“Like what?”
“Like medications, allergies, etc.”
“Nothing. How long am I staying? If you brought my things—”
“You’re mine. You’ll stay until I put you out.”
She winces at the ice in my voice and it takes her a moment to recover. “When do you think you’ll be putting me out?”
“Why? You have plans?”
“Your family seems nice enough,” she says, walking into the closet which is sparse even with all her clothes in it. “Are you adopted?”
“Funny. A word of warning. Watch out for my brother,” I say, remembering last night, the conversation still bugging me.
She doesn’t remark.
“You’ll remain inside the house while you’re here. You may venture outside with permission and then only within the walls of the property.”
“Permission?”
“Permission.”
“From you?”
I grin.
“How long do I have to be here really?”
“Indefinitely. You’re in my care now, Isabelle.”
“Care is a stretch.”
“It’s a matter of perspective.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you do it? Take me? Why do you want me?”
“You mean is there something special about you?” I watch her as I say it, knowing my purpose is to wound. And it does. I see it in the flush of her cheeks, in the embarrassed way she looks away.
It takes her a minute to steel herself and square her shoulders to face me. “I don’t think I’m special. I just want to know what’s going on. What you intend to do to me. When I can plan on resuming my life.”
“You’re a means to an end,” I say, walking closer to her. I can see she wants to move away but she doesn’t. Instead, she folds her arms across her chest. I pick up the end of the braid and pull out the rubber band. It’s still damp as I unwind it, watch the waves it makes as I set it loose over her shoulder. “I intend to do a great many things to you. And there won’t be a need for you to make plans on resuming your life.” I watch her process. Her eyes search mine and I feel that strange sensation I’ve felt off and on with her. “This is your life now, Isabelle. You will be kind to my daughter, polite and respectful to my family. Subservient to me.”
“What does that last part mean?”
“It means you’ll do what I tell you to do. If that means getting on your hands and knees to scrub a floor, then you’ll get on your hands and knees and scrub the floor.”
“So, I’m a glorified maid.”
“Not glorified, no. And I haven’t told you your most important duty.”
Her arms fall to her sides when I put a finger on her stomach and nudge her back two steps to the wall. I lean my shoulder against it, trapping her. “Most importantly, you will please me. In fact, if you forget everything else, remember only those two words and let all your actions come back to that thought. Pleasing me.”
Her jaw is locked so tight I wonder if she’s going to crack a tooth.
I dip my head close. “I like your hair loose. That’ll be one way you can please me,” I say. “To show me the river of black spilling down your naked back.”
“I’m not sleeping with you,” she blurts.
“Sleep wasn’t what I had in mind.” I let my gaze drop to the open neck of her Henley. It’s wide but not so wide her scar is visible. I reach to undo a button.
One arm shoots up to stop me.
I glance down at it, her hand appearing smaller now that it’s wrapped around my forearm. I take her wrist, pull her hand off, then take her other wrist with my free hand and draw both arms over her head. Without taking my eyes off her, I shift both wrists to one hand and stretch them higher, high enough she has to stand on tiptoe.
She squeezes her eyes shut like she’s steeling herself so when she opens them again, she stares straight ahead at the middle of my chest. Her breathing is labored, the pulse at her neck throbbing. I undo another button, watch her thick, black lashes flutter as she follows the workings of my fingers. I undo a third button, a fourth, fifth and sixth. It’s enough to pull the top over her collarbone, enough to draw the two sides apart to expose her breasts, the pretty pink bra.
“I chose it,” I say and when her eyes flick up to mine, the sight of them is breathtaking. A fine, fiery line of blue around dilated pupils glaring up at me, hating me, hating herself. “The bra and panties. I’m glad to see you wore them. If you’re wearing the panties that is. I shouldn’t make assumptions.”
“I didn’t exactly have a choice,” she hisses, struggling against my grip.
“Well, you did. You could have chosen not to wear anything. You always have a choice. All of life is a choice,” I say, unwilling to drag my gaze from her eyes as I let my fingertips explore the soft flesh in the valley between her breasts, the taut skin of her abdomen, her belly button a small oval, the jeans low.
“Stop,” she croaks out as I let my fingers hover over the button there.
“But I want to know two more things.” I pop the button.
“Stop!”
“I want to know,” I say, slowly drawing the zipper down. “One, if you wore the matching panties,” I start, letting my gaze drop down to her stomach as I nudge the denim over just a little, just enough to expose a little bit of the soft pink lace. “And two…” I let my words trail off as I tickle the place just at the band of her panties.
She swallows, looks up at me and I hold her gaze. Her neck and face are flushed pink, eyes almost wholly black now.
“I think I can guess but just to be sure… I mean I could ask you, of course,” I continue, letting my fingers dip just a little lower as she squirms. “Should I ask you?”
“What?” She wants to sound angry, but it’s choked.
I lean my face toward hers, nudge her cheek with my chin then bring my mouth to her ear. I feel her shudder as I tickle the shell of her ear with my tongue before I ask. “Are you wet, Isabelle?”
“No!” she blurts, and I simultaneously draw back and lock eyes with her as I slide my hand into her panties and hear her sharp intake of breath when I cup the sweet, tell-tale damp of her sex.
“You little liar,” I taunt, drawing my fingers through her folds and dragging them up to the hard nub hidden between her lips. I circle it, hear the catching of her breath, watch her face as her knees buckle. “Dirty, dirty little liar. You’re soaked.”
I drag my hand out of her panties smearing her arousal over her belly before bringing those fingers between us as if to show us both how wet they are.
She glances at them then turns away but there’s no denying it.
“If you weren’t such a liar, I’d make you come,” I say, placing those fingers on her cheek to turn her face back to me before I smear her arousal over her lips. “But I can’t stand lies or liars.”
“Fuck you, you’re an asshole!”
She tries to wrench her head out of my grasp, but I bury my fingers in her jaw and press the back of her head against the wall.
“Watch your mouth, little liar. I don’t like girls who swear.”