3. Etta
3
ETTA
H e’s kissing me. His lips are on mine, and he’s kissing me. It’s not the best kiss. Both of our mouths are closed and there’s no tongue. But he is kissing me.
Oh, my god.
Why is he kissing me? We’re not people who kiss. We’re basically strangers, but he’s still kissing me, and his very big, very hard cock is pressed against my stomach.
What the hell is happening?
The rational, brave part of my brain knows I should push him away. The fearless Etta inside of me should be screaming and fighting his touch, or arguing and saying no, but I’m not doing any of those things.
Oscar Malik is my enemy. I absolutely don’t want to kiss him. I don’t think I want to kiss him. I definitely shouldn’t want to kiss him. But I’m not saying no. I’m not doing anything to tell him that I don’t want this. I’m just standing here, letting him kiss me like my lips are his to use.
I’m scared; my limbs are numb, and the fear in my stomach is making me feel a little nauseous, but that’s not why I’m not pushing him away. Seeing him again hasn’t been what I expected. I’ve imagined it a million times before, but in my fantasy, I called him out for the way he treated me when we were kids. I told him that he was a bully and that I felt sorry for him because tormenting me was the only way he could make himself feel better when we were kids. Sometimes I even imagine telling him I hope he rots in hell, alone and miserable and lonely and scared.
But I haven’t said any of those things, because although he’s twice the size he was fifteen years ago and has been cold and kind of scary, when he said good girl to me, my brain melted.
I’m not a virgin, I’ve dated. I even had a long-term relationship with a guy I met in college, but I have never felt the way I felt when he called me a good girl before. The moment the words, combined with his rumbling, gruff voice registered in my brain, something inside of me broke, or maybe it snapped back into place. I don’t know. But what I do know is that those two words of praise changed me.
I don’t think anyone has ever called me a good girl before. Maybe when I was very little, but I doubt it. Before Bruce, my mom wasn’t exactly a nurturing parent. She got knocked up with me when she was a teenager. My dad stuck around until I was about five, then he left and never came back. I’ve always known my conception was an accident, and even though I wouldn’t call me and my mom close, I don’t hate her. She didn’t abuse me, she just got on with her life, and I was just there. When she met Bruce and he wanted both me and Mom, she changed. I know she’s been a good mom to my half siblings. But she definitely wasn’t the type of mom who parented with reassuring words and constant praise.
I’ve never had a boyfriend say it before, either. I’ve only dated a handful of guys and only had sex with three of them. I know that’s pretty low for a twenty-six-year-old, but I’m not a hookup kind of girl.
My last boyfriend, Eric, was taller than me but still kind of short and skinny. He was nerdy in an adorable way, with action figures on shelves in his bedroom and Spider-Man sheets that weren’t a throwback to his childhood.
We dated for six months and never argued once. It was perfectly nice and thoroughly boring. When we broke up, it was because I couldn’t stand to watch another Marvel movie, and he didn’t want to watch anything else. We’re actually still friends on Facebook, and he sends me a greeting card on my birthday and at Christmas each year. He’s still single, only now he has two dog babies called Thor and Loki.
Eric never once uttered the words good girl. Honestly, I think he’d have curled up and died from embarrassment if he’d tried to say anything that…sexy. In the six months we were together, we had very quiet, very mediocre missionary sex that resulted in one orgasm per session for him and usually zero for me. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to make me come, he just had no idea how.
He never made my breasts feel swollen or my nipples hard. He never once made my pussy pulse with confusing need or my panties wet with arousal. But Oz has, with two simple words. Good girl.
The kiss goes on longer than any closed-mouth kiss should without becoming more carnal, but neither of us tries to push for more. The kiss isn’t invasive, it’s almost chaste in a spectacularly decadent way. If his hand wasn’t wrapped around my throat and his massive, hard cock wasn’t pressing into my stomach, it could almost be described as innocent. But instead, his grip on my throat, cheeks, and jaw is firm and unyielding, and his fingers that are buried into my hair, holding me in place, are just shy of painful. We’re not kissing each other, he’s kissing me, and I’m accepting it because that’s what he’s demanding I do.
He could so easily hurt me like this, he’s so big and I’m so tiny in comparison, but even when we were kids, his abuse was never physical, and I’m not scared that he’s going to hit me or bruise me.
But the way he’s holding me—controlling me—isn’t accidental. He’s deliberately using his size to direct me, to show me that he’s in charge, that he needs me to…behave.
After what feels like a lifetime but was probably less than three minutes, he pulls his lips from mine but doesn’t release his hold on me. Instead, he moves impossibly closer, removing all of the space between and pressing his dick farther into my stomach, forcing me to feel just how hard he is…for me.
