Chapter 9
Layla
Russell clutches his chest and collapses on the floor as soon as I take my top off. I slap my hands over my mouth, screaming as I crash to my knees beside him on his back. “Russell!” Tears flood my eyes as I pat his cheeks, searching for his pulse in his neck, my fingers too numb and tingly with ice-cold fear to feel anything.
I don’t trust myself to stand, so I crawl to the table, yanking my bag off the top to grab my phone and dial 9-1-1. I’m back at his side, holding the phone up to my ear with my shoulder so I can unbutton his flannel to his belly button. I press my other ear to his warm chest, but I can’t hear anything over my own sobbing. “Please, please, please. Not again,” I pray. Please don’t die .
When the 9-1-1 operator speaks on the other side of the line, I give her all of the information she requests before screaming, “I think he had a heart attack!”
And then one of Russell’s bulky arms curls around my waist, dragging me on top of him. He plucks my phone from my hand, and I bury my face in the crook of his neck when he tells the operator, “I didn’t have a heart attack. Passed out from shock.”
I climb higher up his big body, my knees on either side of his hips, and push my hands under his head to squeeze him in a hug, kissing his cheeks, forehead, nose, everything, so thankful he’s alive.
His arm is a manacle around my back, his palm resting flat over my ribs, holding me tight while he repeats to the operator that he’s certain he didn’t suffer a cardiac event and absolutely does not need an ambulance. The phone clatters to the wide planks of the dark hardwood floor after he hangs up, and then both of his arms are wrapped around me, one palm now gripping the back of my neck while I cry, my forehead pressed to his.
“Shh, darlin’. I’m ok.”
“I was so scared you were going to die,” I whisper, the tears not letting up.
Russell sits up, our chests still pressed to each other’s. Now is not the right time to think about anything other than his health, yet I can’t help but notice how good it feels to have my nipples rubbing against his salt-and-pepper chest hair. Soft and coarse at the same time. Everything about him is thick but hard beneath a fluffy layer, including his thighs supporting my bottom. I shouldn’t be so aware of my core pressed to the front of his rigid jeans, either.
He uses his thumb under my jaw to tip my head back. “I’m not dying anytime soon. I promise you that.”
I slip my hands into his hair, gripping the strands, clinging to him. “You can’t promise something like that.”
“Yes, I can,” he says, caressing the length of my spine. “I work out five days a week. Eat right. Do what I can to stay healthy.”
“So did my dad, but he had a heart attack, anyway, and he was younger than you are now.”
Russell stops, then drops his hand from my neck. I miss the warmth of it. “That’s why you said ‘not again’?” I don’t know how he heard that. He guesses, “You were there when it happened?”
“Yes. Worst day of my life.” Today might have topped it.
“What happened?”
“He was making me run laps at my middle school’s track, and he was upset when I kept asking for a break. And then he just…collapsed like you did. He didn’t have a phone, so I had to run to a neighbor’s house, but I was so slow that by the time I got back, he was already gone. The ambulance couldn’t do anything when they got there.”
“Why was he making you run laps?” he asks uneasily.
Shame has me dropping my forehead on his round shoulder. “He found out I lied about how much money I’d made babysitting for one of my mom’s friends the night before because I didn’t want to give it all to him.”
Russell tenses. “Why would he, the parent , make you, the child , give him your babysitting money?”
Something in his tone makes me sit up straighter and slide my fingers out of his hair. “That was the rule. Everyone contributes to the household.”
“Chores? Sure. Money? Never. That’s not a child’s responsibility.”
I don’t like where this conversation is headed, and I bring my arms between us, crossing them around my stomach. “Easy for you to say, since I know your ex-wife is a physical therapist and makes plenty of money. But my mom just sat on the couch all day, doing nothing. She freeloaded, like she is now with my stepdad, so I had to help make up for it.”
There’s a brief pause where he opens and closes his mouth twice before asking with some reservation, “Does that mean you think Goldie is a ‘freeloader’ for being a stay-at-home mom? Or Dolly for not working now that she’s in school?”
“No,” I’m quick to answer, offended by the implication that I could ever think lowly of my best friends or that they’re anything like my mom. “It’s different with them.”
“How is it different?”
“They, you know, do other stuff to earn it,” I say with a shrug.
He seems even more upset when he asks, “How do they ‘earn’ it?”
I lower my voice, my stomach twisting with the beginning stages of nausea. “Sex. Whenever Wyatt and Davis want. My mom couldn’t even do that much.”
Russell slides his hands up to grip my biceps, his brows an angry slash. “How do you know that?”
“My dad told me.”
“Shi-oot, Layla, no.” Russell shakes his head, his fingers flexing and digging into my skin, hot fury pouring off him in waves, unnerving me further. “This just gets worse and worse. So much about you is starting to make sense.”
“What does that mean?” I ask defensively, my own anger pushing to the surface, masking the hurt that the more he learns about me, the more disturbed he gets.
