The Housekeeper's Daughter

by Palmer, Dee

  If I had any doubts, I wouldn’t have suggested this. I’m not an idiot, nor am I suicidal. I ignore her shaking hand and reach over and drop a small towel in the bowl of steaming water behind my head. I pick up the small dish with shaving cream and brush and hand it to her.

  “Mix it up until it’s all smooth and creamy.” I stroke my bottom lip with my tongue in a tortuously slow pass, which leaves a wicked smile in its wake. A squeak trapped in the back of her throat escapes. I pick the towel out and stretch up to squeeze it dry with both hands. She has to adjust to keep balance, and one hand rests over my heart to prevent her toppling forward. She must be able to feel my racing heart under her fingertips; it’s damn near cracking my sternum, and her telling smile reveals as much.

  “Not so calm now, hmm?” She tilts her head, and wry humour infuses her tone. “You can still change your mind.”

  “Not why my heart’s hammering, babe. Now get on with it. This hard-on won’t last all day.” I can’t keep a straight face. “I’m lying. Of course it will, but all the time we’re sitting here, I’m not in there fucking your brains out, and I know which one I’d rather be doing.”

  “And who said romance is dead.”

  “The same dickhead who thinks romance is all about chocolates and flowers,” I say with complete seriousness. To belabour my point and clarify I’m not being a dick, I continue. “Romance is a gift of something precious, something shared between two people, it can’t be quantified or measured or bought.”

  “It’s the little things.” She blinks those impossibly long lashes at me, fixes her gaze, and snares my heart with the depth of tenderness, adoration, and love in that look.

  “Hey, who said anything about little?”

  “Aaaand there’s the precious moment gone.” She sighs, and before the breath is out of her mouth, I sit bolt upright and smash my lips to hers, sealing my sentiment with a brutally passionate kiss.

  “I love you. You have my heart, Tia.” I cover her hand and keep it captured against my chest. A soft smile picks at the corners of her lips. “I trust you in here.” I tap the side of my head with my free hand. “And the second we’ve proved this trust is restored and you put the razor down, I will worship you with everything I am, my body and soul, my gift to you.” She’s speechless for all of a second.

  “Okay.” She grins with renewed confidence and determination.

  “Good girl.” I take the towel and press it against my beard. The heat is intense and feels good. I rub and leave it there for a few moments longer. I told her already what she needs to do, showed her how to hold my skin taut, angle the blade so as not to slice the skin but to cut with the grain, as it were. I’ve done this a hundred times; however, I’ve never had it done, and I’m not remotely nervous. “You’ve got this, baby.” She gives a little nod, and with the heel of her hand to my forehead, she pushes my head back. My throat is arched, and I swallow the thick lump with the new awkward angle. She raises a tentative brow.

  “It’s just the angle. I’m not nervous. If anything, I’m really fucking turned on. This is all kinds of hot.”

  “Not sure I agree.”

  “So you’re dripping on my leg for another reason?” I retort.

  “You’re naked…do I need another reason?”

  “As long as I’m the only reason.”

  “Hold still.” She taps a warning on my cheek with the tip of the shaving brush and follows it by smearing a cool tingle of thick shaving cream. She methodically works in circles, stimulating and covering every damn hair follicle on my face. Much to her irritation I have to keep lifting my head and peek at her. She’s engrossed, and it’s adorable. My hands are busy, sweeping her skin with long, languorous strokes from the crook at her knee to the crease of her thighs. I’m not trying to distract her. I’m trying to distract me.

  Her eyes meet mine when she places the bowl and brush down and reaches for the razor. She carefully slides the blade free and the sunlight dances along the fine, sharp edge. The reflection catches in her eyes, and she blinks. I hold her gaze for long, sensual seconds. The tension has been rocketing with every swirl of the brush, every hot breath bursting across my face and every erotically charged glance. Even the lightest sigh, subtle roll of her hips or slight tremble when my fingers brush an unseen sensitive spot, I feel in the deepest parts of me. She’s everywhere.