I want to ask what this means, but I don’t dare, because I’m not sure I want to know. Clearly, he’s physically attracted to me, or at least he’s physically attracted to ordering me around and then using his size to dominate me.
Oh fuck. The moment I think the word, it feels right. Everything he’s done since he took my suitcase and ordered me into his truck has been to dominate me. Is he actually attracted to me, or is this just a power trip for him?
When we were kids, taunting and torturing me was his favorite pastime. Is this just the significantly more adult version of the same perverse games he played when we were younger?
Back then, he’d take pleasure in making me as miserable as possible. But he wasn’t looking for a physical reaction, he just wanted me to know that he hated me. He wanted me to be as unhappy as he was. From the moment we met to the last time we saw each other fifteen years ago, his torment made me cry, but right now, the only wetness coming from me is in my underwear.
Eric and the other men that came before him were sweet, kind, and respectful. They never told me what to do or ordered me around. They never insisted I eat, ignored my requests, or used their physicality to control me.
Oz has done all of those things, and even though I’m not sure I like him, his firm, unyielding touch, his terse orders, his controlling demands, and his unexpected praise have made me feel something that I know I’ll spend the rest of my life craving now that I’ve experienced it.
If he wasn’t holding me firmly in place, I’d look away, but his grip on my hair is keeping my head tilted back, forcing me to look at him. His gaze is raking over my face like he’s searching for something, and his eyes are angry but heated too. Is he feeling like I am? Is this a first for him, or is this how he behaves with every woman he meets? Grinding his dick into me, he scans my features like he’s waiting for me to do or say something, then he releases his hold on me and steps back, leaving me feeling bereft and exposed.
“If I text you, I expect an immediate reply. If I call, I expect you to answer. If I tell you to do something, I expect you to do it, then send me a picture to prove you’ve obeyed me,” he growls, his words rough and low.
My body reacts like I’m one of the omegas from my dirty books, lubing up to take a massive dick. Wetness fills my underwear, and if he doesn’t leave soon, my sweatpants will be soaked through too, because my body is gushing at the commanding tone of his voice.
“Do you understand me, Henrietta?” he demands.
“Etta,” I whisper.
“What?”
“I go by Etta, not Henrietta,” I say, unsure how I’ve even managed to form a sentence when I’m this scared and horny in equal measure.
His brows arch and he tilts his head to the side and assesses me, his eyes leaving a hot path up and down my body as he inspects me. “Go to bed, Little One. I’ll see you on Wednesday.” Then he turns and walks away.
It takes me hours to calm down enough to even try to sleep. Unwilling to unpack, I open my case and pull out a pair of pajamas and my toothbrush. With my supplies held tightly against my chest, I silently tiptoe out of the bedroom, cross the hall, and slip into the bathroom, closing the door behind me.
Pulling on the light, I glance around at the room and find it empty of everything except a shelf full of towels. It’s clean but clearly unused, which, if he has a master bath off his bedroom, makes sense.
Quickly getting ready for bed, I turn off the light before I open the door, then slip back into my bedroom, pulling the door closed behind me. Even though I know he won’t be waiting to jump out and scare me, I still check the closet and beneath the bed before I lift the comforter and climb under the covers.
The sheets crinkle as I settle onto them, and I run my fingers over the cotton, feeling the folds from where they’ve clearly recently been taken out of the packaging. Did he buy new sheets for me? Or did he have them already? I don’t know why it matters, but as I roll to my side and close my eyes. My mind starts to question if he’d go to the effort of getting new bedding for a house guest he clearly didn’t want.
Trying to force myself to sleep, I flip onto my side, hoping to banish all thoughts of Oscar out of my mind, but instead I think about how it felt to have his palm around my neck. Until today, I’d have considered a man holding a woman that way aggressive. But when he did it, he wasn’t squeezing or trying to stifle my breathing. His grip wasn’t harsh, it was just controlled and controlling.
Rolling over to my other side, I try to think about who he was the last time I knew him. As a teenager, he was mean and angry, but tonight his body language felt more like contained animosity, right up until the moment he called me a good girl. When he drawled those words, he wasn’t angry. He was intense—which is equally as scary, but in a very different way.
Back and forth, I flop around, thinking and analyzing everything that’s happened since I stepped off my bus. I should be in my hotel right now, sleeping peacefully in my generic bed, not here, bewildered by the situation I’ve found myself in.
I wonder if Oz is as distracted as I am. Is he overthinking the last few hours, or is he sleeping like a baby, knowing that the kiss will have messed with my mind?
The sun is just starting to climb in the sky when I eventually fall asleep, and by the time I wake up, the house is filled with late morning light. Daytime has chased away the last of the silent shadows, but despite the bright rays of sun peeking around the edges of the blinds, I can feel Oscar’s absence. It’s like the house is bereft without his intense aura.
