Nurturing Britney (Surrender Book 7)

by Becca Jameson

  He does none of those things though. Instead, he breaks free, breathing heavily, and smiles at me. He eases me off his lap and stands me on my feet in front of him. I’m wobbly but he holds my hips until I have my balance.

  He sets me back a few inches and stands. His hands go to my face. “I brought a few other things from your apartment, but not many.”

  “Oh, right. Good. Some clothes?”

  He takes my hand and leads me into the kitchen. There’s a bag on the counter I hadn’t paid attention to earlier. It’s one of my duffels.

  I’m still unsteady from the earth-shaking kiss, so I hold on to the edge of the counter as he grabs my bag. He opens it and pulls out my phone charger, holding it up. “Figured you’d need this.”

  I glance toward my phone. It’s on the other end of the counter, probably dead. “Yeah.”

  He puts his hand back on the duffel and looks at me. “Will you please let me replace your clothes? I brought a few things, but all you have are threadbare jeans and loose T-shirts. Why don’t you find your inner girl, the one you left behind in first grade? Give her a try. The girl who stopped wearing pink and dresses is inside you. She missed out. She deserves to have her day.”

  I nod slowly, wondering what clothes he’s bought me. “Okay.”

  He hesitates and then pulls in a breath. “I brought one other thing from your apartment. It was the only thing in your entire place that was pink.”

  I frown. I don’t own anything pink that I know of.

  Finally, he lifts something else out of my bag and holds it up.

  I nearly die. My knees are weak.

  He’s grinning mischievously as he continues to hold up my vibrator. “I thought you might be missing this. I mean, I don’t know how often you use it, but I didn’t want to leave it behind.” He’s teasing me.

  I’m certain my face has been red most of the morning, but the heat on my cheeks now is going to start a fire. I look at him. “Davis,” I yell, “put that back in the bag. You’re embarrassing me.”

  He sets it down on top of my clothes but doesn’t close the bag, so it’s still visible. He comes toward me, stalking really. I back up, but he catches me and wraps an arm around my waist, tugging me against his body. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist. I would have just left it in there and said nothing, letting you discover it in the bag. But that would have embarrassed you too. And then I decided I didn’t really want you to have those jeans and shirts anyway…”

  “You could have left it behind at my apartment and not said a word,” I point out, my hands flat on his chest, my humiliation still burning my cheeks.

  He chuckles. “Sweetie, every woman has a vibrator or two. I’d be more shocked if you didn’t, especially since I now know you haven’t had anyone else taking care of you.” He lifts a brow. “However…”

  “Oh, God. What now?”

  He gives me an evil grin. “I think I’ll just keep it for now.”

  “What?” My eyes go wide. “Why bring it up at all and then keep it?” I squirm in his arms. For once, I’m aroused with a man. He’s embarrassing me for my sexuality, and he’s going to deny me?

  Another chuckle. “Yeah, I think I’ll keep it. Denial does amazing things to a woman. How about you keep your hands away from your sweet little pussy while we’re getting to know each other?”

  “What?” I’m stunned. It’s not like I masturbate all the time or anything. Hell, I’m usually too tired to even think of it, but did he just tell me not to?

  “You heard me. Don’t touch your pussy. Let the arousal build.”

  “How long are you planning to deny me?” I ask. It’s the boldest thing I’ve ever said.

  He shrugs. “I’ll decide that.”

  “How would you even know? Maybe I don’t need that vibrator to get myself off,” I point out, again with the boldness that’s coming from I don’t know where.

  He pulls one of my hands up between us and kisses my fingers. “I’ll know. Don’t try me. If you think the consequences for cussing are harsh, wait until you find out what I do to naughty girls who get themselves off without permission.”

  I shiver. He’s so intense. I can’t think how to respond to that, so I change the subject. “You’ve said sorry twice. I think that should cancel out two of my thank yous.”

  Oh, that grin. It’s evil. “But you forgot my rule.”

  I flinch. “You make all the rules…”

  “Yep.”

  “I’m not sure I like this game.”