  She sucks in a deep breath, and her whole body tenses as she draws the blade down the left side of my cheek. I feel the scrape and coolness of the newly exposed, hair-free skin but nothing else. She moves over my face like she owns it—she does—and wipes the blade clean after each stroke. I can feel the tension flow out of her each time she makes a cut-free pass at my face.

  My throat feels like it’s on fire when she’s finished but still no pain. I wasn’t expecting any. I knew she’d be good at this. She’s almost finished, and I’ve been allowed to hold my head upright since she finished with my throat and has been working only on my face. She smoothly moves the blade around my mouth and I have to fight the urge to smile. Her nose has a permanent line across the bridge, concentration creasing her brow, and her face is so close, I’m having trouble focusing. If she wasn’t wielding the blade, I might be tempted to steal a kiss.

  “No moustache even?” She pulls back and quirks a curious grin.

  “Everything gone.” I confirm.

  “Okay, you’re the boss.”

  “Not with the blade in your hand I’m not, but I will be…soon.” Teasing with a hint of threat makes her shiver.

  She pinches my nose and tugs it unceremoniously to the side, using the palm of her hand to keep the tension in my skin. A few more strokes and she’s done. Just in time. I feel like my balls are going to explode. She takes the damp towel and wipes any residue off my face before throwing it in the laundry basket and appraising her work with a critical eye. I can only hope her gaze reflects mine, because the view is picture fucking perfect. I’m looking at nothing but absolute joy, love, and a heady helping of lust.

  “Gosh, you’re handsome.” Her cheeks flash with colour, and just as soon as the blade hits the side, I attack. My hands spear beneath her arms, and I lift her high with my rising body.

  “And you are fucking hot.” I stride into the bedroom, my erection bobbing just beneath the curve of her arse. When I drop her on the bed I’m only a fraction of a second behind, unable to bear any distance between us. I smother her body with mine, capturing her mouth in a frenzy of passionate kisses. Hungry and urgent, I dive into her welcoming body.

  “Thank you.” Her finger draws doodles on my chest; it tickles and feels fantastic too. Our legs are a tangled mess with her body wrapped like a vine around mine. Every part that could be touching is touching and I’m in fucking heaven.

  “For what?” I peer down as she peeks up, her cheek squished against a wall of hard muscle.

  “You know what. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I trust you, Tia.”

  “I get it now, so thank you.”

  “No need to thank me. Just make me a nice cuppa, and we’ll call it even.” I grab a fistful of her arse cheek, massaging it possessively.

  “Sounds fair.” She shuffles toward the end of the bed when I relinquish my hold and rummages to find her T-shirt from the pile of discarded clothes on the floor. Slipping it over her head, she sniffs with a laugh when she sees the dark frown drop heavily on my grumpy face. Fucking crime right there.

  “What if someone comes to the door? One of us should at least be decent.” She rolls her eyes and shakes her head at my reply.

  “After what we’ve just done? T, that ship has long since sailed away.”

  “Another fair point.” She giggles, and the light, happy sound fills the room and makes my damn heart forget to beat. “Right then, Mister Demanding, a cup of tea time.” She slides off the bed, makes it just two steps before turning and backtracking to drop a tender kiss on my lips, skimming the ghost of my beard with the back of her finger.


  “Gosh, you’re handsome.”

  “So you prefer it?” I rub my hand over the unfamiliar terrain of my face.

  “I prefer you, beard or no beard; it doesn’t matter to me.”

  “Well, I thought clean shaven is probably called for.”

  “Called for what?” She drops one hip, and her face scrunches with an adorable confused expression.

  “Your birthday and our date.”

  “Date?”

  “Remind me never to get a parrot.”

  “Funny, I don’t mean to repeat everything you say, but you did just say date, right?”

  “I did. Tomorrow is your birthday, and I’m taking you out.” I tuck my hands behind my head and relish the delicious way her eyes devour the landscape of my chest and torso. She’s only distracted for a second but it makes me smile wide and wicked all the same.

  “Where?”

  “It’s a surprise, but suffice to say, I thought it warranted a clean shave.”

  “Oh my god, we’re going to have dinner with the Queen,” she gushes, bouncing on her toes with excitement.

  “Cute.” She grins and then panic clouds her eyes.

