I said, combing my fingers through her damp hair.

She smiled. "I mean, I'm good sore, not bad sore." She studied my face, her finger touching my lips and tracing them. "You didn't hurt me, Mike."

Three hours later, I puttered around in the kitchen, emptying the dishwasher, putting away clean pots and pans, while Amelia jotted on a music sheet at one end of the dining table. I kept checking her. I wasn't sure she'd told me the truth about being sore. I wouldn't put it past her to lie to save my feelings. She seemed her usual self. But I had to know.

"Are you sure I didn't hurt you?" I asked.

She glanced up from the music sheet. "Will you stop it? That's the third time you've asked! I'm FINE!"

Before I could respond, a phone warbled an unfamiliar sound.

Amelia looked at me. "Aren't you going to answer it?" She grinned at me. "It's your cell phone," she added, her pencil jabbing towards the other end of the dining table.

"Oh." Grabbing it, I answered. "Hello?"

"Mike," an excited assistant said, "Amelia's viral!"

I looked at Amelia. "She looks healthy to me."

Silence. Peter sighed deeply. "You're a lost cause, Mike. Amelia's appearance on the Ellen show has gone viral!"

"That's great!"

"You have no idea what that means, do you?" Peter said.

"Lots of people saw her?" I suggested.

"Forget it. Let me speak to Amelia. She'll understand."

"It's Peter," I said to Amelia, extending the Smartphone. "He wants to talk to you about a virus."

I wasn't that stupid. I knew exactly what going viral meant - given its importance to the movie industry - and understood the potential impact on Amelia. Sometimes, I enjoyed frustrating Peter. It made his day worse and mine brighter.

"Hi!" Amelia said into the cell. "You're kidding! Uh-huh. Really? Wow!" She glanced at me, eyes bright, and smiled. "No way! I dunno. I'll talk to him. Okay. Yeah, me too. Bye."

She handed me the cell. I dropped it back onto the dining table. "So what did he have to say?"

"Not much."

I glanced at her sharply.

She laughed. "I've been invited to appear on The Tonight Show and Good Morning America! And, Peter got a call about a music contract! Can you believe it?"

I could. "Yes. And the answer is no."

Her smile vanished. She looked like a kid who'd just had her candy confiscated.

"What do you mean, no?"

"It's too much, too soon, Amelia. If they're there now, they'll be there in a few years time. I don't want you to do any of it yet."

Her eyes darkened. A frown emerged. "What if I want to?"

I sighed deeply. We'd arrived. The high of her first brush with fame was now embedded in her, like the claws of an evil sprite, touching her emotions, feeding her ego; an addictive, blinding feeling designed to bypass rational thought.

"I'm your guardian. I have the final say in what happens. And . . . I say no, honey."

Amelia's eyes narrowed in anger unlike I'd ever seen. They darkened and flashed, thunder and lightning. She was magnificent, yet it scared me.

She yelled at me, "I ha . . ." and froze. A look of horror flashed across her face. "Oh my God! Oh my God!" Confusing me, she covered her face and burst into tears.

Shocked, I raced over and wrapped her in my arms. She shook, sobbing. "What's wrong?" I asked, as she buried her face against my chest.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry," she sobbed.

I didn't understand what had happened. Holding her tighter, I let her cry. When she calmed, I asked, "What are you sorry for?"

Amelia looked up at me with reddened eyes. "I almost said I hate you," she said, then choked on another sob, pressing her face to my chest. A muffled "I'm sorry, Mike," came out.

Leaning back, I tilted her face up to me. "Amelia, I'm a grown boy. I can take it. Trust me."

"You don't understand. I can't say it. It might be the last thing you hear me say."

Mentally kicking myself in the head, I hugged her tighter. "Okay. I understand. Now, tell me you love me and that will be the last thing I hear."

Amelia smiled slightly. "I love you, Mike."

"Better?"

"Uh-huh." Her smile disappeared. A frown emerged. "Why can't I go on the shows? And why can't I have a recording contract?"

We argued for the first time. But, eventually we found a middle ground. I explained how a recording contract, like making a movie, was a full time occupation. She'd have to write songs, write music, and somehow manage her schooling and music classes and Rufus' advanced obedience classes all at the same time. I reminded her of her poor grades and a promise to improve them.

She reluctantly admitted I had a point, but argued for being allowed to appear on the TV shows. I relented. Amelia smiled broadly at her success in swaying me, gave me a sweet kiss, and ordered Rufus out into the garden to practice heeling.

Chapter Twenty

It was a mistake agreeing to more television appearances.

Amelia's appearance on The Tonight Show heightened the attention of the media. We then flew to New York for her appearance on Good Morning America and stayed two nights; Thursday evening, Friday for the show, and flew back Saturday.

Amelia was a complete natural. She was bright and magnetic and lovable; everything I always knew. The audience loved her.

On Friday, after the show, I took her sightseeing.

New York, unlike the pretentiousness of Los Angeles that gave it a veneer of artificiality, was vibrant, bustling with life, people actually walking on sidewalks, and the air full of aromas. It was real and raw, gritty. We visited Times Square, and dropped in at the Juilliard School of Music, ate pastrami sandwiches in Katz's Delicatessen on East Houston Street, and had a quick visit at the Natural History Museum; all in one day.