  His hand slides down to my butt and gives me a little swat. “You do, and you will. Trust me.” He releases me and backs up.

  The doorbell rings, and he smiles. “That will be your clothes.”

  I follow him, but he turns around and holds out a hand to stop me. “Stay there. I don’t want anyone to see you.”

  Right. Jesus. He has scrambled my brain and made me forget my stupid life is in danger and I’m in hiding.

  I watch from the kitchen as he steps outside and then comes back in carrying an armload of packages.

  After he shuts the door, I approach. “That’s a lot of stuff, Davis.”

  He shrugs as he continues walking down the hallway.

  I follow him into my room, and watch as he drops everything on my unmade bed.

  He turns to face me. “I have a new idea.”

  I lean against the door frame and groan. “I’m not sure I like your ideas so far.”

  “You do, and you will,” he repeats, chuckling.

  “Instead of me letting you dig through all this, how about if we keep it a surprise? I’ll give you new clothes every day, and keep the rest so that you never know what you’re going to get, and every day is Christmas.” He’s so excited about his plan, and he even scoops it all back up and walks past me, heading for his own room now.

  I’ve only seen the master bedroom from the doorway when I stood here last night. I enter behind him now. “Davis, this is silly.” But kind of fun, I have to admit.

  “But you like it,” he tells me. He heads for the closet and puts all the packages inside on the floor before closing it. When he turns around, he claps his hands together, so pleased with himself. “Now, new rule.”

  I groan again, though my heart rate has picked up.

  “Two new rules, actually.”

  My eyes widen as he saunters toward me. “No more groaning. I’m adding groaning to the thank you and cussing list.”

  I bite my lip to stop the next sound that was surely going to be another groan.

  He tips my chin back and meets my gaze. “You were right. Even though your apartment was ransacked, I could see you’re a slob.”

  My face heats.

  “I’m gonna break that habit. Go make your bed, and from now on make it every day before you come out of your room.”

  I lick my lips. Something about his tone turns me on. The man is asking me to make my bed—no, he’s telling me to—and I’m aroused? What’s wrong with me?

  He lifts a brow. God, I’m starting to love when he does that. It’s so alpha. It speaks volumes without words.

  “I suppose that goes on the list of items that have mysterious repercussions?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yep. You’ll have chores. I expect you to do them every day. It will cure you of your untidiness.” He grins, so proud of himself.

  “Chores,” I return, my voice deadpan.

  “Yep. I’ll make a list.”

  “Another list?” I’m grinning though.

  He winks at me. “I like lists.”

  “I’m not good at lists.” I’m not kidding. I’ve tried to keep lists before. It never lasts a full day. I usually lose the list in less than an hour.

  “You will be.” He kisses my forehead and slides his hand down to mine, giving a tug to lure me out of his room and down to mine. He points at my bed.

  I look up at him, see his serious expression, and then scurry over to make my bed. I can feel him
watching me. It’s unnerving. I wonder if he’ll criticize how I make my bed. Is he strict about that too?

  He says nothing though, and when I’m done, I find him leaning in the doorway. “Good girl.”

  I feel a ridiculous sense of pride as I return to his side. All I did was make my damn bed, for heaven’s sake. Granted, I’ve never done that before in my life I don’t think, and it’s silly to do so at the instruction of a man I’m staying with…

  But he’s smiling at me like I’ve pleased him greatly.

  And I like how he looks at me.

  I like how he touches me too.

  His hand lands on the top of my head and runs down over my hair. He lifts a section of it. “That foster mom you had when you were six was a lunatic and a child molester, but perhaps I should thank her. Your hair is truly gorgeous. Without her abuse, maybe you never would have grown it out like this.”

  I start to thank him and then snap my mouth shut.

  He chuckles, wraps an arm around my shoulders, and leads me into the living room. When we reach the sofa, he releases me. “Did your boss try to call or text you when you didn’t show up for work?”

  I nod. “Yes. There are several messages on my phone. I didn’t read them. The thought of listening to his voice or seeing his words makes me cringe.”

