by Cara Dee
“How about that, Miss Gem? You can clean.” I smell the hint of lemon, meaning she’s wiped off the surfaces properly, to boot. “Good girl.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. I nearly choke.
She, on the other hand, merely grins wider.
Dangerous territory.
I clear my throat, thankful when she pipes up about being hungry. Food—safe topic. I nod and agree to start dinner.
Something Italian should be nice, and I open the cabinet in the kitchen where I keep a handful of cookbooks.
“Would you mind getting my glasses, dear?” I open the book and flip to a familiar section. I have a thing for pasta with white wine sauce.
“Sure thing,” she says. “Where, upstairs?”
“In the library.” I trace a finger along the recipe, confirming we have all the ingredients.
*
I’m slicing up defrosted chicken when Gemma returns downstairs with my glasses and an odd look on her face. I wash my hands and eye her flushed cheeks, wondering if something’s wrong. She was happy a while ago. Speaking of, how long was she gone?
“Thank you.” I accept the glasses and slide them on. It’s a relief not to have to strain my eyes.
“No problem,” she mumbles and hops up to sit on the counter. “So, um…anything I can do to help?”
Sure, she can tell me why she’s struggling to make eye contact all of a sudden.
“No, that’s fine,” I respond slowly. “Is everything all right?”
At that, her head snaps up. Her eyes go wide. “Yeah. Yes, totally. Everything’s great.”
I arch a brow at her. “That was possibly the worst lie I ever heard, little Gem.” Little Gem—why do I think that fits her so much better?
She gulps and looks away in response, and I can’t help myself. She’s hiding something from me. Keeping my amusement at bay, I walk closer slowly, as if I’m a predator, and my approach earns me her attention again.
“I’m not lying.” She gets defensive and folds her arms over her chest when she realizes I’m not budging. God, she’s too easy to tease. Her eyes narrow, and the deep green of them has me trapped for a moment. How have I never noticed how beautiful her eyes are before? She’s not wearing any makeup anymore. “Hey, stop.” She splutters a nervous laugh. “I’m not fucking lying!”
“Watch your language.” I’m unable to hold it in anymore. Though a second later, I realize I’ve crossed a line, and I straighten and back off. What’s wrong with me?
Gemma takes a shaky breath. “Why do you care about my language?”
Taking another step back, I collect myself and choose my words with more care. “It’s not you. The Gemma Delaney I remember was…”
She licks her lips, and I certainly catch the action. Jesus.
“I was what?” When she exhales, there’s the faintest trace of sweetness in the air between us. Sweet from bubblegum.
Sweet. That’s it. “You were sweet,” I murmur. It’s something I don’t have in my life anymore, and I think I miss it.
“Sweet,” she repeats quietly. “You say it like you’re deprived.”
Maybe I am.
I smile faintly and ease out of the moment by refocusing on cooking. “It’s not my place to tell you how to speak,” I amend. “I’d appreciate less swearing, though.”
She watches me pensively. “Noted.”
*
Falling asleep that night is difficult. I toss and turn, my thoughts zigzagging between what I have and what I want. The more I discover online about certain fetishes and lifestyles, the farther away I drift from what I’m supposed to be happy about. Mainly, the woman I asked to marry me two years ago.
I give up on sleep and walk over to the large windows. The moon illuminates the expansive forest, and the snow on the ground shines icy blue. Icy blue. The color of Tina’s eyes. Closing my own, I pull forth thoughts of moments when I enjoyed spending time with her so much I could feel it in my marrow.
In the beginning of our relationship, she was funny. More down-to-earth. In between auditions, taking care of Gemma, and studying acting, she was easy to fall for. I was busy in grad school and at my internship, and I remember looking forward to the next time she’d tell me a corny joke to make me smile.
“What happened to us?” I scrub my hands over my face, staring unseeingly into the forest.
