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Anyway. She could’ve washed them at her parents’—anyone else would—except I insisted on washing them. We always had more than enough space in the washing machine. That way, I explained, Leighton could stay with Ry for days without going home.
For years, it was an honest explanation. I liked how happy Ry was around her best friend. Genuinely happy.
Then Leighton turned eighteen. That was the first time I allowed myself to sniff her panties. When I set out to build this home, I still sniffed her underwear. And checked the labels of her shirts, dresses, and jeans. I couldn’t leave anything to chance.
I strip off my jeans and T-shirt and slide into a pair of charcoal gray pants and a pristine white button-down shirt. A smirk teases my lips while I do. When I look around the room, Leighton will see what we have in our closet, other than clothes. Soon.
“Marcus?” Leighton calls out from the bed, her voice unsure.
Enough of fucking around when she’s in a suggestible state. I have to focus on my mind games, on ways to get into her head. On doing it without harming her.
Despite looking the part of a psychiatrist, I don’t want Leighton to feel comfortable. I want her rattled. I want her to stop fixating on the past for us, to be able to start our future together.
I pick one of my white T-shirts that’ll reach just above her knees. A new one.
“Time to get dressed.” I take the place on the edge of the bed beside her, helping to sit her up.
“Thank you.” She sighs, thinking this is some kind of truce.
Far from it.
Milo.
The name alone injects rage into my veins.
She won’t admit that she’s in love with me, and she does. In the past, present, and future. Regardless of what side of me comes out to play. She loves me.
But if she can’t admit to that, she’ll never admit to sucking off Milo.
And I need to know now. I need to know so I can…
So I can do what?
For no fucking reason. I have to know, period.
“You’re going to talk to me, little doll.” My dick jerks when my eyes roam down her breasts and her soft, beautiful stomach. The rest of me is a composed mask, as though her nakedness doesn’t interest me. “You could cooperate, or I could force the words out of you. Either way, I’m having my answers and you’re having your dinner.”
The shirt drapes along the length of Leighton’s upper body. It’s a few sizes too big, hiding most of her other than her tits. They stretch the fabric of my T-shirt, the pink of her erect nipples only mildly obscured under the rich fabric.
“This is wrong on so many levels.” I didn’t put her in a trance. Just in a suggestive state. And the more I move her around, the more it wears off.
Standing up, I outstretch my hand for Leighton. “Do you need to use the restroom before we start?”
“And pee what? The sip of water I had last night?” She cocks an eyebrow. “The pool water, maybe?”
Her out-of-nowhere sass catches me off guard. I have to stifle a laugh, grinding my molars.
The day she’ll stop fighting me, that’s when I’ll laugh.
Today’s not that day.
“I take it you don’t.” I curl the fingers of my open palm, gesturing for her to give me her hand.
She does, but only puts her fingers in my palm. Hesitant.
“Your ethics, Marcus.” Leighton appeals to my sensible side.
That does it. She doesn’t want this session because she’s hiding something from me.
