She looks up at me, surprised. “What are you doing?”
“What am I doing? What are you doing?”
“I’m kissing you. I woke up and I wanted to kiss you.” She blinks her large, pretty eyes at me as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. The trouble is it does feel natural, kissing her. My hands are holding her about the waist and I can’t seem to let her go. She rubs the tip of her nose against my chest, making a little mmm sound.
Fuck, babygirl. Stop that. You’re killing me.
I’m summoning the willpower to tell her to get off when we hear footsteps coming downstairs. Adrienne lets go of me and busies herself with the coffee maker, humming quietly.
Mr. Westley comes in. He’s dressed, and there’s a defiant expression on his face. “I’m going out.”
“Okay,” Adrienne calls, singsong and breezy.
I narrow my eyes. Out? It’s Mr. Westley’s business what he does and what risks he takes, but I have to consider how his actions will affect Adrienne, and I’m pretty sure I know where he’s going. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
The defiance in his eyes doubles. “When I want your opinion, Mr. Vanderbroeck, I’ll ask for it. You should be thinking about Adrienne.”
“I’m always thinking about Adrienne,” I reply, my voice even, but I make sure from my expression my meaning is clear: I’m always thinking about Adrienne.
Mr. Westley glares, but says nothing. A moment later he’s gone.
Adrienne has spilt milk down the side of her coffee cup and mops up the drip with her finger. When the front door slams she turns to me and puts the finger in her mouth, sucking. “What was that about?”
Get that goddamn finger out of your mouth, young lady. “Nothing, I hope.”
“Want some more coffee?” She gives me the sweetest smile, and before I know what’s happening she’s slunk into my arms once more, all softness and vanilla.
“Adrienne, no. We can’t.”
She pouts. “But I want to.”
“Do you,” I grind out. “Well, I don’t. Behave yourself.”
She dimples up at me, the mischievous look returning. “Why should I?”
I knew that what we did the other night would come back to bite me in the ass. As much as I tell myself that I did what I did for her sake, to relax her and take her mind off things, I badly wanted to hear her whimper and tell me that she was going to be a good girl for me. I can feel myself getting hard just thinking about it.
You could tie her up and fuck her right now, you know. Hear her say daddy, please and I’ll be your good girl and all those other things you like.
“I told you it was just for the other night because you were upset. And what did I say about being a brat?”
She hooks a finger over the top button of my shirt, nestling closer. “I’m not being a brat. I’m being a good girl.”
“Kissing me without permission is not being a good girl.”
She rolls her eyes in an oh blah blah manner, so I turn away and head through to the living room.
Adrienne follows me and somehow gets her arms around me again. “I know you want me to be good. Let me be good for you.”
She’s as sweet as candy floss with that pink hair and those full lips. She’d be even sweeter for me if I laid her along the spine of the couch, spread her open and licked her slowly till she came. There, show daddy what a good girl you can be. She might be a brat but I know a sub when I see one. When I’ve got control of her and she leans on me for protection and comfort, she listens to me. When I don’t have control of her...she’s not only a handful, she doesn’t think. And for someone in her position, that’s dangerous. It’s tempting to tell myself that I’d be doing her a favor, kissing her into pliancy, giving her a good talking to and rewarding her with an orgasm. But in the giddy, unthinking mood she’s in it would only persuade her that I can be gotten around if she’s determined enough. And I have to stay focused on the danger she could be in, not how cute she is.
“Now, listen, Adrienne,” I say, and I’m using my sternest daddy voice even though I have no intention of following through in any other way. “I explained at the time that the other night was a onetime thing. I’m glad you felt better but it’s not going to happen again. All right?” Very firmly, I unwind her wrists from my around my neck, thinking ruefully of what I told her about what I did with her underwear. It was pleasing, seeing the look of shock on her face, but not the wisest idea in the circumstances.
A hot, petulant flush blossoms over her cheeks. “So you just get to turn it on and off when you feel like it?”
My instinct is to take her hands and talk softly to her, making sure she knows she’s cared for, that I care for her, but I have to get us back to a place where I can think clearly. “I’m not going to turn it on—”
“Oh, piss off, Dieter.” There are angry tears in her eyes like I’ve disappointed her, and she runs upstairs.