She’s not that person anymore. We’re both guilty of putting our careers first, but I can’t say I’ve grown cold and condescending the way she has. Perhaps I’m bitter, though. Resentful. It’s difficult getting over—even now, years later—the way she flipped and did a one-eighty before giving up custody of Gemma.
We changed after that, and it’s been steadily getting worse over the years.
Do I love her?
I figure…my feelings can’t be the same if I’m unsure.
I chuckle humorlessly to myself, recalling the month or handful of weeks following our engagement. Things seemed almost perfect, and she was more agreeable. It didn’t have to be her way or the highway. She was…sweeter. Though, the shine wore off quickly. We fought more than ever, and there was a rumor surfacing about her having an affair with a fellow actor. Thinking back on it now—how irrationally I reacted when I normally don’t pay an ounce of attention to industry gossip—I can’t help but wonder if I was subconsciously searching for a way out. I started sleeping in the guest room, I got tested, I no longer wanted to sleep with her…
I apologized eventually because there was no proof she had cheated on me, yet nothing truly changed. Other than my moving back in to our bedroom, we remained argumentative, we worked a lot, and when we happened to be home at the same time, sex was the last thing on my mind.
I don’t desire her anymore.
I can’t imagine her when I read about the dominance and submission lifestyles. I don’t see her face, her body, or her mind.
With a heavy sigh, I trudge back to my bed and sit down on the edge.
Admit it. Say it.
It makes me physically nauseated. Twenty-four hours was all it took. I can’t deny it: Gemma’s grown into a scandalously gorgeous young woman, and it would be incredibly fucking easy to see her that way. Even more so since speaking to Lily, who mentioned structure and rules.
The structure is one of the biggest draws for me. The whole concept of being responsible for someone, being in charge, the nurturing, and the caretaking, evokes an indescribable hunger in me.
Placing Gemma in that role shouldn’t.
She is off-limits. Forbidden.
There is a special place in hell for me.
Chapter 4
I distance myself slightly from Gemma over the next couple of days. Unable to shake the feeling that this newfound attraction toward her is taking things much, much too far, I spend my days in the library, reading or playing the piano. I don’t go online, for fear I’ll make it worse. My one exception was last night when I logged on to buy the album she’d worked on for her friend’s band. I listened to it for hours, not surprised one bit that she’s still an amazing musician.
Seeing her when we eat seems to be enough to smash more images into my head I can’t push back out; hearing her play gives each image an unforgettable melody. Once the seed has been planted…
I shake my head at myself and pull out the homemade pizza from the oven. “Gemma, lunch is ready!”
I’ve plated the pizza and poured two glasses of lemonade when she enters the kitchen with her nose in a book. Wait—book might be a stretch. At second glance, it looks like a graphic novel of some cartoon. My mouth twists up, only for it to be pressed into a thin line as I register what she’s wearing. Goodness. Pale yellow cotton shorts and a little white tee that stretches across her pert—don’t go there.
I swallow and stare at my food.
“This looks awesome, Mr. G.” She plops down across from me and digs in right away. “Ah—hot.” So she gulps down some lemonade.
“Careful, dear.” I take a bite, stud
ying her discreetly. She’s stopped using that black eyeliner. Her nails are painted in a subtle polish with only some gloss to it, and she seems to have taken a liking to those pigtails. Unfortunately, so have I.
It’s unbelievable I have to remind myself that she’s eighteen years my junior, and up until a few days ago, I was resigned to one day marry her biological mother. A mother I’ve spent the past fifteen years with.
It’s sick, isn’t it?
There’s a devil on my shoulder who’s eager to point out they’re not very alike, Tina and Gemma, as if that’d make it less twisted. Tina, the redhead with sharp features and tall frame. Then her daughter, the supple brunette with green eyes and youth written all over her. Short and sweet, perfect to tower over, cage in, and—
I clench my jaw and force out the thoughts.