I was jetlagged and tired, my nervousness for Amelia having drained me physically. Amelia, on the other hand, seemed to have endless energy. She held my hand and stared in awe at the city around us, ate less than a third of her sandwich at lunch, and suggested we move to New York when she went to Juilliard; something she was convinced she'd do. She loved New York.

By seven, I was done. With an early flight back to L.A. the next morning, I decided we'd order room service for dinner. On the bright side, as I was rinsing the city grit off me in the shower, Amelia stepped into the stall.

She smiled and took the soap, moving around behind me to wash my back. The glimpse of her naked body had the expected effect; a slight thickening below. Her hands felt wonderful washing me. Even if it's innocent, being washed by another person is a sensual experience. I enjoyed her hands slipping over my back. I relaxed and let her wash my legs. However, when her hand glided up the inside of my leg to gently cup my balls, her washing became erotic, loving, sexy. She giggled when I clenched my buttocks as her hand probed between, then moved in close to hug me from behind. Her soapy hands reached around me to wash my chest, and lower, my stomach, and lower still. Her hands found my erection and slowly washed it, a gentle stroke that drove my arousal higher.

She knew exactly what she was doing, too. Her firm breasts pressed against my back. She fisted me. "You're big, Mike. How come?" If she hadn't giggled, I might have been fooled.

Turning, I grabbed her, grinning at her and now full of energy. Amelia laughed as I moved us under the streaming water. Her hair dampened and darkened. She smiled at me. Lifting her, she wrapped her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck. My erection throbbed between us. Leaning in, Amalia rubbed her nose against mine. "Eskimo kisses," she announced with another smile, then kissed me.

Soft, small lips touched mine. Her eyes twinkled before closing. She tilted her head, touched my lips with her tongue and, when I responded, moaned and opened her mouth to me. That fog of desire hit. We played with each other, then slowed and caressed each other's tongue. Amelia started rubbing my erection with her pussy. I held her succulent bottom and pressed her back against the tiled shower wall, reaching between us to grasp myself. Easing back, I guided the tip into her cleft. Amelia inhaled through her nose, her tongue probing into my mouth. Labia oozed apart, my tip burrowing in. I caught at the base of her slit, poised, and stopped. Amelia didn't want to wait. She pushed her pussy at me, eased off, and pushed again, this time taking me in, my crown oozing into a hot, velvet heaven. Slowly, very slowly, Amelia worked me deeper, her breath puffing from her nose against my cheek, our kiss slow and sensual. I felt every millimeter of her, her entrance edging down my shaft, heat encompassing me, a snug grip, heaven. When I pressed against her end, buried in her, she stopped. She ended the kiss and opened her eyes, staring at me, smoky gray, mesmerizing.

"I like this part," she said softly. "Having you inside me. Being stretched." And then she started singing!

"See me
Feel me
Touch me
Heal me

See me
Feel me
Touch me
Heal me"

It was surreal. Here I was with my erection buried inside her, in the shower, in the middle of New York City, and Amelia was singing The Who's song to me! She was communicating with music yet again!

I stopped her with a kiss, her eyes smiling at me. "Why do you do this to me?" I asked.

"Do what?"

"You kill me, Amelia." I kissed her again. "You kill me."

She smiled, pleased at the genuine angst in my voice. With a gentle squeeze of her pussy, she pulled me back into a kiss. We moved. Amelia was light in my hands, her rump sexy and firm. With water pouring over us, we started making love, kissing, slowly fucking each other, her hips undulating, my cock thrusting, her pussy so tight. Amelia broke the kiss and dropped her forehead to my shoulder.

"I like feeling you inside me," she murmured.

We fucked slowly, enjoying every sensation. I loved how her pussy tried to stop me withdrawing, almost like suction, then, reluctantly, let me return, yielding only to my urgency.

"I like feeling you going in," she murmured.

We fucked beautifully, long strokes, long withdrawals, my tip nudging her deepest part.

"I like feeling so full, Mike." Amelia kissed my neck, brought her mouth to my ear and whispered, "And I love you so much, Michael Hope."

I don't know why. I don't understand. She'd told me countless times she loved me, but this time, this time it was different. This time it meant more to me. So much more, I groaned and, unable to stop myself, I came, cock swelling, semen rushing up to spurt inside her with a firm thrust, eyes closed, her whispered words echoing through my mind, I came hard, cock swelling, semen spurting, gut clenching. I came again and again in a wonderful, satisfying climax, Amelia hanging on to me, her young body so sexy. As fading pulses of cum slowed, Amelia lifted her face from my neck and smiled.

"I felt you cum," she said.

"Did you cum?" I asked, pretty sure of her answer.

She shook her head. "I don't mind. This was nice, too."

Saturday, we arrived home, Peter bringing Rufus to us. Rufus went crazy seeing Amelia. While they ran and played in the garden, Peter and I sat on the patio and watched.

"She's a big hit and going to be bigger," Peter commented.

"I know."

"You don't sound happy about it," Peter observed, taking a sip of the ice cold lager I'd served us both, the glasses frosted with condensation. He wiped his foam mustache.

"I'm happy for her. I'm worried, too," I admitted.

Peter looked away from Amelia and Rufus as they practiced heeling; very impressively, too. He studied me. "She won't change because of all this publicity, Mike. She is who she is. You're the only one who can change her, so be careful."

I sighed. He was right. I'd just have to be careful how I reacted to her.