“Your dad never should have discussed his sex life with you, especially when you were a child. Never . And what he drilled into your head, making you run laps to punish you for not giving him your babysitting money —it’s not right. It’s abuse. ”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” I twist to knock Russell’s hands off. “He wasn’t abusive.” I squash the tendril of doubt Russell has stirred up in the back of my mind. “He—” I’m interrupted by a heavy knock on the front door.
I shove off of Russell’s shoulders so I can stand, only now realizing just how long I’d been sitting on his lap.
“We’re not done with this conversation,” Russell says, getting to his feet and pointing his finger at me.
“Yes, we are,” I say firmly between clenched teeth, then take off running toward the door at the far end of the living room, closing it behind me. Pressing my ear against it, I try to listen to the conversation following suit, but the door isn’t hollow like mine, nearly soundproof.
I jump back a few minutes later when Russell pushes open the door unexpectedly, and I cross my arms over my chest to hide my breasts since I hadn’t thought to grab my clothes before running away.
He clears his throat, standing in the open doorway, his eyes dipping a few times to my chest and back up again. He hasn’t rebuttoned his flannel either, so my eyes keep wandering down, too, my core pulsing when he flexes his abs. Wow .
“That was Deputy Allen,” he says.
“Did the police find out? About me? Am I going to be arrested?” I’m rushing my words, too panicked to stop and think through how Allen would even know about my topless maid service.
“No. Gibson heard about the 9-1-1 call and sent Allen out for a welfare check. He’s gone now.”
“Oh, thank god.” I stumble back, sinking onto the edge of the tall, dark oak, king-sized bed with its emerald green comforter facing a pair of glass double doors through which we can see the pool and, beyond that, the woods bordering Russell’s property. He doesn’t have a TV in his bedroom, but who needs one with that kind of view? The mattress is so soft that I’m tempted to lie back and ask if I can take a nap. I bet he’d say yes .
Russell leans his shoulder against the doorframe, his hands pushed into the front pockets of his jeans. “This maid service…it doesn’t come with any…happy endings, does it?”
“No! I’m not a prostitute. More like a…a stripper who cleans. No touching allowed.”
He blows out a long breath. “Ok. Good.”
“But I’m also not sure what I’m doing is one hundred percent legal, so I’d rather no one find out.”
“Understood.”
We eye each other in the almost too-large bedroom with its black and white walls and decorative millwork. The teddy bear his son gave him sits on a shelf in his built-in bookcase beside the door, which makes me want to smile. I don’t.
“So, um.” I pretend to check my watch-free wrist. Time is money , and I’m wasting it. “Should I get started? With the cleaning?”
Russell presses his lips together, narrowing his eyes. I know he wants to drag me back into our earlier conversation, but I’ll leave if he does. I think he knows it, too, since he eventually nods with a resigned sigh.
“You’re not going to pass out again, are you?”
A slow shake of his head.
I’m not sure if I believe him, so I give him plenty of time to say something before I lower my arms, watching him closely for any sign he’s going to keel over. Sure, I have the option to ask him if I can borrow one of his T-shirts, but then I’d have to lower my rate, which I really don’t want to do since he’s already agreed to my prices.
And also….I like how Russell flexes more of his muscles when he lowers his eyes. There’s nothing special about my body. My breasts aren’t particularly big. Neither are my hips or butt. But the way he’s staring at me…I think he appreciates what he sees, at least on the surface, and that makes my belly flutter with feelings I shouldn’t have let grow out of control for someone so much older than me. I shouldn’t have put myself in a situation that would shame my dad, either, but here we are. There’s no going back.
Russell straightens and works his jaw. “So, how does this work?”
According to the woman whose video I found, and whose entire channel of videos I’ve consumed and learned so much from, I tell him, “You’re supposed to follow me around while I clean.” My face burns when I lie about the one thing the woman says she never allows—which I would never allow for anyone else, either. “And it’s ok if you, um, if you touch yourself while watching me.” That should earn me a higher tip…and also, I’m just plain curious as to what that would look like since this might be my only chance to see it.
Russell’s face darkens, and he stomps out of the bedroom, furious or disgusted or both. He might as well have stomped on me .
* * *
Russell
It must have been a lie when I told Layla I wasn’t going to die anytime soon because here I am on the verge of doing so when my blood pressure skyrockets hearing her whisper “touch yourself”. I race for the kitchen to pour a glass of water, turning away from her when she follows me out of our bedroom. I watch from the corner of my eye as she sorts through the cleaning supplies, grabs what she needs, and then heads toward the staircase.
She stops as if waiting for something, staring up at the second floor’s balcony overlooking the living room, then continues on. I sit my old ass down on the couch and flip through channels on the TV mounted above the fireplace, stopping on a documentary about wildlife or Ancient Egypt or something. I don’t know. I’m not paying attention, my mind a whirl of mixed emotions.