  “I don’t have anything to wear if we’re going anywhere fancy.”

  “I thought we could fix that today.”

  “Really?”

  “Just as soon as I get my damn tea, woman.”

  “I’m on it!” She skids to the door in her bare feet and swings it wide open. Her footsteps disappear down the hallway, and I take in a moment of calm. I feel relaxed and, for the first time in a long time, truly happy. Tia’s birthday plans didn’t fill me with dread, and if I didn’t have the niggling concern of my sister plaguing my every thought I would say life is pretty fucking perfect. I hear the doorbell, and Tia speaking to a delivery person, then the soft padding of her footsteps approaching.

  “Ahhh!” She screams just out side my door and there’s a crescendo crash of crockery, cursing to make a sailor blush followed by soft coaxing sounds. I’m on my feet in an instant.

  “You okay? What happened? Are you hurt?” I take in the bull in a china shop debris and Tia sitting crossed legged in the middle of the hallway, cradling a ginger ball of trouble.

  “You got a cat?”

  “Oh my god, you got a cat.” I answer my own obvious question and lift the surprisingly stocky furball into my arms. The cat moulds around my neck, making itself comfortable. It has the softest fur and the purring sound that rumbles from its little ribcage is hypnotic. I’m instantly in love.

  “Not exactly.” Logan narrows his eyes at the interloper now softly padding its front paws into the pillow of my breasts.

  “Explain?” I scratch the soft golden fur behind its ear and watch it arch into the sublime pleasure of it all.

  “He sort of adopted me,” Logan grumbles with absolutely no conviction. I smile and laugh at the grouchy downturn of his pout. “He turned up one morning and just sort of stayed for a few days then disappears and reappears whenever the fuck he likes. A little like you in that respect.” He keeps his tone impassive, even as his eyes crinkle with humour.

  “You’re so funny.” I grin a forced, fake smile. He ruffles my hair to soften the jibe, and I return my attention to the new love of my life. “So he has a home somewhere else, you think?”

  “I asked the postman if he recognised him. He didn’t, but said he’d ask around and check the lampposts for missing cat notices. As of yet, no one has claimed him.”

  “Well, he doesn’t look like a stray. He’s got a little belly on him.” The cat has curled onto his side, and the soft swell of his tummy is rising with his gentle purring breaths.

  “That’s because he’s a crafty little thief jumping on my worktops and stealing anything left unattended. Also a little like you, well, you in the beginning at least.”

  “Hmm.” The cat seems totally at ease, relaxed and floppy in my lap, melding and filling the space like water, purring a gentle rhythmic sound. “Does he have a name?”

  “Yes, he’s called Cat.” I snort and laugh at Logan’s completely serious reply.

  “We could call him Sid. I bet he’s just like Six Dinner Sid from the children’s book, bouncing from house to house in the neighbourhood and tricking each of his ‘owners’ into feeding him.”

  “I don’t feed him; he takes whatever the fuck he likes.”

  “Aww he’s adorable, Logan. Look, he’s a real snuggler, just like you.”

  “The fuzzball’s got more hair than I do, that’s for sure.” Logan drags his hand over his clean-shaven face. I would get a twinge of guilt if he didn’t flash the most adoring and reassuring smile.

  “He does. Can we keep him?

  “I don’t think it’s a case of keeping him. Like I say, he does whatever the hell he likes. I don’t even know how the little fucker gets in the house half the time.” Logan drops down to his haunches and lightly strokes the underside of Sid’s chin. Sid perks up, seeking more contact from Logan, who has already jumped to his feet and moved back into the bedroom.

  “Would you like some milk, Sid?” I roll onto my knees and awkwardly get to my feet. Balance is an issue since, while hugging my new best friend, I’m without the aid of my arms.

  “What about my tea?” I roll my eyes at Logan’s disgruntled tone and turn on my heel to face him sprawled glorious and naked on the bed. One arm rests behind his head as he flicks through the newspaper, which covers his dangly bits, with the other.

  “Come on, Sid, let’s go and make the grumpy human some tea and see what little treat I can find for you.” My voice is comically mocking, and Logan squints at the creature in my arms, as if there’s suddenly a new alpha in town.