It’s a ridiculous notion, regardless. Perhaps I’m incapable of killing the fantasy, but why stoke the fire? If it gets worse, the landing will turn into a crash once Gemma returns home. She has her whole life ahead of her. I’m approaching midlife and find new gray hairs on a daily basis. It doesn’t help how easily they stand out against nearly black. These days, when I smile or frown, faint lines appear. Keeping fit requires extra effort, and “Mmm, those silver pools can melt off my panties, handsome” has become “Are you sure those glasses are strong enough? You keep straining your eyes to see.”
I sigh and toss a bit of crust onto the plate.
I’ve turned into a right sad creature, haven’t I?
“This is delicious.” Gemma flashes me a quick grin and hums around the pizza. “You’re spoiling me.”
Hardly. I’m feeding her lunch.
“If I weren’t here to make you food, what would you do?” I ask curiously.
She chuckles. “Order in?”
“In this weather?” I look out the window. While we aren’t completely snowed in, it’s enough for the delivery services to charge a fortune to come out here. “You’re bad, Gemma.” I smile. “Perhaps I should teach you.”
“To cook?” Her eyes light up a little. “You’d do that for me?”
Well, yes. What’s so odd about that?
“Of course. If you want.”
She looks at me pensively, chewing and swallowing before speaking. “Do you cook a lot at home?”
I can’t help but laugh. “No. Definitely not.” It’s fun when I’m either alone or when there’s someone with me who appreciates it, but Tina is always on some diet, and I’m usually traveling, so… “Can you imagine Tina eating pizza?”
She purses her lips, hiding a smile, and looks down. “About her—I’ve been meaning to ask… When are you getting married?”
My stomach twists, and I clear my throat. Can’t say I have any interest in discussing Tina, but this time, I go with honesty. “I don’t believe we are. Things at home haven’t been good in a long time.”
“But you said—” She stops herself, and I smile ruefully. I didn’t say much when she asked on the way to the store. I dodged and told her work was keeping me busy and that Tina was Tina. Gemma appears to remember, and she lets out a “Huh.” She tilts her head, going for teasing. “Cold feet?”
I look under the table, then back to her. “No, they’re toasty warm, thank you.” I wink at her playful scowl. “I’m not sure it’s appropriate to discuss this with you, but I suppose I can say we’ve drifted apart. I want…different things.” Clearly, what Tina wants is a man who waits on her hand and foot. I refuse to do that anymore.
Gemma takes on a hesitant expression, and she bites her lip. “Can… Can I ask you a personal question?”
“Sure.”
Only, she doesn’t ask away. She starts fidgeting with her hair—damn pigtails again—and averts her eyes. A faint blush spreads over her cheeks.
“The, uh…the things you want,” she starts slowly, quietly, “they’re things Tina doesn’t want?”
Hmm, technically, I wouldn’t know because I haven’t asked her any specific questions about changing our entire relationship. I know her, though. I’ve also established that the lifestyle I’m interested in loses its appeal if I were to include her in the dynamic.
I go with honesty again. “I don’t want them with her.”
“Oh.” She looks down. “Is it…” Now she’s blushing furiously, and I cannot understand what could cause that reaction. “What you want…is it the…”
“Sweetheart,” I laugh quietly. “Just ask.”
“Fuck.” She covers her face with both hands, which makes her next words come out muffled. “IsittheDaddything?”
Isitthewhat?
“I’m sorry,” I chuckle, perplexed. “Is it the what?”
“The Daddy thing!” she blurts out, and while her eyes go wide, I squeeze mine shut. This is not happening. “I saw it on your laptop.” The words tumble out in a rush. “That day…when I went upstairs to get your glasses?”
Oh, for the love of… Embarrassed beyond words, I pinch the bridge of my nose and wish the ground would swallow me whole. This is not happening. Hell, I think we just ran so far past inappropriate we can’t even see it anymore.
“Anyway, I figured it was something you and Tina were into—”
“Please stop talking, Gemma.” My jaw ticks with tension, and it’s taking everything in me not to bolt from the room.
“So, it’s not something you do with her?”