Sunday morning I knew, beyond any doubt, it had been a mistake to let her appear on television. I knew because, when looking out through the living room, in my boxers, while sipping a mug of coffee, I saw a gaggle of paparazzi at the end of the drive, cameras pointed, invading our privacy.

"Mike! There's someone looking over the fence!" Amelia yelled from the kitchen.

Shit! Was she dressed properly?

It was like being hunted by a pack of rabid hyenas, we, fresh corpses to fight over for tasty morsels. I hated the paparazzi, but didn't blame them. They were paid by the media, who chased ratings with scandal and gossip, pandering to the lowest common denominator, sacrificing quality programming to the altar of profits.

For three weeks, we were prisoners at home. A talented young singer and a moderately successful movie writer-producer was fodder for the gossip blogs. Scandal sites alluded to more than a guardian relationship between Amelia and me, hitting too close to home.

Shopping was a mad dash to outrun paparazzi. They invaded our privacy, peering over the back fence and going through our garbage; scavengers after dirt.

There was no stopping them, no legal recourse, no protection.

And then it got ugly.

Amelia started receiving emails professing endless love from fans. Letters followed, some disgusting in their contents, filthy and lewd suggestions, photos of naked bodies with erections; mad, all of them mad.

Threats followed, male fans now angered at her failure to respond, to accept their obnoxious proposals, and her failure to profess her love for them.

And then it got worse.

Amelia's life was threatened. Then mine - I was imprisoning her and preventing her from being with her true love. Police became involved and expressed sympathy, unable to trace the emails or letters. No action taken. "We're so sorry, Mr. Hope, but until something happens, there's little we can do."

And then it got really, really bad.

Rufus' deep growl woke me suddenly. The night was black, shadows of gray. The hackles on Rufus' neck rose and spread to his back. He snarled, teeth exposed; a frightening expression.

"What's wrong?" Amelia asked, sitting up, rubbing her eyes.

Rufus launched off the bed and out the bedroom door, turning left.

"Stay here!" I ordered Amelia, scrambling up.

Following Rufus into the hall, I heard a deep, vicious snarl followed by a yelp of pain. Fear hit. Moving fast, I followed the sound into Amelia's bedroom.

It was pitch black, the open window the only source of light. Movement caught my eye. Peering, I saw Rufus on the floor on his side, a spreading stain of inky black blood under him on the hardwood floor. Panic erupted.

Moving towards him, a body slammed into me, knocking the breath from my lungs. I sprawled onto Amelia's bed. A shadow dashed for the window. White hot fury - fueled by weeks of harassment - burst in me, a senseless, blinding, driving anger. That son of a bitch hurt Rufus!

Scrambling, I launched myself at his back just as he tried to leave through the open window, grabbing his shirt from behind.

He whirled. A flash of steel. Excruciating pain erupted in my chest. Falling back onto the floor, his shirt tore in my hand as he lunged away and through the window, disappearing.

My chest felt like it was on fire. Energy leeched from me. Crawling, I made my way over to Rufus. Blood was flowing from his side. A wave of dizziness overcame me. Breathing was hard and getting harder, my breath short. Collapsing next to Rufus, I pressed my hand to his wound to stem the bleeding.

"Don't worry, boy. You'll be all right," I whispered weakly. Clouds gathered at the edges of my vision.

"Mike!" Amelia screamed, dropping to my side, her hands shaking.

"Call Peter and 911," I whispered straining to breathe. Blackness took me away.

Chapter Twenty-One

Snippets of conversations filtered into my muddled mind: "He's going to recover, but it will take several weeks," "We've detained a suspect," and, making me struggle to wake up, "Please come back to me, Mike, please."

A pale, late afternoon sun, as soft as it was, stabbed into my brain when I opened my eyes. My chest hurt. Breathing was painful. At first, everything was out of focus. Then Amelia's face swam into sharpness. Smoky eyes behind frameless glasses looked at me, and she burst into tears.

My pain and discomfort were forgotten.

"Don't cry. Please don't cry," I begged. Amelia looked awful; hair, usually so soft and feathery, was limp. She was so pale.

Lifting her glasses, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, gave me a half-hearted smile, and reached for my hand. Her touch was delicate and hand ice cold.

Peter looked at me from behind her.

"What did you do to her?" I asked in a whisper.

Then all the memories flooded back. I inhaled sharply and winced at the pain. "Where's Rufus? Is he okay?"

Amelia nodded. She finally spoke. "He's at the vet recovering."

"What's wrong with you?" I whispered, still shocked at her appearance.

Amelia glared at me, eyes darkening. "You're what's wrong with me! You almost died!" Then tears welled in her beautiful eyes. "You almost left me behind, Mike."

"Never," I whispered, squeezing her slender hand. Fatigue washed in. I tried to fight it and failed, eyes closing, Amelia's hand providing comfort.

Darkness greeted me when I stirred again. Around me, busy sounds of a hospital - people talking, hurried footsteps, and muted conversations - filtered in through the closed door. Amelia was curled up in a chair at my bedside, asleep. She looked terrible and it hurt me. Breathing was slightly less painful, but I had no energy. I lay quietly watching her sleep. She was so beautiful, despite her bedraggled, unkempt appearance.

As if she could feel me watching her, she stirred and opened her eyes. Tears welled again. They hurt me so. "Don't cry," I said in a slightly stronger voice. "I'll never heal if you do."

