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Chapter 15: Cart Girl Conquests - The Voracious Years

Between twenty-four and twenty-eight, Daniel Calder pushed himself with strict discipline and a hunger for more that never faded. He started each day before sunrise in the university pool, swimming 100 strong laps through the cool water. Each stroke worked his shoulders and back, leaving his muscles burning in a good way. The smell of chlorine stuck to his skin as he got out, water running down his abs. Next, he hit the rowing machine, legs driving hard, core tight, lungs working with every pull—just like the pressure of running his new analytics fund. Sweat formed on his forehead and chest, mixing the scent of effort with a hint of his citrus and cedar shower gel. He finished with sprints on the track, heart pounding, muscles shaking, and the salty smell of sweat in the morning air.

Then came the PhD work. Daniel spent late nights hunched over data, typing quickly and staring at glowing screens as he built risk models and algorithms for his start-up. Investors and clients wanted his personal attention, so he traveled all over the US, closing deals during rounds of golf that seemed friendly but were quietly competitive. He was a strong amateur golfer, with a controlled and accurate swing, but he always let his guests win by just a little. Their satisfaction made them more willing to invest, never realizing how carefully he managed each close game.

But under his disciplined exterior, Daniel was a passionate and tireless lover. His charm, energy, and fit body attracted partners in every city. The cart girls on golf courses were just the beginning—he had flings with them whenever he returned, no matter their relationship status. Paige, Dominique, and Jenny were just a few; there were also flight attendants during layovers, executives at conferences, bartenders in dark lounges, and app matches who remembered his touch and taste long after.

Paige Jensen - Fairway Oaks Golf Club

Daniel crested the 6th hole, the sun warm on his back and the faint grassy-earth scent of the fairway rising around him, when he spotted the white beverage cart parked beneath a cluster of trees. Paige Jensen, twenty-one, Caucasian, stood behind it at 5 '7", her tight white polo stretched taut over her full 34DD breasts, the thin fabric doing little to conceal the faint outlines of her nipples already pebbled from the heat. Her extremely short golf skirt clung to the swaying, rounded curve of her toned ass, the hem flirting dangerously with the tops of her thighs. Her long blonde hair swung in a high ponytail as she turned toward him, catching the sunlight in golden strands that carried the faint, sweet fragrance of vanilla shampoo mixed with the subtle floral notes of her perfume.

He pulled his cart alongside hers, the rubber tires crunching softly on the path. "Iced tea and a beer, please," he said, his voice low and steady. Paige's blue eyes lingered openly on his broad shoulders, tracing down to where his damp polo clung transparently to the hard planes of his chest, outlining every ridge. As she handed over the drinks, their fingers brushed, a warm, deliberate contact that sent a spark of electricity racing up his arm. Her skin was soft, faintly dewy with perspiration from the humid morning. "You make it really hard to keep my eye on the ball, Paige," he said, reading her name tag slowly, letting his gaze drop meaningfully to the deep shadow of cleavage revealed as she leaned forward.

She laughed, a throaty, bright sound that made her breasts jiggle slightly and leaned in further, her cleavage deepening into a glistening valley where tiny beads of sweat had gathered, carrying the warm, feminine musk of her body beneath the vanilla. "You're not the first golfer to say that, but you might be the cutest." Their banter flowed easily, his controlled swing that sent balls soaring, her aching legs from long shifts pushing the heavy cart, the strict uniform skirt policy that left almost nothing to the imagination. He watched, transfixed, as she bent to scoop ice, the short skirt riding up to reveal the smooth, firm cheeks of her ass and the faint outline of lace beneath. She caught him staring and teased openly, her voice dropping to a playfully husky tone. By the 9th hole, flushed and breathing a little quicker, she slipped him her number on a folded napkin, "I get off at 7. If you're still around... maybe drinks?" This sparked the

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