by Huss, JA
She looks at me in the mirror and frowns.
“What?”
“You want to buy me a wedding dress?”
“If you want a new one, I will.”
“Hmm,” she says.
“So that’s a yes?”
She shrugs. “Why not. Unzip me.” She lifts her long hair up, because this time she really needs to, and I can’t help myself. I watch her breasts rise in the mirror.
I unzip the dress, exposing her bare back again, and then she drops her hair and it brushes against the back of my hands.
My cock is really jumping now.
“Take it off me,” she whispers.
“Lyssa,” I say, shaking my head.
“Come on,” she says, meeting my eyes in the mirror. “Just help me out of the dress, Mason.”
There is this internal debate running through my head. On the one hand, she’s clearly unstable. Needs a lot of therapy, this one. And she’s going to marry some guy in a little over a week. She’s trying on her wedding dress, for fuck’s sake. So there is no other answer to her request except a very firm no.
And never mind that we’ve already fooled around, that was before I realized how messed up she is. If we did it now, I’d be taking advantage of her.
But on the other hand… she’s not married yet. Plus, that whole we’ve-already-messed-around argument kinda goes both ways. And she doesn’t even want to get married. I’m ninety percent certain it’s not gonna happen, even if I do manage to get her to “the day”.
“Do you always weigh your choices so carefully?” she asks.
“I try to,” I say.
“Then you think too much,” she says, reaching for both my hands and placing them on her shoulders.
My fingertips grab the edges of her sleeve caps and drag them down, exposing her bare skin.
Our eyes meet again in the mirror.
“Don’t stop now,” she says. “You’re almost there.”
I know better. I should not be doing this. Because there’s only one way this ends and that’s with her flat on her back on top of that bed.
But I do it anyway. I drag the sleeve caps down her arms until her breasts fall out—and then I stop. My hands slowly falling to the top of her hips.
I look at her in the mirror. She looks nothing like the little brat who came down the stairs. Every bit a woman now.
My hand comes up to cup her breast and she sucks in air, making her ribcage protrude just enough so I notice. I flit my fingers over her ribs on the other side and she shudders as a chill runs through her body, prickling her skin and making her nipples tight and firm.
She reaches for the skirt of her dress, sliding it over her hips until it falls into a puddle of pink ruffles at her feet.
Now she is bare.
I’m shirtless and wearing my same jeans from that first day. Forced to wash them, and my shirt, over and over again since we got here, due to her tantrum. And for a moment I feel a flash of anger over that.
Being trapped here. Blackmailed into doing her stepfather’s bidding. All because of her.
“You’re a brat, you know that? A spoiled-rotten brat.”
She stares at me in the mirror.
I slide my hand up to her neck and press my palm flat against her throat. Feel her swallow, then imagine her doing that to my cock.
She swallows again, reading my mind. Enticing me to keep going even when I know damn well I should stop.
Her hand finds mine and a moment later she’s leading me over to a chair.
I shake my head at her. “No. We’re not gonna do this.”
But she drops to her knees and pops the button on my jeans. Drags the zipper down with her teeth, all the while staring me in the eyes.
I remember the insults I lobbed at her that first day. Slut. I called her a slut.
And hell, she might be.
But there’s always an underlying reason for that, so—
“Just shut up,” she says, pulling out my hard cock and squeezing it in her palm.
“What?”
“You’re thinking so fucking hard right now I can practically hear the spinning in your mind.”
I raise an eyebrow at her.
“I’m over your rules, Mr. Macintyre. So over them. I don’t care what you do. I don’t care what you want, or what you say. I don’t even care if you leave as long as you do it after. Because I care about me, OK? Me. And this is what I want.”
She opens her mouth and places my cock on her tongue.
I should throw her on the bed and spank her silly. Will do that, later. But right now I can’t help myself.
Wild thing… I really like you.
I know I shouldn’t. I’ve been complaining about her all week. Insisting she’s nothing more than a spoiled little rich girl.
Talking myself into believing that the reason I have to jerk off three times a day isn’t because she’s in the same house as me.
Isn’t because I’ve been picturing her in my mind. Seeing her that first night. Running away from me.
Isn’t because she wears these tantalizing teenage outfits.
Isn’t because of the pigtails and thigh-high tube socks.
But it is. It’s all of that.
I’m fucking sick. I like her dressed up like a doll. I like feeding her grilled cheese and oatmeal. I like the way she snaps her gum and—
Get your fucking shit together, Macintyre.
“Lyssa,” I say, placing a hand on her head. “This isn’t right.”
But instead of pulling her off me, I push her face into my stomach.
She takes me deep as I say, “This is wrong, on so many levels.”
And then I begin moving my hips so I can fuck her mouth and add, “We need to stop.”
She opens her throat, letting the tip of my dick hit the back of her soft palate as I grab her hair and begin bobbing her back and forth on my cock.
