I would truly hate to leave her behind. She’s already become less of a novelty and more of a fixture in my mind, an injection of freshness to my days. But the choice is hers to make.
Having gotten ready for bed while we texted, I shut off the light, not really knowing if she’s going to come or not. For all I know, she’s going to march in and tell me she’s going to obey Daddy Dearest’s commands.
I’ll be disappointed if she does. Hell, I’m disappointed that she’s not next to me right now. I cup my cock, still unsatisfied even after last night’s wank. It, like me, wants the real thing . . . Elle, not the fantasy of her I imagined as I fisted myself after her teasing and tormenting.
I almost text her again. If we can’t figure out the work stuff, perhaps we could focus on the dares? I could dare her to come over, maybe sway her mind while I sway her body?
My cock jumps hopefully at the idea, but my mind overrides my baser impulses. Elle needs time tonight to make this decision. And while I could probably get her to agree to just about anything while holding her on the edge of an orgasm, I want her to decide clear-headed. She needs to know that she’s capable of standing tall and handling all of this—her father and me, and most importantly, herself.
I’m just getting my Sunday started the next day when my phone beeps, and I look up from my desk, rubbing at my eyes. I must have been gathering wool. It’s nearly nine forty-five, and I’ve already been at work for over an hour. But my phone’s still dinging as if I have a video call coming in.
“Whoever you are, I hope you . . . Lizzie?”
“Wotcher, Coltie!” Lizzie says, grinning. “How’s it hanging, as the Yanks say?”
Her accent immediately takes me home. Here, in the US, everyone thinks I have an accent, but the truth is, I’ve lost some of it from talking to Americans every day. But Lizzie sounds like home. I tease her, wanting her riled up because it makes her accent even thicker. With everything going on, I want to wrap up in the dropped consonants and let the soft elegance wash over me.
“You don’t need to know, and it’s Sunday morning,” I reply with a yawn. “Please tell me you forgot the time difference and aren’t just calling to torture me?”
Lizzie giggles, shaking her head. “You’re getting old, Coltie. Sunday morning? You used to just be getting home at that time, and by the look of things, I haven’t woken you. Are you at work already? Don’t you take the weekends off?”
“Hmph. I am not old, and yes, I’m at work. Americans don’t take off. You can even get fresh-baked cupcakes here in the middle of the night, from a bakery ATM. It’s madness.”
Lizzie laughs, and behind her, I can see she’s sitting in her bed at home, probably enjoying a weekend without school. “That sounds lovely. I think I’d fancy a cupcake right about now.” She shakes her head. “Anyway . . . good news, I got top marks on my exams!”
“That’s great! I’ve got good news too . . . but it’s a surprise.”
Lizzie pouts, her good cheer evaporating. “Ah, that’s rubbish! I get enough surprises with Mum going on and on about her stupid charity galas and what her friends’ daughters are up to.”
I laugh lightly as though she’s joking, but she won’t meet my eyes, even through the screen. “Lizzie, you okay?”
She falls back against her pillow, sighing heavily and rolling her eyes. “I’m fine. Eddie’s just being a right cunt, and there are some stupid boys saying . . . what’s that slang you taught me? Oh, yeah, smack talking.” Even the silly American phrase seems to brighten her mood slightly.
“Eddie’s always going to be Eddie. Nothing you or I can do about him." I roll my eyes the same way Lizzie did because it’s the god’s honest truth. Our brother is a douche canoe. I consider teaching Lizzie that word too, but I’m not sure enough of the exact definition other than it’s an insult, but it makes me laugh. Perhaps I’ll save it for when I actually get to London, a vocabulary lesson surprise.
“But the neighborhood boys are different. That shouldn’t happen, Lizzie. Tell Mom or the school. Or if it’s that bad, send Nan to talk to their parents. I bet they’d behave straight away if Nan pinched their ears and dragged them home to Mummy.”
She laughs, but I make a mental note to check on these boys while I’m home. I might be thousands of miles away, but a big brother always protects his little sister.
Lizzie suddenly sits up, grabbing her computer and bringing her face close enough to the camera that I get a clear view up her nose. “Hey, Coltie? Who’s that?”
Lizzie’s pointing behind me, and I turn, nearly jumping out of my skin when I see Elle standing in my doorway. “Oh, uh . . . my assistant,” I tell Lizzie quickly. “Hard at work, you know.”
“She’s cute.”
I feel heat prickling at my neck, and I shake my head. “Yes, well, I should get back to work, Lizzie. I’ll call you soon, yes?”
“Okay, okay. Ta, Coltie! Ta, Assistant!”
Lizzie rings off with a smirk, and I put my phone down, inwardly groaning. I don’t know how much Elle just heard, but Lizzie’s going to be primed for matchmaking when we arrive in London. I’ll have to set her straight right away.
“Mr. Wolfe,” Elle says in greeting. There’s no one here to overhear her calling me by my first name, no one to question the intimacy of that, so her formality screams ‘I’m still mad.’
“Decided I would dress casual today. If the company won’t do casual Fridays, then casual Sundays are a must.”
She’s daring me with her eyes to reprimand her, but I reward her instead, letting my eyes drip slow as molasses from her head to her toes. She’s wearing a T-shirt with some sort of line drawing of a cat, black jeans, and fashionable trainers. With her hair pulled up and her glasses on, she looks like she would be right at home on any college campus or any of the dozen coffee bars within a stone’s throw of here.
“That’s fine. I went casual as well.” I’m looking for common ground, but Elle snorts.
“That is not casual.” She points at me derisively, and I get up from my chair, walking to the front of my desk with my arms outstretched so she can get the full effect.
I perch on the edge of my desk, running the backs of my hands down my polo shirt before slipping them into the pockets of my chinos. “Not a suit, not formal attire, not athletic gear, not pajamas, though I don’t wear those, as you know.” Elle hisses, her eyes narrowing. “Ergo, casual. My shirt’s not even properly tucked in.”
Her eyes drop to my waist, as I knew they would, where the front of my shirt is simply tucked behind my belt. “You have on a belt.”
“Ah, a belt implies that the outfit is no longer casual. I see, my mistake.” I unbuckle the expensive leather, pulling it from the loops with a swoosh. “Now then, casual.”
This banter is not what I expected, not at all. I expected anger or excitement, perhaps resignation. But even this mildly adversarial disagreement is fun. Elle seems to agree because even as she nips and bites verbally, her lips are quirking adorably.
I think we need to address the elephant in the room, though.