Amelia smiled. She wiped her eyes and stood, coming to my side. "Why didn't you run?" she asked, reaching out to touch my face.

"I had to help Rufus."

"Kay. But, promise you'll never leave me."

Two days later a taxi dropped us off at home. Had I had the energy, I would have been infuriated at the gaggle of paparazzi milling at the end of our drive. Peter helped me into the house, Amelia clutching my free hand.

Settled on the couch in the den, still exhausted, with Amelia sitting tight to my side, holding my hand, Peter brought me up to speed.

"The intruder claimed he's a fan of Amelia's and was just trying to save her from the prison you were keeping her in. That scrap of T-shirt you tore from him linked him to the crime. He's in jail awaiting trial. Apparently, his IQ is just north of seventy-five; a real idiot."

"Why are the paparazzi still here?"

Peter looked at me as if I was as mentally challenged as the intruder.

"A famous movie writer is stabbed in a home invasion by a rabid fan of Amelia, an emerging star in music? And you don't think the public's curious? Maybe you've come home too soon, Mike."

Glancing at Amelia, I was pleased to see her looking better; shorn, feathery hair washed and back to dark brown with subtle darker shades streaking it, and her haunted look was gone. But she was gaunt. Already a slender girl with no excess weight, she looked almost frail. "You're looking better," I observed, a gentle fib.

She smiled. "You're home. I am better."

"When do we get Rufus?"

"Friday," Amelia answered. "He's fine now."

Peter broke in. "You're out of things for the next six to eight weeks. A punctured lung takes time to heal. I'll cover the office and slow down pre-production on the two movie projects. Just rest, Mike." Then, in an unusual emotion for him, he added, "I'm glad you're okay."

"Me, too," Amelia echoed.

For the next five days, I rested as much as I could. The pain in my chest slowly subsided, thanks to painkillers, no doubt. I was still short of breath but feeling better and better. Rufus exploded onto the scene when Peter and Amelia brought him home. He was rambunctious and excited and constantly licking my hand as if he knew I was still injured. And Amelia fussed over me like a mother hen. I refused her help, informing her I needed to move in order to heal. Amelia was not happy with me.

Yet, despite the appearance of normalcy, I grew increasingly concerned. Amelia had lost her joie de vivre. She smiled and played with Rufus, but the sparkle was gone. Even more disturbing was her complete refusal to practice singing or the piano. She cancelled her music classes, too. And what scared me most of all was how the fingers of her right hand had gone silent, not moving to the music in her head, as if she no longer heard it.

I interrogated her about it and all she said was, "I'm taking care of you. That's what's important to me."

I told her she didn't have to. I could look after myself. "Go practice." She didn't.

I suffered through some awful frozen meals that brought back memories of Clinton, Ohio. Mama Celeste was as tasty as Michelina's; flavored cardboard. The only bright spot was Peter bringing take out.

But.

Amelia stayed close to me. In bed, she tried to get so close, I thought she'd crawl inside me if it were possible. Every time I moved through the night, Amelia would wake up, check on me, and cuddle closer.

When Peter mentioned he'd received a couple more invitations for Amelia to appear on television, Amelia reacted, uttering an explosive, "NO!"

I tried to draw out what was bothering her, but she refused to talk about it, shutting me out.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Amelia showed a stubborn streak as wide as the Strait of Gibraltar. She refused to listen to my suggestions she practice piano or singing. Instead, she concentrated single-mindedly on training Rufus. He was a devoted pupil, growing in leaps and bounds. The connection those two had was amazing.

She showed her stubborn streak when, some three weeks into my recovery, I was feeling randy. Amelia brushed off my advances.

"You're not healthy enough," she claimed, very seriously.

I disagreed. If I could get an erection, I was healthy enough, in my mind. She dismissed my logical arguments. I might have found it amusing, but, day by day, my concerns were growing. The attack had obviously been much more traumatic to Amelia's psyche than to Rufus or me.

I consulted a psychologist. She recommended I stop bugging Amelia and let her heal in her own way. If she didn't improve in six months, I might then seek help for her. So I tried to stop bugging her.

We rolled into fall, a balmy, Californian fall. School resumed. I focused on movie projects and, pleasing me immensely, the media lost interest in us. Our drive was finally empty. We could grocery shop without being hassled.

When my birthday approached, I stopped waiting. I suggested to Amelia that all I wanted was for her to sing me a song. I was Machiavellian in my behavior, too. I complained about a lack of inspiration on my movie script. I complained about lacking the brightness and levity I needed to be creative. I even roped Peter into it, letting him comment to Amelia how unproductive I was because of my worry for her. It was all to no avail.

I wanted to hear Amelia laugh and giggle again. I wanted to see her running and playing with Rufus. I wanted the mischief back in her eyes. I wanted it so badly I ended up lying to her, something I'd never done.

Occasionally, it is the simplest things that crack the wall and make the difference in life.

It was a late Saturday evening, almost two months after the incident. We were watching television. Rufus was asleep. He'd played most of the day with Amelia, and trained with her as well. Now over seventy-five pounds, he was all muscle and love and completely dedicated to Amelia.

I settled my hand on Amelia's leg and rubbed her thigh over the fashionable "Pink" sweatpants she was wearing, a Californian concession to still-balmy fall temperatures.

"I'm not feeling well," I said casually.

Amelia's reaction was immediate, concern flooding her beautiful eyes. "What's wrong?"