Saliva runs out over her plump, pink lips. Her eyes begin to water. Her hair is a tangled mess in my hands, and her legs are open so she can play with herself.
I close my eyes and make myself do it.
I pull her off me and hold her there as I try to get these sick urges under control.
Her hands wrap around the back of my thighs, urging me forward again, and I can’t help myself. The imagery, the scent of her wet pussy in the air, the throbbing of my cock.
There is no way I can stop now. Not when she’s compelling me to continue.
She comes up for air and says, “Sit down.”
And I do. The chair is right behind me so it’s almost too easy to give in.
I want to fight it. I want to do the right thing and put a stop to this before it goes too far.
Which is a joke. It’s already gone too far. But I can try to talk myself into believing that it hasn’t…
If I don’t actually fuck her.
If I attribute my transgressions back on that first day to the fact that I was weak and blackmailed into being here by her stepfather.
If I put a stop to this right now…
But she’s licking the tip of my cock, and pumping me with her hand, and playing with herself between her legs and I get it in my head that if I don’t come now—right fucking now—I’ll never come again.
So I do.
I lean back, groaning as she pumps my cock hard, jerking me to full climax, and then she aims my tip at her face and I come all over it in long, spurting streams.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN - LYSSA
I grab the wedding dress and use it to wipe his come off my face.
“Lyssa!” Mason yells. “What the fuck?”
“You said you were gonna buy me another one.” I blink my eyes at him innocently.
He’s standing up in an instant, pulling me to my feet. He bends me over the edge of the bed and his hand comes down hard on my ass.
“Ohhh,” I moan. Because it feels good. I’ve been thinking about his hard slaps all week. Trying to push his buttons. But he’s been the mode
l of control. A perfect little babysitter. Giving in and letting me do as I please. And I’m tired of it. I’m tired of getting my way.
I want the punishment.
“You want another one?” he asks, pulling my hair.
I’m about to say, Yes! I want all the spankings!
“I was going to buy you another dress to make you happy, Lyssa. Not because you decided to defile the one you were given.”
“What?” I say.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“What the fuck is wrong with me? What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Why did you just rub come all over that dress?”
“Mason,” I say, laughing a little. “No one cares about that dress.”
“That’s your problem, you know. You think everything’s free. It was a gift. And fine, you don’t like it and every girl deserves the dress of their dreams on their wedding day, so I don’t mind giving you that. But you didn’t have to fucking ruin it!”
“Are you serious right now?” I struggle to stand up but he holds me in place with a hand pressed hard between my shoulder blades.
“I’m very fucking serious,” he growls.
“I just sucked your cock and you’re mad at me for ruining a stupid dress?”
“You have no respect for anything, do you?”
“What are you even talking about? We were in the middle of dirty sex and—Oh, I get it.”
“Get what?”
“You feel guilty. I should’ve known. That’s a typical man response. You can’t control your urges so—”
“My urges? You practically begged me to fuck you!”
“Oh, really?” I say, so snarky. “No. That’s not what this is. You want me. You dream about me, don’t you? Picturing yourself fucking me. But you don’t want to admit you want me. I’m fucked up, right? Disturbed. And you can’t soil your own self-righteousness with psycho Lyssa. And you’re this high-and-mighty moral asshole who thinks he’s too good.”
“I think I’m too good?” He laughs. “That’s all you!”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Do you want to spank me, or don’t you?”
“Yes!” he yells.
“Then do it!”
He smacks me hard and I squeal. Then again, and again, and again and—he stops.
I’m breathing hard, pressing my face into the mattress. My fingers gripping the comforter tightly.
He removes his palm from my back and I scramble all the way on to the bed and turn around to face him.
He’s grabbing at his hair, shaking his head.
“What’s wrong with you?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know.”
He tucks his dick away and sits back down in the chair. Hand over his eyes as he rubs his forehead.
“Mason,” I say.
“What?” he mumbles.
“What’s going on?”
He looks up at me from under his hair. Shakes his head.
“What?”
“This place is fucked up, that’s what.”
“Why do you think I didn’t want to live here? Jesus Christ.” I sigh. Because this shit is not rocket science, yet no one but me seems to be able to figure it out.
What is wrong with people?
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says, hiding his face again. “I have no idea what I’m doing here with you.”
“You’re… working?” I offer. Because he looks pretty distressed and, try as I might to hate this man, he’s just not hateable. He’s actually kind of adorable. Nothing like any of the boys or men I’ve dated in the past.
He moves his hand away from his eyes. “Working?”
I shrug. “Well, you’re getting paid.”
“To do what?”
“I don’t know. Make me… better? I guess. Change me into whatever it is my stepfather told you to?”
He stares at me for a minute. “You wanna know what he told me to do?”
I don’t know if I want to know that. I really don’t.
But Mason tells me anyway. “He told me to break you, Lyssa. What the fuck is he talking about?”
“My bad attitude?” I say, guessing.
