Page 60 of Under His Control

I turn my stare to the ceiling.

Fuck me.

There are blunders, there are mistakes, then there is the mess I made last night.

On Penelope’s stomach.

I’m starting to think I might be in over my head. I don’t have as much control over this situation as I thought. Penelope is rubber and I’m glue. Everything I do to punish her punishes me too.

When my parents were alive, my dad used to be a doctor, my mom the founder of a successful company. I was the firstborn son of a wealthy power couple, raised with everything I wanted within reach. Of course I turned out to be an asshole.

Still, I try to be decent. Abide by the generally accepted moral values of society, even if I skirt a few rules now and then.

Where’s that fucking decency now?

I’ve become someone I never imagined I could be: a depraved bastard ready and willing to fuck a woman who was once like a daughter to me. A woman who’s too young for me.

A woman who once falsely accused me of rape.

I don’t even want to drive past a prison let alone risk a stint inside one after my close call years ago. Yet I allowed myself to get carried away last night. Thankfully, fear of history repeating itself stopped me.

Lies planted in some truth are the ones that flourish. Alyssa used that to her advantage.

It’s not hard for consensual rough sex to appear non-consensual during a medical examination. I also foolishly assumed she was enjoying herself when she scratched me, only to learn she was collecting my DNA under her fingernails to use as additional “proof” I violated her.

Despite her protests, Penelope would’ve let me go all the way last night. I saw it in her eyes when I sucked her fingers.

She wanted me too.

If I’d given in, there was a chance Penelope would’ve used her mother’s tactics. I would be the fool who fell for the same trick twice.

Stop comparing me to my mother. I’m nothing like her.

After spending time with her, it seems like she’s telling the truth, and that’s scarier to accept.

If she really is as sweet and innocent as she seems, then I’m at risk of feeling more for her than I should, and I’m twice the asshole for how I’ve been treating her.

Last night was a major judgment lapse. Sharing my bed with Penelope is too dangerous. My self-control isn’t strong enough.

It doesn’t make any sense throwing myself into a bonfire while believing I won’t get burnt alive. I’ll make her go back to sleeping on the couch and try harder to keep my hands off her.

Penelope lets out a soft snore and I turn my head to her again. She hardly ever looks this serene when she’s awake.

Because of me.

More often than not, when she looks at me, she’s either upset or suspicious or afraid. That bothers me. It bothers me that bothers me too. Her misery is supposed to be my goal, but I’m not enthusiastic about meeting it anymore.

Her bruises are smaller now. Without thinking, I reach out and run my thumb over the one at her temple, then I freeze. Jesus fucking Christ. I just promised myself to keep my hands off her.

Penelope sighs in her sleep and shifts her head toward my touch. Instead of pulling my hand away like I should, I trail the back of my index finger down her smooth cheek, along her jaw, stopping just under her chin.

She hums and moves her head again, dragging her chin over my finger, then she slowly opens her eyes. She blinks and I pull my hand back as she covers her mouth over a yawn. Her sleepy gaze sharpens and holds mine.

I was right.

Looking into her eyes is how my willpower dies.

I lower my stare to her lips. So pink, so full. A day hasn’t passed where I haven’t wanted to taste them. Every time I resist the urge, it comes back a little stronger.