“Let me help,” she whispers, spreading her legs and lifting her hips so that the base of my shaft is pressed against her pussy. Thank God for pyjamas or I would probably be inside her already.
“No, sweetheart,” I say with finality, knowing I need to stop this and walk away. I lift myself off her and stand up, noticing her stuffed bunny shoved between the pillows. I pick him up and hand him to her. “You and Bunners get some sleep. Your daddy has to go take care of himself right now in the bathroom and I’ll be back to bed soon.”
She takes the bunny and clutches it to her, looking up at me with sweet, pleading eyes. “But I want you.”
She’s irresistible. I run my fingers through her hair again and bend down to kiss her softly on the lips. “You’re too young,” I say. “Maybe when you’re older.”
#
Hazel
#
I wake up in the morning after a deep, dreamless sleep, briefly unsure of where I am. I’m incredibly comfortable-cocooned in some warm, soft, but unfamiliar nest. It’s the sound of a shower running that’s woken me, I realize, and slowly I remember that I’m in Xavier’s bed. The thought jumpstarts my heart and I open my eyes to see that I’m alone. The shower is running and the bathroom door is open, which surprises me. I wonder if he always leaves the door open in the morning, and I’ve never noticed because I’m always asleep when he gets up.
I’m starting to drift off again when the sound of the water stops abruptly and Xavier comes into the room. He’s wearing nothing but a white towel wrapped around his waist, his ripped, muscular chest on display, and he smiles at me as he approaches the bed.
“Time to get up, sleepyhead,” he grins, and leans over the bed to kiss my forehead. “I put your clothes out on your bed, and you can get ready while I make breakfast.”
He pushes some hair off my face with his thumb and almost hesitates before speaking.
“Why don’t I brush your hair today, too, when you’re ready? I can braid it like I used to.”
“Sure,” I say, with a flush. “That would be nice.” It’s been a long time since Xavier put out my school clothes or brushed my hair, and it makes me feel cared for.
I return to my room to find my school uniform laid out on the bed in the shape of a person. Blouse at the top with sleeves akimbo, skirt in the middle, and socks carefully unrolled at the bottom. A pair of the new underpants is laid out across the skirt.
The idea that Xavier has handled my underwear, and has carefully laid it out for me to put on causes my heart to skip a beat. I like the fact that he’ll know what panties I have on all day.
At the top of the bed, nestled between two pillow, is Bunners. Xavier must have carried him over here when I was sleeping, and curiously it completes the look: my schoolgirl uniform, white panties, stuffed animal. The combination makes me smile. There’s an innocence to it that reminds me of how safe Xavier has always made me feel. My dad. And despite what happened last night, despite how much I want to be a woman in his bed, I want this too: the little girl who gets taken care of.
Xavier is in the kitchen when I get there, dressed in his usual attire: grey slacks and white shirt. His jacket is folded over a dining room chair and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his elbows. He smiles at me when I walk into the kitchen with a kind of wonder, and then walks right up to me, wrapping a large hand around each of my arms. It’s intoxicating to be so close to him, and I can smell the soap and cologne smell of him that’s always strongest in the morning.
“How are you feeling this morning?” he asks, eyes searching my face.
“Good.” I wrap my arms around his waist and step in for a hug, pressing my face against his hard chest. “I love you, Daddy.”
He makes a low noise that makes his chest rumble against my ear. “I love you too, sweetheart.”
I don’t let go of him, only squeezing harder, until he chuckles good-naturedly and says, “Okay, baby, take a seat at the table.”
Orange juice and toast has been put out for me and when I take a seat, he comes up behind me and starts to brush my hair-softly, from the ends, the way he learned to brush my curly hair when I was a kid. When he’s done, he deftly twines a French braid down the back and ties it off at the end.
I run my fingers over my head to feel the tidy, repeating ridges of hair. “Thanks, Xavier.”