  “Do you mind if I look, sweetie?”

  I nod and drop down onto the sofa, scrambling to tuck my skirt under me when I remember I’m not wearing jeans as my bare thighs hit the cool leather. “Go ahead.”

  He touches my face first, looking me in the eye before he heads toward the kitchen counter where he plugged my phone in.

  I love how often he touches me. Does he have any idea how he affects me or how I’m falling for him? He said he’s into me. Did he mean it? I’m not his type. I’m young and poor and uneducated. I’ve been scraping by as a stripper. Surely, he’s just being nice or he’d realize how absurd it would be to date me.

  My chest tightens as I consider the fact that our entire foundation will happen alone in his home. Maybe if the situation were different and he took me outside of the house, he would be embarrassed. I would look ridiculous next to him. He’s more than twice my size. Built. He’s been in the military and has a grownup job. He’s established.

  I’m no one. Just a pretty face. I haven’t lived life like he has. Not that I’m embarrassed about my job choice. It paid the bills. It was legitimate work. I did what I had to do to survive. I’ve never been on the streets. I’ve never been hungry and unable to afford at least something to eat. I consider myself resourceful and lucky in some respects.

  I ease into the corner of the couch and pull my knees up, carefully covering them with my dress before setting my chin on them and rocking forward. My gaze is on a random spot across the room as I remind myself how fucked I am. Maybe I wasn’t destitute before now, but I’m in a heap of trouble. I’ve lost one job for sure and probably both. Cindy can only hold my spot for so long before she has to replace me.

  What’s going to happen to my apartment if I don’t pay the rent? I don’t own much, but I bought everything in there over months with every dollar I earned. It would take me a long time to replace my belongings if I’m not able to retrieve them. What would I do with my stuff anyway? It’s not like I could afford a storage unit. I can’t even leave the house to pack it up.

  I’m so fucked.

  “Britney?”

  I jerk my gaze to the side as Davis sits next to me. He sets a hand on my back. “You okay?”

  I swallow. I’m not okay.

  “What happened? You were smiling a moment ago. I turned around after reading your messages and found you staring into space looking like the bottom has fallen out of your world.” He smooths his hand up and down my back, my hair tangling in his fingers as usual.

  I look back across the room.

  “Talk to me, sweetie.”

  I sigh. “I was just thinking about how f—, how screwed I am.”

  He slides closer and pulls me against his side. It’s calming, but it won’t solve my problems. “You’re safe here. I promise.”

  “I’m not worried about today or tomorrow. I’m worried about next week. I’m going to lose that apartment. I can’t afford to pay the rent. It’s not like I have savings. I’ll lose my furniture. I worked hard to acquire all that.”

  He reaches for my chin and gently tips my head back in a manner I’m growing accustomed to. “I don’t want you to worry about your apartment. I’m not going to kick you out on the street. You’ll have a place to stay.”

  “I can’t stay here forever, Davis. I’m mooching off you.”

  “You’re not mooching. I want you here. Have I not made that clear?”

  I sigh, my shoulders dropping. “Okay, but you’ll get tired of me soon, and I’ll need to move out. When this threat is over, I’ll need to get my shit back together.”

  He lifts a brow and smirks.

  I roll my eyes. I’ve cussed again. “Add it to the mysterious list,” I toss at him sarcastically.

  He chuckles. “Okay, but that’s two infractions.”

  “How do you figure?” I ask as I drop my knees and face him fully.

  “The second one is for your sassy tone.” He wiggles his brows.

  I gasp. “Not fair. You didn’t add sassiness to the list of rules,” I point out with every ounce of sass I can muster.

  He shrugs. “Now I have, and now you’ve got two. What are we up to now? Seven?”

  “Ugh.” I lean my head back and look at the ceiling. “Maybe you should keep a tally on the refrigerator with my chore chart,” I say, every bit as snarky as before.

  “Oh, that’s a good idea.” He laughs. “I’ll do that.”