With absolute seriousness, I told her, "I'm suffering from epididymal hypertension."

She looked at me. "What's epi . . . epidi . . . whatever that is hypertension?"

"Blue balls," I told her seriously.

"What's that?"

"It's when a guy gets so horny for so long his testicles hurt."

"That's a lie," she stated. "There's no such thing."

"There is," I assured her. "It's truly called 'epididymal hypertension'."

"I don't believe you."

"Hand me your iPhone."

"Where's your phone?" she asked.

"I lost it somewhere."

Amelia picked hers up from the couch next to her and handed it to me. I opened the browser and, after the third time trying to type on a miniscule keyboard, handed it back.

She studied the Wikipedia page. "Wow! It's true!"

"Uh-huh. And I'm suffering badly, honey."

Amelia glanced at me. It was a wondrous experience to see. She smiled! Then she giggled! My heart swelled and soared. With eyes as bright as they used to be, Amelia rose and settled astride my lap.

"So, you do need me," she said.

"Of course I need you."

"Not really. You haven't let me do anything since the attack."

I had a sudden revelation. All the times I'd told her no when she'd offered to help, had been taken the wrong way. I'd lived on my own for so long, I didn't think twice that Amelia might need to take care of me; that it might be validation of her importance in our relationship. Damn! I could be so stupid at times!

Then another revelation slammed into me; a blinding flash of clarity.

I knew. I knew why Amelia wasn't singing. She was doing the only thing in her power to protect me, the only thing she could - sacrificing her voice! She was sacrificing something that is part of her soul; that makes her who she is - the achingly beautiful girl I so loved!

And I knew why. If being famous had brought harm to our door, threatened me, she was fading away to keep me safe. How hard had it been to give up so much? And she'd done it for me! Tears actually welled in my eyes. The love she must have for me took my breath away.

"You're crying. Why?" she asked, wiping a tear under my eye with her finger.

"You did it to protect me, didn't you?"

"Do what?" she asked.

"Stopped singing."

Amelia studied my eyes intently, and nodded.

I touched her cheek. "I can't live without hearing your voice. It feeds my mind. It makes me happy. It makes me want to live, Amelia. I can't live without your voice. Please, sing, for me."

Smoky gray eyes stared into mine. She saw the truth and smiled slightly. In a soft, melodious voice, one I had missed like an addict his opiate, Amelia sang.

"Te regalo mi cintura
Y mis labios para cuando quieras besar
Te regalo mi locura
Y las pocas neuronas que quedan ya

Mis zapatos desteñidos
El diario en el que escribo
Te doy hasta mis suspiros
Pero no te vayas mas

Porque eres tu mi sol
La fe con que vivo
La potencia de mi voz
Los pies con que camino
Eres tu amor
Mis ganas de reir
El adios que no sabre decir
Porque nunca podre vivir sin ti"

How did she know Spanish? I didn't understand a word of the song, but the sentiment came through loud and clear. As if hearing me, she switched to English.

"If one day you decided
To get away from here again
I would close every door
So you would never be able to leave.

I'll give you my silences
I'll give you my nose
I'll even give you my bones
But stay here.

Because you are my sun
The faith that I live with,
The strength of my voice,
The feet that I walk with.

You are, love,
My will to laugh,
The goodbye that I won't be able to say
Because I'll never be able to live without you."

"My God, I missed you," I sighed, my hair standing on end, my eyes still prickling with moisture. "What song was that?"

"Shakira's Tú," Amelia murmured.

She leaned in close enough for us to exchange breaths, smiled softly, eyes twinkling, and rubbed her nose against mine. "Eskimo kisses," she whispered. Then, still astride my lap, Amelia kissed me.

Soft, warm lips touched mine. Peace settled over me, all my worries melting away. I reached up to hold her head, her hair silken. The subtle scent of orange blossoms wafted at me. Then her tongue touched my lips, a delicate taste. One of us moaned, or maybe both, and Amelia opened her mouth. I drowned.

Breaking the kiss, I looked at her. "Let's go to bed."

She smiled. "Kay."

She led. I groped her succulent butt in those sweats, 'Pink' emblazoned on the rear. Amelia giggled and moved away. I couldn't stop grinning.

Rufus jumped up and followed us, leaping onto the bed. I stopped Amelia before she reached the bed by reaching out and yanking her sweatpants down. Amelia laughed. I admired her panties; plain cotton and matching pink - pure Amelia.

She kicked the sweatpants off and slipped into bed, pulling the sheet over her. She watched as I undressed, smiling at me, eyes bright, expectant. When I joined her, she rolled towards me. We hugged.

Amelia shoved my shoulder, forcing me to roll onto my back. She rose and straddled my thighs. "You're not well," she said with a soft smile. "I'm going to take care of you."

"I feel fine," I told her.

"I thought you had blue balls."

Grinning, I answered, "I do. I really, really do."

Amelia laughed softly and touched my groin over my boxers. She smiled again when she felt my erection, rubbing it gently, suggestively.

"So this is what's hurting?" she asked, giving my shaft a slight squeeze, her hand sliding down to cup my balls.

I nodded.

Shuffling up, she settled on my erection, her pink cotton panties bulging where her lush pussy pressed down. She leaned over, studied my eyes, and kissed me. Soft lips touched mine. A tongue teased my lips sending a pulse of excitement through me. Then her mouth opened. God I loved her kisses.