He laughs. But I can tell it’s an ironic laugh and not a funny-haha laugh.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“For what?”
“For all of this. I think I should just go.”
“Go? No, Mason. Please. Don’t go.”
“Why do you even want me here? You don’t know me, so you don’t like me. And I’ve done nothing but harass you and keep you locked up in that stupid bedroom. You should want me to go.”
I wilt a little. Because I do like him. And I haven’t even been miserable upstairs in that room. Confused and possibly regressing. But I looked forward to him bringing me food and choosing me clothes. I liked making him frustrated and flustered. It’s all sorts of fucked up and I can’t even begin to explain why I feel this way or why I do these things, I just know one thing. I don’t want him to leave.
“I’ll be good,” I whisper. “If you stay, I’ll be good.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - MASON
She’ll be good.
“I’ll go to the mall with you,” she says. “And we can eat something else. Not spaghetti and meatballs or hamburgers.”
She’ll be good.
“Mason.”
“What?”
She sucks in a deep breath and lets it out. “I promise. I’ll be good. You can’t leave anyway. You got paid already, right?”
I nod, but don’t look her. I did get paid. A lot of fucking money. And my mom is in the experimental treatment program. So her stepfather held up his end and not only am I not holding up mine, I feel like I’m making everything worse. I feel like I’m making her worse. I just can’t put my finger on what’s wrong here. I mean, I know the whole thing is wrong. She’s wrong, he’s wrong. The estate, the criminal record, the marriage. All of it is so very wrong.
But I don’t have a firm grip on why it’s wrong.
Baylor’s excuse for why he wants his daughter to marry this guy makes some sense. In one breath I believe him. He’s worried about her. And anyone who spends time with this girl gets that she’s disturbed. So is it so bad that he wants to take care of her?
But when I take another breath I see it another way. This place. That room. Those clothes, that food—it gives me a sick feeling inside.
“I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll… I’ll clean the dress. We can take it to the dry cleaners at the mall and—”
“Fuck that dress. It’s ugly as sin.”
“OK, well… I won’t try to seduce you anymore.”
I still don’t look at her but I do crack a smile.
“Please,” she says, scrambling off the bed to kneel at my feet.
Good God. Why does she have to do that?
She rests her head on my knee, wrapping her hands around my leg. “Don’t leave me here. I promise to do whatever you say.”
“Everything?” I ask, finally meeting her eyes.
She nods. “Yes. Everything.”
“You’ll stop swearing?”
“Yes.”
“And be polite?”
"Yes, I promise.”
“And respect yourself and others.”
“Um… yeah. Of course. But what exactly do you mean when you say respect myself?”
Is she kidding me right now? “Lyssa,” I say.
“What?”
“You know what I mean.”
“OK, so… I won’t take five years to finish college, or waste money, or wipe my face with my wedding dress, or—”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.” Jesus. How is she so clueless?
“I don’t understand.”
“Respect yourself. Don’t wear those clothes, or put your hair up in pigtails like you’re a little girl, or eat comfort food at every meal. You need to grow up, OK? You need to grow the fuck up!”
She stares at me fo
r a moment. Shocked by my outburst. Hell, I’m kinda shocked by my outburst too.
“OK,” she finally says.
“You’ll do that?”
She nods. “I promise. I will.”
I close my eyes and wonder if it’s good enough. I feel like I’m losing myself by being around this girl. Like she’s twisting me into something I’m not. And I don’t like it. I like her… but I don’t like how she makes me feel.
It feels dirty.
She makes me feel dirty.
Wild Thing. She sure is.
“Mason,” she says.
“What?”
“Just… please. Can we go to the mall?”
We do go to the mall. There are three cars to choose from in the attached five-car garage and she shows me where the keys are. I still have the van, but that van is creepy as all fuck when I look at it. I kidnapped her in that van.
What the hell was I thinking when I took this job?
Well, that’s easy. I was thinking about my mother. I needed that fifty grand pretty bad that day. And Baylor was blackmailing me.
Still, both those reasons feel a whole lot like excuses right now.
Why does this girl affect me this way? I don’t understand it.
Anyway. We take the brand-new Mercedes to the mall. White with tan leather interior and every gadget you can think of. Is it weird that Lyssa matches her car?
Because Lyssa kept her promise and managed to put together an outfit from her closet in her real bedroom that doesn’t show off her tits or her ass.
A shapeless dress that has a high collar and hits her just above the knee. It’s white, not pink, and her shoes have a heel on them, so that’s a plus. At least she doesn’t look like my fucking daughter.
I wear… the same thing I’ve been wearing. Which only serves to remind me that I didn’t plan on being here for ten days. This was an in-and-out job and now it’s not.
Or it is, if you have a dirty mind. Which I apparently do. I’m going crazy. This job, this girl, this house—all of it is making me crazy.
When we get to the mall I take Lyssa’s hand—I don’t know why I do that either. I just do—and we walk around looking at shops.