13. Finn
13
FINN
It took some negotiating with Noah’s therapist, but we arranged a daily messaging time, so Millie doesn’t worry about her brother. Admittedly, I had to threaten death, but we compromised with life and that they are both monitored for their interactions, albeit for very different reasons.
I watch over Millie so she can’t plan an escape, and after a few days she’s even getting to check her emails, because the routine of her sitting in my lap and me watching over her shoulder is delicious. I breathe in the apple scent of her hair, nuzzle her neck, and generally indulge myself.
“You’re distracting me!” she exclaims when I nip her ear.
“You’re taking too long.” Even though she uses that tiny keyboard at the speed of light, where I would grumble and make typos and give up after two words. It reminds me how much younger than me she is.
It should feel filthy to have this girl so close, and it does. But it also feels right .
The dots are bouncing to indicate Noah is replying to her message. She’s asked how his “compulsory training” is going. That’s how he refers to it. An imaginative way of describing me surrounding him with my men and telling him if he wanted to keep his job and his life, he would be working sincerely with the gambling counsellor that I’ve paid an outrageous amount of money for, and not asking too many questions about why.
I was probably a tad forceful, but when I made the connection between Millie running off from the pub and generally looking down as I stalked her, and her brother’s expensive hobby, I wasn’t in any mood to compromise.
Blowing on her ear makes her giggle, so I do it again.
“Finn!”
“That’s plenty of time you’ve had,” I grumble. “Wrap it up.”
“I need to know about?—”
I grab the phone and toss it away. Within a second I have her top down and her nipple in my mouth and she’s moaning. And then we forget about everything else.
“What are you making?” She peers over her mug of tea, sipping it while I’m making dinner. Her hands are in the pink fluffy handcuffs, and she’s wearing a cute pink sundress that almost matches.
“Do you like chips?” I indicate the potatoes I’m cutting.
She pinches her eyebrows together. “They’re French fries.”
They are skinny, I admit, but they’ll cook quicker, and I prefer them crispy.
“Are you calling my potato sticks small?” I point the tip of the kitchen knife at her with a wry look.
She puts down her tea and leans forward. The neckline of her dress flops forward and I get a peek at her cleavage.
“Tiny.” Her eyes sparkle.
“You shouldn’t try to tell an Irishman the correct way to eat potatoes,” I growl. But I’m entranced by her. Obsessed. There’s no way I can continue with meal prep without risking my fingers being cut off as I’m not paying attention.
“Miniscule.” She raises her hands and wiggles one little finger provocatively. “Barely worth eating.”
“Is that what you think of the size of my…?” Because if we’re talking about my cock, she’s very wrong, and we both know it. “Potatoes.”
Rising, she slips around the table to where I’m prepping food on the other side, her hips swaying even as her hands are clasped demurely together.
Not an accident, I’m sure.
“Petite.” She’s goading me.
I keep the knife steady, and she moves until the sharp point touches the dip between her breasts.
“You’re being very rude about my cooking, for a woman who has been eagerly eating whatever I offer her.” Her tits. My god she’s everything. I let the knife rest there, above her beating heart and those plush orbs I want to suck. Then she bites her lip, and that little gesture gets me hard, instantly.
“You aren’t giving me anything really satisfying to eat,” she replies. “Not big enough.”
She’s been well fed since we’ve been here, but I haven’t made her give me a blowjob, or had sex with her. They feel like things that need more honesty between us. But maybe the advantage is that she’s beginning to want my cock in her mouth.
I can work with that.
But she’s not getting a treat for being a brat.
“You…” I run the wickedly sharp blade down to her cleavage, fluid and light. Enough to threaten, but not harm. “Need to stop talking.”
Her neck flushes pink.
“Make me,” she breathes.
Slowly, I take the metal between my thumb and fingers, and turn the knife. Then I raise it, and ease the handle towards her mouth until the smooth, blunt resin edge touches her lip.
“Open up.”
Like honey dripping off a spoon, she parts her lips, and I slide the stem in, all the way until it hits the back of her throat. Her breathing goes ragged and her pretty blue eyes remain on my face beautifully.
“See, quiet now, aren’t you?” I say, allowing my amusement to seep through.
She makes a needy sound.
“Such a good girl .” My good girl. “Close your mouth and hold your gag. No dropping it.”
I consider leaving her there. Silent, a bit humiliated. Drooling around the knife handle as she watches me make her dinner. But then another idea occurs to me.
“Turn.”
She spins, her head not quite steady with the weight of the blade.
“Lean over and rest on the table.”
This draws a whimper, but no refusal.
“If you drop the knife, I’ll stop,” I murmur and sink to my knees behind her. Pushing her skirt up, I groan as I find innocent white cotton knickers. A rumbling purr rises from my chest, and my cock presses against my jeans so hard I think the imprint of the zipper might be permanent.
I slide down her knickers so they’re at her bare ankles, then tap her left foot. She lifts it without being asked.
This is insanity. Her hands are tethered, but it wouldn’t be difficult for her to get the knife before I realised.
But it’s trust, this game. And I’m telling her that I trust and want her.
Even if she’s a brat about perfectly good potato foods, and there’ll be no fecking nonsense about my choices there.
“Now spread your legs for me, pet,” I demand, leaning into where her slick pink folds are exposed. “And stay quiet. If you’re going to be rude about the food I’m making you, then I’ll eat my dessert first, and you will wait .”
Millie
“Are the cuffs really necessary?” I ask as he fastens my wrist to his again.
I don’t say that I wouldn’t run now. Four days, and I don’t know why I would. I’m utterly seduced.
“Unless you want to wear a collar and a lead?” Finn replies with a sly smile.
“Finn, I’m not a dog.”
“No, you’re my pet.” He tips my chin up with his thumb and looks down into my eyes. “And I’m not risking you getting away.”
Finn
I scowl at her wrists. They’ve got some kind of chafing from the cuffs that mars her skin. I find ointment in the bathroom cupboard, and Millie sits obediently as I smooth it over the place where her veins are right at the surface, the blood pulsing through. So beautiful. So vulnerable.
My jaw sets as I realise I should have protected her better.
I pick up the handcuffs.
“Fecking pink fake fur,” I grumble.
She can’t wear them anymore. Clearly.
“What if I promised not to escape?” she suggests tentatively, and my eyes fly to her face as my heart explodes.
Yes. Of course, yes. That’s what I want, for her not to try to leave me.
I draw my eyebrows together. “Touching at all times.”
She nods quickly, and for a second I think it’s because she’s as eager to be close to me as I am to her.
Then I come to my senses.
But still. When I take her little hand in mine and lead her back to the kitchen to put the kettle on for tea, I swear I feel her fingertips press into the tendons on the backs of my scarred knuckles.