We kissed, tongues caressing, and took turns sucking lower lips, my erection strengthening. She felt it, hunching her pussy gently along my shaft, stroking me, building my anticipation.

The kiss ended. She sat up and said, "I love kissing you."

Kneeling astride me, Amelia caressed my erection with her pussy, those sexy cotton panties stretching, then scrunching, a camel toe appearing and disappearing, her pubis plump and sexy, so ripe as it pooched out around my shaft.

Humping me slowly, she crossed her arms and drew her T-shirt up and off revealing her pert breasts, dark pink areolae and small nipples. I couldn't resist. Reaching up, I cupped each, perky perfection, supple yet youthfully firm. Amelia's eyes softened.

She rose slightly and tugged at the waist of my boxers. Lifting my hips, Amelia pulled them down. I kicked them off. She settled her panty-clad pussy on my shaft and caressed the tip with her hand.

"Hello, Aziz," she said.

"Who's Aziz?"

"That's the name I've picked for your penis."

"Aziz? Why?"

She smiled. "It means mighty, and strong, and illustrious." Her hand fondled me.

I laughed lightly. "Aziz it is."

Amelia slipped her hand under my erection, still stroking it with her pussy. I throbbed. Precum leaked making her palm slippery.

"I like it when you get slippery," she murmured. "It's proof I turn you on."

"You do, like no one else," I confirmed, another soft pulse of pleasure hitting me at her gentle caress.

Amelia smiled. Looking at me and pressing my shaft up against her pussy, she said, "I'm horny."

"Then you'd better take your panties off," I encouraged. "If you don't, they're liable to get messy in a minute." My erection swelled and strained.

She grinned. Moving off me, she tugged her soft cotton panties off. "Don't move."

Gloriously naked, she straddled me again. Her sparse, dark pubes were still thin enough to hide nothing, yet sexy as heck. I watched as she settled onto my shaft, thick labia bulging seductively, spreading slowly, and finally hugging my shaft, her clitoris kissing me. Damn it was sexy!

A bead of clear precum oozed out when she stroked her pussy up my shaft. My crown lifted from my stomach, connected by a string of precum, when she slid back. I reached for her delicate breasts and fondled; a soft squeeze, a tease of her areolae, and a light pinch of her small nipples. Amelia shuddered, her areolae stippled in arousal.

Rising up on her knees, she pressed the crown of my erection back, slipping it through her small cleft, labia bulging. She moved her body in a side-to-side motion seating my tip at her entrance. From my position, I saw the sight of my helmet hugged by her pussy and it thrilled me. I was so thick compared to her, so huge, so long. My erection flexed at the excitement I felt. It looked like an impossible fit, yet I knew she could take me. Thrilling!

Her hand reached down to hold my shaft, obscuring the view.

"I want to watch," I murmured, caressing her slender thighs.

Amelia smiled, removed her hand, and, with body movements only - side to side, up and down – worked my crown into her. A tight, very tight embrace squeezed me, so arousing. With just the crown penetrating her, the sight was even more arousing; a thick cock penetrating a still-young pussy. And then, Amelia, with gentle motions, slowly worked my erection into her, her labia edging down my shaft, warm, moist velvet surrounding me. I could picture my progress inside her, the depth into her slender body and it shook me with excitement. Slowly, ever so erotically, Amelia worked my cock into her, her labia gently coming to rest against my base. I was buried inside her, the tip of my cock pressing against the deepest part of her vagina.

I had to ask. "What does it feel like? How deep am I?"

Amelia looked down at herself. She pressed her lower stomach as if feeling me inside her, her fingers slowly rising. "Here. You're this deep."

I groaned. It was so damned arousing; me being so deep in her. My erection flexed hard.

"I felt that," she murmured. "I'm so full of you, Mike. It feels like nothing else. I don't know how to describe it. I just love having you inside me and stretching me." She squeezed my cock with her pussy.

I groaned with pleasure at her tightness. And, looking at her, I admitted to myself, I loved the sight of me having sex with such a beautiful girl. My girl.

Amelia placed her hands on my stomach and rose, my shaft emerging, glistening, her labia desperately trying to cling to me. Just as the ridge of my crown emerged, she reversed, settling slowly, an exquisite sensation, an exquisite sight, and I was buried in her again. She repeated the move, rising, settling, and shuddering slightly when her clit dipped to rub against my shaft. Holding herself upright, Amelia fucked me, eyes closed, breathing deeply, rising, slick erection emerging, settling, clit dipping, taking me deep, her body trembling. It was an amazing experience, deeply sexy, intensely erotic; to be fucked by her so sensually, her vagina so, so tight.

My cock swelled, ached, balls tightening. I thought we'd find Nirvana, but no. Amelia, rose, rose higher, the ridge of my crown emerging, and rose higher still, my cock slipping out and slapping against my stomach. Amelia opened her eyes and smiled.

"This feels so good," she whispered. "I wish we could do it all night."

Before I could answer, she swung her leg off me, smiled, and dropped forward to her hands and knees. "Can we try it from behind?"

Hell yes! I nodded, smiling, excited. Moving behind her, my erection waving in the air, jutting up at a forty-five degree angle, I admired her rear.