  “Tea first though, right?”

  “I’m ready!” I yell as I bound down the stairs, unable to contain my excitement at this monumental event. My cheeks ache with the smile splitting my face in two, and I have to press my palm to my chest to contain the joyous pain of my thumping heart.

  Logan and I are going shopping. I grab my bag, slip my denim jacket over my shoulders, and scoop the tangle of messiness that is my wild and just fucked hair into a passable bun. The light summer dress with its tiny floral print and cinched waist, flowing skirt, and three small buttons at the v-neckline hangs to my knees and is the smartest thing I own. Logan said he is taking us into the centre of town on a busy Friday, and I am stunned into awed silence at his imposing figure blocking out the sunlight of the open front door. Tall enough I have to tip my head right back when I step up close and personal. His long hair pulled back into a sexy as all hell man bun, which, honestly, not many men can pull off. His dark jeans hang perfectly from his narrow hips, and the plain white t-shirt clings to every bump and ripple of muscles, and I feel both parched and wet in the all the right places. He looks delicious. He scoops his arm around my waist, tugging me up his body onto my tiptoes, and kisses me, sharp, deep and indecently passionate. I’m dazed when he releases me, and I would slump to the floor if he didn’t keep his firm hold of my body. My lips feel bruised and tingle with the aftershock of the kiss. Man, he can kiss

  “About time. You look stunning, by the way.” He rakes his greedy gaze over me, and I feel it in my core, heat and desire in equal measure. I shrug off the intensity or we’ll never leave the house.

  “Pretty much the only dress I own.”

  “Not for long, Come on, angel, let’s get you into some clothes.” He pulls the door wide, and his body tenses with the burst of fresh air, but he steps over the threshold without hesitation. The great outdoors is not the cause of irritation and it takes a moment for the penny to drop.

  “It hurts to say that doesn’t it?”

  “You have no idea,” he grumbles, and I chuckle against his neck, kissing a placatory path to his mouth, turning his tight-lipped grouch into a glorious self-satisfied smile.

  The taxi driver takes his time through no fault of his own, just the weight of London traffic, as we head from the outskirts and into the t
hick of the West End. Logan tells the driver to stop just on the corner of Hyde Park at the top end of Piccadilly.

  The sun is high, and the streets are filled with tourists taking in this very old and very beautiful city. Logan holds my hand in his and wraps it around his waist, his own arm dropping heavily over my shoulders. I find I fit perfectly under his arm, and we slip seamlessly into a synchronised pace as we head into town along Piccadilly and up Burlington Arcade. The high end men’s shoe shops and jewellers hold little interest other than admiring the craftsmanship and classic designs of timeless pieces. We hit the bottom of New Bond Street, and I get a thrill of nervous anticipation.

  “Oooh fancy!” I drop some sass with my hip and purse my lips with a wry, mocking smile.

  “Only the best for the one true Kraus heiress,” Logan states and I freeze even if his tone is joking. My stomach churns with a wave of nausea.

  “I’m not an heiress, Logan.” I swallow saliva pooling in my mouth and fight the strong urge to throw up. Logan turns to me and his strong arms embrace me, quelling the rise of anxiety and sorrow consuming me every time since the fire that I’ve ventured to think about any of this. I feel utterly robbed of the truth by people I trusted, people who were supposed to care. My mother, Oskar, and even Atticus, although I think he was just as much in the dark. However, it doesn’t ease the devastation.

  “You think Atticus was lying? You think that was some sort of game?” Logan speaks against my hair, kissing softly after he speaks. I shake my head and look up as he looks down, tender concern etching his strong, dark, and ridiculously handsome features.

  “No. Not a game. He didn’t know the whole truth; I’m sure of that. Still, I don’t know what to think.” I sigh with frustration because it’s the truth. “The trouble I have is I can’t trust my own judgment. I mean, I don’t know him at all, not anymore, and I have to assume I never did. I don’t know what he’s capable of. I never would’ve believed he was capable of blowing up Tartarus Hall, but he did. He loved that place. He said it was the only home he’d ever had, the only time he was ever truly happy, yet boom! None of it makes sense.”