Page 30 of Under His Control

She bites her lips together then speaks in a quiet voice.

“Do you forgive me?”

“That’s not something that can happen in one night.”

Her shoulders sink, her expression crestfallen as she nods.

“Can I stand?”

“Go ahead.”

She rises, a light blush spreading across her cheeks as she stares at the result of her kisses. The whispers return.

Do you want to touch it?

Come sit on Daddy’s lap and feel how stiff you made him, babygirl.

I stand and Penelope quickly backs away, flitting a nervous gaze down past my navel then up to my face again. Her retreat makes me want to grab her even more.

Get away from her.

I stride to the coat rack, put on my jacket and boots, and head out into the cold night to escape my immoral thoughts.

* * *

This walk isn’t working.

The memory of Penelope kneeling for me and her soft lips against my skin is lodged in my brain. Not even the sturdy, chilling breeze can knock it loose.

I grapple with disgust and anger with myself, then I redirect my irritation at Penelope. Sure, I was turned on as soon as she got on her knees, but what if she knew and purposefully manipulated me?

Her kisses were a little too devoted at the start, if you ask me. Maybe she tried to take a page out of her mother’s playbook. Get me riled up enough to attempt something, then trap me with blackmail.

The flaw in that plan: unlike her mother, she didn’t have a “witness.” It would’ve been her word against mine, and there’s past proof she’s a liar.

Paranoia starts to suggest she probably hid a camera somewhere. I come to a stop, my deep exhale fogging in the air.

“Get a fucking grip.”

At this point, I’m not leaping to conclusions. I’m strapped to a glider and soaring to ridiculous theories.

I fucked up. That’s the plain truth. Controlled by lust, I took things too far, and now I’m trying to pin the blame on Penelope because I’m ashamed.

Still, I trust her even less now. She’s not as innocent as she seems. Penelope might not have hidden motives but she’s like a demon sent to torment me again.

By my sister, who hasn’t returned my call or even texted.

An hour later, I return home. Penelope sits cross-legged in my couch, holding a tablet in one hand and a drawing pen in the other. I’m tense at the sight of her. That’s likely going to happen often for the next two weeks.

Solitude and routine. I value those the most. Penelope, however, is unwanted company and chaos.

She doesn’t belong in my space. It’s strange she looks like she does. Earlier, it was unsettling that I liked coming home to her sitting at the table waiting for me, along with the delicious smell of a home-cooked meal.

“Someone came by while you were gone. She said her name is Ruth.” Penelope points at a see-through food container with cupcakes inside it on the kitchen table. “She brought those to thank you for yesterday.”

There’s a glob of white icing stuck to the side of the container. Pass. My fortieth birthday was a few months ago and the metabolism I had in my twenties is long gone. A little sweet treat is fine now and then. Excessive sugar is my enemy.

“They’re yours if you want them.”