On hands and knees, her bottom gained a sexy, sensual shape, her body narrowing into a waist, curving out at her hips, her gorgeous buttocks rounded and erotic. But, the sight that had my blood racing, what her sexy pussy plumping out, framed by her thighs and cheeks, the thick labia now glistening with arousal, a tightly closed cleft, her clit peeking at me, sparse wavy curls dusting her slit.

I straddled her legs and thrilled again at the sight of my thick, adult erection poised at her barely pubescent pussy, my cock bobbing, blood racing. Moving close, the tip of my erection kissed her cleft, a wet kiss, the tip sliding up into the crease of her buttocks.

I grabbed my shaft and aimed. Soft labia bulged, at first refusing to yield. With exquisite slowness, they oozed apart to hug my crown. I pressed harder and groaned deeply when the entrance to her vagina stretched, stretched more, and the ridge of my crown disappeared inside her; a moist warm velvet sheath welcoming me. With her legs together, Amelia was even tighter, beautifully tight.

She trembled and groaned when I penetrated her. "Are you okay?" I asked.

"It hurt a little, but it's gone."

"You're so tight," I murmured, most of my shaft still exposed. I caressed her wonderful buttocks, caressed her hips, her waist, and up her sides. As I leaned over to reach around, as I gently cupped her breasts, my erection slipped into her, sliding easily, penetrating her deep enough her buttocks pressed to my groin.

"Gawd," she murmured, squeezing my cock.

I stopped moving. Each flex of my erection brought tightness, and a wave of pleasure. Teasing her breasts, I kissed her back, then slipped one hand underneath her, reaching down to between her legs, and found her clit. I rubbed it gently.

Amelia groaned again, and clenched me with her pussy. Caressing her clit, rising slightly, I let her contractions massage my cock, each bringing pleasure, enhancing my arousal; it felt so damned good!

It felt too good. I couldn't wait. Easing back, I slowly withdrew from her pussy, reversing and slowly penetrating her again, one stroke. My cock swelled. I did it again, a slow withdrawal, a slow thrust, and Amelia shuddered.

Pleasure built, bringing a fog of need. The slow strokes passed, my thrusts harder, faster. Fucking Amelia was fantastic. Rising up completely, I held her slender waist and fucked her faster, cock plunging into her, her labia desperately gripping me on each withdrawal. Amelia's body started jerking with each thrust. She dropped from her hands to her elbows. I fucked her faster, now chasing Nirvana, my orgasm awakening, cock thick, rigid, desperation emerging.

Amelia started thrusting back at me, her buttocks slapping against me. Holding her slender body, I guided her, tugging her back against my thrust, the tip of my erection hitting her end. She gasped. Her whole body shuddered. Her pussy contracted, and she climaxed, her elbows giving out. I held her bottom up, fucking her hard, pulling her against me, thrusting, thrusting, and, with a deep, deep shudder, my orgasm erupted.

A bolt of pleasure hit me. My cock swelled, ached, and as I thrust into her climaxing body, a massive pulse slammed into me, semen exploding, cum jetting into her pussy. Before I could inhale, before I could withdraw fully, another huge wave of ecstasy pummeled me. I thrust hard, hard, and exploded again, cum bursting in a wave of bliss. Amelia gasped and shuddered. She melted to the bed and I followed her, laying on her, humping her sexy bottom, my cock expanding, spurting, cum flooding her. I humped her ass, swelling and spurting, swelling and spurting until I had nothing left but dry pulses. My stomach cramped, toes curled, and finally, finally, my orgasm released me.

My full weight settled over Amelia's naked body. Underneath me, Amelia shuddered, the shudders slowing to tremors, the tremors passing into stillness. My heart was racing, yet permeating me was a wonderful feeling of release, of languidness, of peace and satisfaction.

Eventually, I rolled off her to the side.

Amelia didn't move. Gathering her, I rolled her, drawing her slender body against mine, spooning her. I could feel her heart beating and felt it slow.

Kissing her neck, I relaxed. Drowsiness sashayed towards me.

Amelia wiggled her bottom against me.

"Can you put it back in?" she whispered.

She lifted one leg. I reached down and guided my partial erection between her buttocks. Amelia reached back from between her legs and together, we guided my still thick cock back into her, her pussy slick with semen, warm and very wet.

Satisfied, Amelia released me, lowered her leg, cuddled back against me and drew my arms around her. "Are you all better now?" she murmured.

I chuckled. "I am."

I smoothed her shorn silken hair when it tickled my face. I loved how it gave her an elfin appearance. "Who cuts your hair?" I asked. It was very professional, feathered to perfection.

"You don't like it?" she asked softly.

"Actually, I like it a lot."

"I'm glad. I cut it myself with the kitchen scissors."

Impressed, I asked, "Why not go to a hair salon?"

"They never get it right."

Hugging her tighter, I said, "Well, I love it."

"Kay." 

As sleep arrived, I heard her whisper, "I love you, Mike."

Exhausted, sexually drained for the first time in two months, I fell asleep knowing I'd never get enough of her for as long as I lived.

At some point in the middle of the night, I woke up with a partial erection, still buried in Amelia's velvet pussy. Without moving, I felt myself grow erect, my penis thickening and lengthening inside her. It was a new and exciting experience, so arousing my erection swelled into hardness, thick and held tightly.