“No!” I quickly get up from my chair, having no clue why. I need to be on my feet. I have to do something. Possibly find the closest escape. If Gemma’s not going to stop running that mouth of hers, then I’m leaving.
“Hey, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Mr. G.”
I spin around to face her again, expecting her to look casual, because that’s how her last words came out. Except, she’s far from it. Squirming in her seat, cheeks on fire, she refuses to make eye contact. I can’t blame her. I’m mortified.
“This not up for debate,” I tell her as calmly as I can muster. “It’s a very personal subject, one I certainly shouldn’t discuss with the girl who—for all intents and purposes—was once my stepdaughter.”
I take my leave before she can respond.
*
I spend the next couple of days avoiding all contact with Gemma. Cooking at odd times while she’s locked up in her room or she’s in the library, I make sure there are prepared meals whenever she wants. I eat in solitude, usually when the coast is clear in the library or if I go to my study.
We say a few words in passing; the house isn’t that large, though that’s it. I can barely stomach looking at her, much less speaking to her. Whatever little we say is stilted and awkward, and if I could turn back time to change the past, I would.
Simultaneously, the floodgates of my fantasies have opened, and I’m powerless to stop myself from picturing Gemma when I surrender to my desires at night. And in the shower. I punish her in my head for being such a temptation. I take advantage of her perfect little body over and over, only to be awash in shame afterward.
The library’s empty now, so I grab a tray with my lunch and head upstairs. Like the coward I am, I even double-check by poking my head in first. There we go, safe. I set the tray on my desk and take a seat— Why’s my laptop already powered up?
In a moment of quick thinking, I give the room a thorough scan, which is when I notice that I’m not alone in the library, after all. Oh God. I’m torn between amusement and unease. Her feet stick out from behind the leather couch by the window.
I can feel my mouth curve into a smile, but that changes when I return my focus to the laptop. It’s clear she’s used it, and… Goddammit. I check the browser history. It’s my personal computer. The things she can find on this thing are enough to send a wave of nausea crashing over me. However, that’s not what causes me to freeze. It’s the pages she has visited that make me stiffen in my seat.
My eyes flick between the screen and Gemma’s hideout.
Without thinking, I click on the addresses.
>
Daddy’s Little Girl—A Journey
My life as His baby slut
Confessions of Daddy’s girl
DD/lg, an introduction
Age play and regression—what’s the difference?
Finding Your Way In D/s
BDSM and Psychology
Last but not least, I notice the notepad next to the laptop where all these addresses have been scribbled down.
Jesus Christ, what is she doing?
Knowing that I can’t stick around, I mutter to myself—though, loud enough for her to hear—about forgetting utensils downstairs. I quietly grab the silverware from the tray before ducking out of the library. A trip to the kitchen to get something I don’t really need should be enough time for Gemma to get out.
*
Another day passes. Another day of avoiding and cowering away. I’ve spent all day reading, going through two novels and one memoir. If I don’t keep myself occupied, my mind will wander to Gemma’s research, which I’m not sure I can afford.
I trudge down the stairs and rub a kink out of my shoulder. My stomach snarls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since lunch.
That will have to wait, I decide as I reach the living room. Gemma is asleep on the couch, a thin blanket over her petite form. Walking over to her, I squat down next to the couch and brush a piece of hair away from her face, and I notice the small crease between her eyebrows. It shouldn’t be there; it makes her look troubled.
“Gemma.” I give her arm a gentle squeeze through the blanket. Unable to stop myself, I reach up and brush the pad of my thumb over that little line between her brows, smoothing it out. My God, she’s lovely. “Gemma, sweetheart, can you wake up?”
“Nngh…five more minutes,” she mumbles.
I smile, my chest constricting. “Don’t you think it’d be more comfortable to sleep in a bed?”
At that, she lets out a little whine. “No. All the way up there…” She waves a hand tiredly in the direction of the kitchen, though I suspect she means for it to be in the direction of the stairs. “Too tired.”