“Maybe you should let me cook for you tonight,” I offer. The memory of her pasta will be burned on my taste buds for life.
“You didn’t like my pasta? It’s my best dish besides steak.” She gasps, the change in conversation taking her mind off being overwhelmed by everything else.
“Darling, if you can fuck up pasta that bad, I dread to think what your steak is like,” I tease, placing my hand on her back and guiding her to continue walking. Her gaping mouth makes me chuckle, and she jabs me in the ribs, like the scared girl from moments before evaporated from within her.
“That’s going to leave a bruise.” I smirk at her.
“Are you mocking my strength?”
“And your cooking.” I wink.
“I’m a great cook,” she defends. “I think…” She frowns, looking up at me, and I shake my head. “Really? That bad?”
“I offered your pasta to a homeless guy down the street, and he returned the plate still full.”
“Liar!” She laughs, all the tension and anxiety leaking free. It’s fucking beautiful.
Willa is consuming my thoughts. It’s fucking crazy how quickly she’s woven herself into my mind, insane the idea of her leaving fills me with cold dread. The house feels different with her inside it. Warm…if that’s a fucking thing. I don’t know. What I do know is I like it, and that’s a scary reality. Nothing can ever happen between us. She has issues I have no clue how to help her overcome. She’s young and has so much to experience and learn about the world outside the confines and control of Milo. I’d be a sick bastard to make a move, to want to keep her here with me.
“I don’t even know how to shop for myself.” Her voice carries from the doorway of the kitchen, dragging me from my thoughts. I turn toward her as she shakes her head. She’d gone upstairs to try her clothes on while I started dinner. Her jeans are unbuttoned, and her white t-shirt pulls skin-tight around her tits, flaring slightly over the stomach. A shudder of humiliation courses through her.
“What’s wrong?” I turn the heat off on the stove to give her my full attention. She grabs the waist of the pants and attempts to fasten them, throwing her hands up when they won’t close.
“I’m pathetic.” She paces, her hands animated as she vents her frustration. “Who doesn’t know their own waist size?”
My mouth opens, then closes when I realize she’s not done. Her tone becomes louder, more intense. “I’ll tell you who,” each word punches the air, “someone who’s been wearing her brother’s hand-me-downs with belts because god forbid people notice I’m a girl!” She jabs a hand into the air. “Until it suits him! Until he wants them to pay for the privilege of seeing my girl parts!”
She shimmies out of her jeans, and my fucking breath catches in my throat. Working them off, she exposes her long, toned legs and a pair of white cotton panties that does nothing to hide the outline of her pussy lips. Fuck. Stop looking. Stop fucking looking.
“He made me think there was something wrong with me for Mr. Right not wanting to fuck me now that I’m older, like my body changing is something bad.” She throws the jeans down on the table. “I like my body.” She waves her hand down the front of her.
Me too, but I feel like a pervert for it. Fuck, where has this Willa been hiding?
“You know what else?”
“Tell me,” I encourage, wanting her to get it all out. Lay it bare.
“I had to shave off my pubic hair, and I hate it. It’s irritating when it grows back. But Mr. Right wanted it smooth, yet I was forbidden from cutting this!” She grabs a handful of her curls on her head. “He wanted it braided.” An exasperated huff deflates her chest. “Well, screw Mr. Right—and screw Milo!” she booms, moving to where I’m standing. Grabbing the carving knife from the counter, she begins slicing off chunks of hair, much to my shock. I’m sure I look like a confused dumbass standing here staring at her butchering her beautiful locks.
Anger turns to grief as she begins to sob. “Fuck you, Mr. Right!” She hiccups. “Screw you, Milo!” she roars, dropping handfuls of hair to the kitchen floor. I calmly reach for the knife and pull her against me. Our body heat converges, her suppleness a contrast to my hard planes. Her cries echo through the house as she loses strength and falls into me. “I hate him!” she wails, her little fist pounding against my chest. Scooping her up into a bridal hold, I carry her upstairs to the bathroom, blast the shower, then step inside fully clothed and cradle her in my lap.
Water soaks us, cleansing the pain, washing it down the drain. My arms encompass her small frame, offering myself as an anchor to bring her back when the darkness drains from her.