Even though I know I’m alone and that Oscar isn’t here, I still open my door a crack and peek out before I use the bathroom. Instead of staying in my pj’s like I would have done in my apartment in Vegas, I pull on jeans and a cute knit sweater before I tiptoe tentatively down the stairs, leaving my cell charging on the bedside cabinet.
When we were younger, Oscar always made me feel like an interloper in my own home the moment he walked through the front door. It was like his furious energy claimed ownership of the house as soon as he entered it. Once Carson and Dawson were born, there wasn’t space for Oscar to have his own room, so instead, when he’d visit, Bruce would make me sleep on a pallet on Carson’s floor so Oz could use my room. For weeks after Oscar left, I’d feel like I do right now—like I’m trespassing.
When I step off the stairs, I glance longingly at the front door and wonder if I should just leave. I know I’m a long walk from town, but I’d make it there eventually. I shouldn’t be here, with or without him. I should be in my safe hotel room, congratulating myself on avoiding my childhood terrorizer, not standing in his house, wondering if he’ll get mad if I use his coffee machine.
I’m not sure how long I stay frozen to the spot, staring at the door that’s offering me a means of escaping him and his home. It’s right there, literally ten feet away, but I know I won’t open it because he told me to stay put until he got back on Wednesday.
It’s insane to stay here simply because he told me to, but I still don’t move any closer to the door. I’m an adult. I don’t answer to him. So why am I not leaving? Maybe I’m not leaving because he kissed me and I liked it, or maybe it’s because his dick was big and hard and pressed enticingly into my belly. As much as I know leaving is the sensible thing to do, I can’t or won’t because something is keeping me here in his home.
Trying to keep my steps as light and silent as possible, I pad past the dining table and into the kitchen, making a beeline for the coffee machine that’s sitting in pride of place on the counter. I check over my shoulder four times like I’m waiting for Oscar to jump out and shout at me before I finally lift the pot free and fill it with water. I check three more times before I set the machine to brew, gasping in panic when it loudly starts to hiss and gurgle.
I don’t know why I’m trying to be quiet, there’s no one here for me to disturb. But it feels like I can feel his eyes on me, like he’s watching me, even though he’s not here. Leaving the coffee machine to brew, I place my hand over my stomach when it growls. It feels wrong to help myself to his food, but his home is too far from town for me to go and pick up my own groceries, and I doubt he intended for me to not eat for the next four days after he was so insistent about cooking for me last night.
When I go to open the refrigerator, I find a note stuck to the door with a magnet.
ETTA,
MAKE YOURSELF EGGS AND TOAST FOR brEAKFAST. I EXPECT A PHOTO.
BEHAVE.
OZ.
There is nothing sweet or even friendly about his note. Just like when he spoke to me last night, he’s not asking or suggesting, he’s ordering me to do as he says. As I read, I can hear him growling at me, and my skin pebbles in reaction to his rough, gravelly voice in my head. If I were my friend Octy, she’d laugh at this note, then throw it in the trash and ignore it, but for some reason—that I can’t even begin to explain—I feel some of the tension I’ve been feeling since I woke up start to melt away. Suddenly, I feel less like an intruder in his space, instead, I’m just doing what he’s told me to.
Feeling more confident, I search the cabinets and find a carton of eggs, a package of bread, and all the other things I need. I don’t usually bother with breakfast, but today I find myself cracking eggs into a bowl with gusto, happily humming to myself as I move around his kitchen.
Distantly, I hear the sound of my cell phone beeping, but I ignore it, too impressed with my culinary skills to care about anyone who might be trying to reach me.
Pouring myself a mug of coffee, I add a little creamer, wishing that Oz had something a little more interesting than just plain original flavor. Back in Vegas, I had an entire shelf in my refrigerator dedicated to all the weird and wonderful flavors of creamer I could find on the internet. My favorite by far was raspberry white chocolate, which really should have been disgusting but was delicious.
Grabbing some silverware, I balance my mug and plate and carry it over to the dining table, sliding it onto the spot I used last night. The moment my butt hits the seat, my cell starts to ring. Sighing, I try to ignore it, stabbing some food onto my fork and lifting it to my mouth, moaning as the taste of the buttery eggs hits my tongue.
Picking up a slice of toast, I go to take a bite when my ringer abruptly cuts off, only to start ringing again moments later. Sighing, I drop my toast back on my plate and push out of my chair, rising to my feet.
The ringer on my cell cuts off, then starts again for the third time, and I sigh as I reluctantly make my way upstairs to grab it from where I left it. By the time I walk into the bedroom I used last night, the ringing has ended, and the lack of noise is startling. Picking up my cell, I tap to bring the screen to life, then jolt when it immediately starts ringing in my hand.
