In my fantasy, I grab all that long red hair and make a ponytail of it in my fist, pulling her head back and rubbing the head of my cock against the tiny, tight, wet entrance of her pussy. Before I can even imagine plunging myself into her, I come with a gasp, my hot, sticky seed spurting over my hand and euphoria washing over me in waves. I have to breathe deeply-one, two, three big gulps of air-as my heart rate comes back down to normal and the waves of heat pass over me.
When I finally do wipe myself clean and roll over to sleep, it’s under a cloud of shame.
There’s something wrong with me. There’s something very fucking wrong with me.
*****
Hazel
*****
i stay in bed longer than usual in the morning, wanting to put off seeing Xavier. I’m equal parts angry at him for grounding me, and guilty for disobeying him.
Sigh.
Eventually, I pull my hair-too much hair, I think, as usual-into a messy bun and pull on some yoga pants and head downstairs.
Xavier is in the kitchen hovering over the Nespresso machine, which roars as it spits out his coffee.
“Morning.”
“Morning, Hazel.” He raises his eyes to me without turning his head, his expression condescending as fuck. My shoulders tense with irritation. I don’t want to have this confrontation. I wish last night had never happened.
It’s a Saturday morning and for once Xavier isn’t dressed for work in his usual crisp button-down and suit jacket. He’s wearing grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt that clings to the rock solid muscle of his chest and arms. My stepfather doesn’t sleep much, which is how he manages to be extraordinarily fit for someone who’s a workaholic. His secret is that before he starts his twelve-hour day at a desk, he gets up before dawn and works out for almost two hours. He’s exhausting just to think about.
He looks fit in a suit, his shoulders and arms lending definition to anything he wears, but in a t-shirt it’s even more obvious. The bulges in his biceps are differentiated by strong lines, and when I find myself staring at them I have to rip my eyes away.
I pull the orange juice out of the fridge and grab a heavy, expensive water glass from a cabinet lined with matching glasses. It’s such a contrast to how mornings were only a week ago in the apartment. The shitty faucet that leaked around the base when I poured water, which was the only thing I had to drink. There certainly wasn’t any freshly-squeezed orange juice. There wasn’t a bread box neatly stacked with organic bread and a package of fresh brioche buns.
If ever there was a time I was truly grounded, it was the five weeks I spent on my own in that apartment with no money for food or anything else.
Nothing could ever be like that around Xavier. He would never abandon me.
Or at least, he never has before. But what happened last night feels like the worst thing I’ve ever done. After last night, I don’t know if he can ever see me in the same way again.
I grab a bun as the last of Xavier’s coffee spits out into his cup, and he lifts it from the machine and turns around with a tight, tense breath.
Despite myself, I notice the flat washboard of his stomach underneath his shirt and then worse: Before I can even stop my brain from going there, I take in the suggestion of something heavy shifting in the front of his sweatpants as he leans back and crosses his ankles. A flash of searing heat goes through me. It’s shame mixed with something else…shame and…oh God, just the briefest shock of arousal. My cheeks warm and I press my lips together and lift my chin in defiance of my own weird, inappropriately wandering thoughts.
“Sweetheart,” he says tersely, like he’s trying to make his voice sound soft, but failing. He sounds aggravated and tired. “Can we sit down and have a chat, please?”
“Sure.” The tone of his voice puts me on edge. I wish for once he could be chill, relaxed. He’s always wound tight, on the edge of some emotion, wrestling with self-control.
He and Melanie are exact opposites, I think, following him over to the dining room table and sitting where he indicates. I wonder if that’s what they liked about each other. She’s free-spirited and fun; he’s rigid and serious.
Although…the weird thing is that underneath they’re both the opposite of themselves. Melanie is a roiling pit of rage under her big smiles and wild ideas, and Xavier is warm, loving and sincere under the surface of his near-constant tension.
I try to bear that in mind as he pulls out the chair at the head of the table and runs a hand over the stubble of beard across his jaw before speaking.
“I know you’ve probably gotten used to living by your own rules,” he starts, keeping his eyes on his mug of coffee as he speaks. “And God knows what you’ve been through. But at your age, sweetie, there still needs to be an adult in your life-”
I cut him off before he can continue. “I’m eighteen.”