I’m still waiting for the third thing, she said, her voice pure sex. I reached into those velvet folds, inside that slick channel. I fucked her with my fingers, and now, in the shower, I use the same hand to fuck myself. I pretend it’s her sweet pussy that I’m rutting against. One arm leans against the cool tile. The other jacks my cock. I close my eyes and rock my hips, pretending I’d lifted her in that hallway. I could have fucked her. She would have let me. Her bare pussy would feel so warm and wet. It would be a heaven I don’t deserve.
Climax builds from the base of my spine. It runs through my body like electricity, heating me more than the steaming water. I grunt through the final thrusts, my breath catching.
“Jane, Jane, Jane.” It’s a chant and a prayer.
Orgasm rips through my body, and I come in hard, uneven jerks, spilling white liquid across white tile. It slips into the water stream and swirls down the drain.
I’m panting.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I mutter to myself.
Nothing good.
That young woman has an entire future ahead of her. That has nothing to do with a broke down billionaire who’s practically living like a hermit. Would still be living like a hermit if it weren’t for Paige. She’s the only reason I’m moderately civilized these days.
That’s really an overstatement of the situation. I’m mostly feral.
I blow out a breath and towel off outside the shower.
When I lay back in bed, I pick up my phone. It’s glowing from some text messages. Mateo. My oldest friend. We’d been chatting on and off all day. I scan his last texts, something about a new Netflix original series he’s being considered to do.
Sorry, I text back. Parenting duty called.
It’s 3 in the morning. Doesn’t she have a bedtime?
Bad dream. She’s been having them. Dreams where her mother and father are still alive. Where they’re still in danger. Where they’re out on a boat, unable to get back to shore.
Which means a sea shanty probably wasn’t the best song to sing.
It was the only one I knew. The Rochesters weren’t a loving family, even at the best of times. There were no lullabies, only the hauling of lobster and the shouting of bills unpaid. I know better than to complain. Other people had it worse. People like Jane had it worse.
An orphan, the same as Paige. But different. At least Paige has family. She has me.
A sad excuse for family, but I’ll do my best.
Can I help? Mateo texts this, and I run a hand over my face. We’re both clueless bachelors who have no business raising a child, but it’s been good to have someone to bounce ideas off of. It was his idea to contact the Bassett Agency. They source a lot of nannies for the famous actors and celebrities he knows in LA.
We’re okay, I think. The nanny started working.
How’s that going?
I just finger fucked her in the hallway. I just jerked off in the shower while dreaming about fucking her. That’s how it’s going, but I’m not going to text any of that to my good friend. He would bust my balls, as he should. That’s not why I’m keeping it secret, though.
It feels private, what happened between me and her.
Which is the scariest part of all.
Fine, I say instead. Paige seems to like her.
That’s true enough. I watched them from the window of my study while they explored outside the house and painted rocks. They’re lining the old antique sidebars and tables downstairs, those rocks. It would probably make Emily Rochester turn over in her grave to see them on her expensive furniture.
I doubt Paige had that kind of freedom before.
There isn’t much I can give her. Love. Affection.
Those things are foreign to me.
Money is all I have to offer, and the nanny is what I’ve purchased.
Don’t scare her away, Mateo texts back.
That’s the problem with having old friends. He knows what I’m capable of. I don’t need to play nice, I type. That’s what the money’s for.
He sends me back a middle finger, but he knows I’m right. That’s the way the world works. Rich bastards like me get to order a pretty woman to spread her thighs. If she had a family, if she had a support system, maybe she would have said no.
The ache in my chest is protectiveness. I hate it.
I made her orgasm, but that doesn’t make it right.
Don’t touch her again, Rochester.
That’s what I tell myself, but even as I drift off to sleep I see the count in my head. One, two, three things I can do to her. What if she asks for a fourth thing? A fifth? She invades my dreams the same way she does every night since she arrived, except now I know how she feels when she comes, her clit slippery, her body shuddering against mine.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jane Mendoza
Paige is her usual chatty self during breakfast.
She doesn’t seem affected by the nightmare, which is a relief to me. I’m extremely distracted by what happened after. Why did I let him touch me? Why did I want him to touch me?
After stuffing ourselves with waffles and syrup and butter, we put on our hoodies and socks and shoes and head outside. There’s other warm clothing for her—mittens and scarves and hats, but I’m determined to do only what is possible and not stress over what’s not.
We have something of a routine by now.
I pick up her set of paints and brushes. She grabs a square-bottomed basket we found in a large shed out back. By the time we return, it will be filled with painted rocks, fallen branches, interesting leaves and the occasional snail shell.
This time when we reach a selection of smooth, wide rocks, I have a plan.
We set up on a dry patch of grass, the rocks arrayed around us. Out come the paint brushes and selection of colors. Normally we do swirls and stars and hearts. Occasionally we dive into the more ambitious designs—such as painting the kitten. Kitten comes with us, stalking through the forest like a grown-up on the hunt while we work.
I pick up a fine-tipped brush and draw on a dark rock with white paint. 1 + 6 =
Without saying a word, I pass the wet rock to her.
She becomes very still, staring at what I’ve done. Children are smart. Smarter than most adults think. I learned that in foster homes, when social workers and foster parents would speak to us like we couldn’t see what was in front of our eyes. It’s not about adding up numbers, though she’s that kind of smart, too. It’s about understanding what I’m doing and why. About knowing that I’m trying to help her, even if she’s fighting me tooth and nail. About doing the hardest possible thing instead of lying on the ground in pain.
She lets out a breath.
The same way it’s happened for other children who’ve experienced trauma at a young age, school has become the no-fly zone. It’s become the enemy territory.
Another shaky breath. Then she draws a shaky seven in cerulean blue.
I’m almost afraid to move, afraid to break the spell.
She draws the seven with that line through the middle. Where does that line come from? I’m not sure, but that’s not how I draw my sevens. I wonder if it was her mother or father who taught her how to write it like that.
I remember enough about the caterpillar worksheet to write all of them on stones. It’s embedded into my mind. I’ll probably turn eighty and still remember clearly that time Mr. Rochester said, And here on this worksheet, you add up these numbers and put the answer in the caterpillar’s asshole. They’ve got a real garden theme going on here, don’t they?