I can’t stop thinking about the things she was raised to believe and how she was punished as a child. Abused . She was abused and doesn’t even know it. It’s no wonder she lives in a constant state of guilt and anxiety. Staying with Steven when he wasn’t good enough to kiss the bottom of her boots. Refusing to slow down and take care of herself.
Our dad might have done a number on Elliott and me with his own old-fashioned views on child-rearing, but Layla’s dad makes him look like a saint, devil rest his soul.
I want to take that white teddy bear of hers and throw it in the fireplace. Replace it with one of my own. Or better yet, be her teddy bear. She can cuddle me all night long . My dick thickens at the thought.
As much as I’d love to follow Layla around while stroking myself, I won’t. She may have given me permission to do so, but that would put me solemnly in the “creep” column and not the “you’re a good man and I can’t wait to marry you” column as I’d like to be.
Just when I think I’ve calmed down, sinking deeper into the caramel-brown couch while I stare mindlessly at the TV, Layla treads downstairs into the main living area, her hair now pulled back with a clip, the gentle slopes of all that beautiful, naked skin on display. If the pollen wasn’t so bad, I’d sit out on the back patio and enjoy a different sort of view—one that wouldn’t have me clutching my chest with heart palpitations.
The whole time Layla is cleaning the kitchen and dining area, I’m able to stay somewhat respectful and keep my eyes averted, only glancing over when she accidentally slams one of the cabinets closed.
“Sorry,” she mutters.
I grunt.
She disappears into our bedroom for long enough that I eventually nod off, wondering if she’s being intentionally slow to earn a higher payout. I hope so, though I highly doubt it.
The noise of a spinning mop bucket wakes me, and I sit up straight, finding Layla’s ditched her boots and socks. I enjoy seeing her bare feet on the floor, her breasts swaying back and forth as she mops the kitchen and makes her way into the living room.
Grinding my teeth, I grab one of the decorative throw pillows and place it over my lap when she empties the bucket in the backyard, then comes to the coffee table with a spray bottle of wood cleaner and a microfiber towel. I can’t force myself to get up and leave the room as I should when she bends in half to scrub the coffee stain on the bottom right corner where I accidentally knocked over a mug a few days ago.
Back and forth and back and forth, she scrubs, her tits driving me wild. They’d swing just like that if I were making love to her from behind, and it’s too much. I buck my hips up against the pillow, wishing I had the weight of her on my lap.
“Darlin’,” I moan. I didn’t mean to say anything, and I come close to cumming in my jeans when she stops scrubbing, still bent in half, and looks me in the eye.
“Are you ok, Daddy?” Layla asks with genuine concern.
I think I stop breathing. She said it again . Daddy . “Yeah,” I manage to utter, keeping my lips shut when I should tell her not to call me that, considering the debauched effect it has on me.
“Are you sure?” She begins to straighten.
“Yes, yes. I’m fine.”
She goes back to scrubbing after grabbing a different cleaner, even changing the angle so I have a better view of her bottom, which shakes in a circle the harder she scrubs. She’s gonna gouge the wood if she keeps that up. Lordy , I hope she does.
“F—” I almost curse in front of her when I tip my head to the side, catching a view of the seam of her shorts pulled taut against her pussy. I’d love to bury my face between her cheeks, bite that strip of jean fabric, and tear it off her.
I can’t help it. I shove a hand under the pillow to grip my cock over my jeans. My chest rises and falls faster the harder I squeeze, flexing my grip. I am not masturbating . This doesn’t count. I’m not a pervert. I’m not!
Finally, she gives up on the stain and sits on her knees with an exhausted sigh. “Sorry. Don’t think that’s coming out unless you sand and restain it.”
I’m in too much pain from holding back my orgasm to do anything but grunt again.
“Mind if I have some of your water?” She motions to my glass, which I refilled before I fell asleep.
Another grunt.
Then, the little temptress sits up on her knees and tips her head back, exposing the length of her slender neck while she swallows, her breasts jiggling slightly with her back arched. She makes a satisfied noise afterward, her lips pink and wet.
“I think I’m done for the day,” she says, swiping the back of her hand across her forehead.
I do nothing but stare at her little mouth. Would she even be able to fit my cock inside it? Or, if she ever did grant me the greatest gift of touching each other, would we have to settle for her simply sucking the tip? Precum wets my boxer briefs further, and I have my answer. I would kill to have her lick and sip from me while I slowly jack my cock until I cum in her mouth, urging her to drink me down.
I groan at the mental image. And for about thirty seconds, I’m content with simply fantasizing about it, but the need for release is too urgent. Trying to be subtle, I unbutton my jeans beneath the pillow, roll down my zipper, and then shove my hand in my pants. A full-body shiver works its way down my spine to the tips of my toes when I grip my shaft with my bare hand.
Layla takes another long swallow, then gives me a small smile. “You sure do have a lot of bedrooms for a man who lives alone.”
I don’t live alone by choice , I want to say while flexing and releasing my grip on my shaft. I’m waiting for you .
“It really is a beautiful home.”
Finally, I can speak. “It’s got nothing on you, darlin’.”