I tried not to move, but couldn't, the sensation just too good. Moving ever so gently, I rocked my hips, rewarded by my crown moving deep inside her. Still holding her, I let myself go and wallowed in the novel experience of gently fucking her in her sleep; just a slight movement, enough to stimulate my tip. It felt wonderful. No longer desperate for release, I could enjoy every second, relish how tight Amelia was, how slender she was in my arms, and how sexy it felt to have her gorgeous buttocks pressed back at me. I moved gently letting my excitement grow, erection straining, thick, rigid. Inhaling deeply, I took her aroma of orange blossoms and sleeping young girl and sweetness deeply into my lungs. I loved her so much. Then, as I moved slightly, a soft wave cascaded over me, pleasure, bliss, love and warmth. I came, soft pulses of semen flowing out into my lover, my love, each gentle pulse bringing sweet ecstasy, each soft spurt feeling wonderful, a gentle loving climax. It passed slowly, pulses easing and passing, leaving me sated and feeling wonderful, my erection softening.

Amelia moved her bottom. "I felt you," she whispered.

With a smile, I slipped into a dreamless sleep.

As our life settled, I moved into production on one movie. Amelia accompanied me to the shoot when it was outside of Los Angeles, refusing to let me out of her sight. She huddled with her music sheets, every so often pausing, the fingers of her right hand moving as if accompanying the music only she could hear; then she bent back and jotted more notes down. Rufus stood guard over her, alert, protective.

As the shoot wrapped and we moved into post-production, Amelia came to me.

"I have some songs I want you to write the lyrics to."

"Okay. Tell me what the story is and play me the song."

Eight months later, at just fourteen years old, Amelia released her first album; Amelia - My Gift of Thanks. It was a powerful masterpiece; a collection of songs that told a heart-rending story about her journey; about almost losing everything dear to her, the pain of loss, and how to cherish what you have, and of finding balance and happiness. Her debut song hit number one. The album was dedicated to Rufus, to me, to her Mom and Dad, and Aunt Betty and Uncle Harold, and, not surprising me, Darren Faith.

Between Amelia's school, television appearances, and more music classes, I found the time to begin production of Even Angels Cry. Rumors in Hollywood hinted at a critically acclaimed film. The outrageous pundits, those that hadn't even seen the screenplay or rushes, talked of Golden Globe and Oscar on the strength of the cast alone. They'd never been right in the past, and no one really listened to them, aside for some spicy gossip for the voracious media. I was still the flavor of the month. As fitting that lofty but ridiculous position, I was perceived to have the golden touch. I didn't. I wrote what I felt, nothing more.

Epilogue

Lights dimmed, a hush coming over the audience, one person coughing lightly. Silence filled the hall. It felt like everyone was holding their breath. Then twelve violins slowly started, their notes light and delicate, all in harmony, dancing though the air, rising and falling as beautiful music spread through the theater.

Suddenly, cellos joined the choir of violins, adding their bass notes, serious, separate from the silky sound of violins. Cellos and violins circled each other, one group delicate and light, the other chasing with darkness, together rising into louder and louder conflict. And, when it seemed only war could erupt, violins and cellos found harmony, sweet harmony, a perfect marriage that soared into the heights, louder, filling the hall with rapturous music, rising and intensifying. When the sound of strings seemed impossibly beautiful, they abruptly stopped.

Music faded away like the remnants of a sweet dream, ethereal, unable to grasp or hold, a void felt in my chest as if I'd lost a friend. Silence rushed in. Not one sound was heard.

Into the void an achingly beautiful voice rose, my hair standing on end. Slowly growing and intensifying, the angelic voice, so pure, so perfect, swelled to fill the hall with hauntingly beautiful music, singing of loss, of pain, of love. It washed over me, strong and insistent, then light and playful.

Strings - cellos and violins - unable to resist, joined the song adding depth, swelling and fading in counterpoint to the startlingly clear soprano. It held the audience in rapt attention, demanding awe, demanding appreciation. And, as voice and strings soared to the heights, as the crescendo neared, the painful beauty of her voice took me away to another place, to a back yard, a patio table, a summer day, the first time I ever heard her.

Tears prickled my eyes, sinuses blocking. I felt a physical pain as the music crested, the song ending, strings fading, a lone solo note from her left hanging in the air, one pure note hanging endlessly only to slowly ebb, leaving me empty. Silence descended. Not one sound could be heard. The audience sat, as if stunned into silence.

Suddenly applause erupted, a wave of loud clapping that built as people stood, thunderous appreciation for an experience none had expected.

Below, on the stage, I watched Amelia bow, my heart aching. I watched her glance up to our box, a radiant, beautiful, slender, and tall young woman of elegance. She tilted her head and smiled at me, smoky gray eyes twinkling behind frameless glasses, her dark hair still shorn and feathery. A puff of wind gently blew thoughts out of my mind.

Shaking myself, I looked away.

"That's your mommy," I whispered to Nadia, hugging our two-year-old daughter. "Isn't she perfect? Just like you."

"Mommy," Nadia said, pointing a small finger.

Out of the corner of my eye, at the back of the theater, I noticed an old man - no, a gentleman, mid-seventies, wearing a gray coat with black piping around the collar, and a black Trilby on his head. He smiled, pale blue eyes sparkling with intelligence. He tipped his hat to me and stepped through the doors, vanishing silently.

Author's note: Many readers have asked where I get inspiration for my stories. This story was inspired by one song - one line. As improbable as it seems, the one line was "Heaven has a plan for you." If you're interested, you can hear the song by Swedish House Mafia, titled, Don't You Worry Child here.