  I lower my gaze to stare at him, wondering if he’s joking. I squeeze my thighs together too because for some reason his rules and lists make me horny. I’ve lost a few marbles.

  Fifteen minutes later, I find out he was most definitely not kidding. He lifts me up to sit on one of the island stools while he makes lunch, and then pulls out two pieces of paper and a pen from the same drawer as earlier and hands them to me.

  “What’s this for?”

  “One is for your naughty tally. The other is for your chore chart.” He turns around and opens the refrigerator, leaving me to stare at his back. There was no humor in his voice. Just statements.

  Fine. I can play this game. I shift my weight from one thigh to the other and then write “chore chart” at the top of one page and “naughty tally” on the top of the other. I give myself seven tally marks on the naughty list. I would list all the things that constitute naughtiness, but since I don’t know them all, and it would seem I’ll be informed as the infractions are made, I can’t really do that.

  “Make. My. Bed,” I state out loud as I write those words on my chore chart next to a bullet point. “What else would you like me to list, Sir?”

  He spins around fast and meets my gaze. His expression is one of shock that quickly changes to calm, but he’s breathing deeply.

  I’m taken aback. I have no idea what made him react like that.

  He straightens, takes a deep breath, and glances at the page, the sudden shift in his demeanor disappearing as fast as it showed up. “Let’s see… Dirty clothes go in the hamper.”

  I giggle and write that down. “Next?”

  He chuckles.

  This is an odd game we’re playing, but I love interacting with him, so I don’t care how strange it is. It seems sort of normal for the two of us, like it’s our dynamic.

  I feel kind of young and I find I like this plan. I’ve never had legitimate chores before. Not ones that were attainable. “I know,” I declare. “Put my dishes in the dishwasher.”

  “Good one,” he glances at me while he makes sandwiches. “Put your toys away,” he adds, pointing the knife at my paper.

  I laugh again. “If I had toys. If I ever had toys…” I feel nostalgic for the little girl who never had things of her own.
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  “I’ll get you some, and then you’ll have them, and you can put them away.”

  I giggle again as I add it to the list. “Brush my teeth twice a day,” I murmur as I add that next. And then I start making little squares next to the list, a row of them next to each item.

  Davis comes over to set a plate in front of me and asks, “What are the squares for?”

  I lift my gaze and give him a shocked look. “If I’m going to have chores, I think I at least deserve stickers as a reward for doing them.” I stop writing, freezing up, gripping the pen as a memory washes over me.

  “What’s wrong, sweetie?” Davis asks, his hand on the back of my head.

  I let it spill out. “I had a foster mother who had a sticker chart for her kids. I wasn’t with that family long, but I remember wishing I could be included in the sticker chart. I don’t think she meant to hurt me. She was one of the nicer ones, but she didn’t realize how I envied those stickers each night when she gave them to her kids to add to the chart.” I shudder.

  Davis kisses the top of my head and points to the paper. “Finish the squares. I’ll get you stickers.”

  I bite my lip, not lifting my gaze as I continue with shaky fingers. I feel silly. It’s ridiculous that as a grown woman I’m about to cry real tears over a childhood staple I missed out on. They’re just stupid stickers. I shouldn’t care now.

  But I do care, and somehow I know Davis will buy them and use them. I know it in my soul. And it may be strange, but I’m not going to point it out because I want the damn experience I missed out on.

  I’m not a kid. Davis is not my Daddy.

  I shudder. Where on earth did that thought come from? I glance at him. He’s so handsome and I’m so attracted to him. I love the way he touches me and how he looks at me. It certainly isn’t like a parent. Good grief.

  I shake the odd thought and add more chores to the list. “Keep my bathroom clean.” “Help make dinner.” “Empty the dishwasher.”

  As Davis returns to set two glasses of water on the table, he lifts my chin and meets my gaze. He kisses my lips gently and then continues to stare at me as if he’s reading me. “Good girl.” He smooths his hand over my head again and takes his seat. “Let’s eat.” His voice is lower, rough, emotional? I can’t tell for sure, but I don’t comment. I push the papers from my silly game out of the way.