Without thinking to check the caller ID, I answer it, bringing it to my ear. “Hello.”
“Etta.” Even though I’ve never spoken to him on the phone, I immediately recognize Oz’s voice.
“Osc…Oz,”—I correct myself—”is everything okay?”
“What did I tell you last night?” he demands.
“I—”
He talks over me before I can answer.
“I told you that if I texted you, I expected you to reply. If I call you, I expect you to answer.”
“Okay,” I say, unsure if I’m agreeing or just saying what I think he expects me to.
“Okay,” he snaps. “If it was fucking okay, I wouldn’t have texted you three times without a response and called four times without you fucking answering. Where were you?”
“I was downstairs,” I say, my voice getting weaker and weaker in response to his anger.
“Then why didn’t you answer me?”
“Because my cell was upstairs and I was making breakfast,” I whisper, sounding more and more childlike. God, I sound so freaking pathetic. I’m never combative, but I can be assertive… sometimes. Of course, that’s usually via email, but that’s not the point. Oz has always had the ability to reduce me to a jabbering pile of nerves and fear, but I’m not a child anymore, and I need to figure out how not to behave like a scared kid faced with their tormentor when I’m around him.
“What the fuck is the point of having a cell phone if you leave it in your bedroom?” he snarls angrily.
“I wasn’t expecting anyone to call,” I answer honestly.
“I text, you reply. I call, you answer,” he hisses through gritted teeth, his voice pitched so low that goose bumps pebble on my arms in reaction to it.
“But—” I start to whisper, and he cuts me off again.
“I want your cell with you at all times from now on.”
“But—”
“At all times, Etta, no fucking excuses. Do you understand?”
“I…yes, I…I understand,” I answer meekly.
“Good girl.”
I have no idea how he can go from stern to praising, or how I can go from scared to vibrating with need as my stomach clenches and my pussy pulses, a surge of arousal heating my core. Why do I react so strongly to him saying those words? Is it the words or the fact that it’s him who’s saying them? And why don’t I hate him as much as I did this time yesterday?
“Did you eat?” he demands, but his tone is softer now, like by agreeing to his unreasonable expectations I’ve pleased him.
“I only managed a mouthful before I came upstairs to answer my cell.”
“Then go back downstairs and switch over to video call,” he orders.
I comply without really thinking about it. Unplugging my cell, I move on autopilot, like doing as he says is the most natural thing in the world. When I sit down in the chair at the table, I prop my cell against my coffee and then switch to video call, heat rushing to my cheeks when his face appears on the screen.
“Eat,” he prompts.
“Oz?” I say his name like a question because I need him to explain what the hell is happening right now.
“Just eat, Etta.” His voice is softer, but his words are still very much an order.
Sighing, I do as he says, picking up my fork and stabbing a piece of egg before lifting it to my mouth. Neither of us speaks while I quietly eat half of my food before resting my silverware on the plate and pushing it away from me.
“What are you doing?” he snaps, his tone sharp.
“I can’t eat anymore. I don’t usually bother with breakfast, my stomach rarely wakes up before three in the afternoon,” I confess, bracing myself for his reaction.
“Not anymore. From now on, you’ll eat three meals a day, it’s not healthy to starve yourself.”
“I’m not starving myself, I am healthy,” I protest, silently patting myself on the back for standing up to him.
His scoff makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. “You need someone to take care of you,” he says, almost softly. Then his lips flatten, and his eyes turn steely. “From now on, that’ll be my job.”
“Oz—”
“While you’re in my house, you’ll do as I say, Etta,” he cuts me off, his tone becoming resolute and determined, his dominant expression daring me to disagree.
“I guess I’ll try to eat three meals a day until Wednesday,” I say with a shrug.
Something that sounds a lot like a growl vibrates through the cell phone. “We need to talk about that too. What’s the address for the apartment you’re moving into?”
“Err, we haven’t sorted anywhere yet. With me and my roommate both living out of state, we’d planned to go and look at rentals as soon as she gets to town.”
“Then you’ll stay with me until you find a place,” he growls.
“No—” I start.
“Etta, you’re staying with me until you find a place,” he orders. “Where are you working? What do you do?”
The brave Etta hidden inside of me wants to tell him that it’s none of his business, that I don’t know why I’m here, or why he suddenly thinks he gets to tell me what to do or demand to know things about my life.
But instead, I start talking before I can stop myself, words flowing out of my mouth like something inside of me knows he’s in charge and simply obeys. “I’m going to be doing social media marketing for a new tattoo studio that’s opening in town, it’s what I did in Las Vegas.”
“Your job is in Betty’s tattoo shop?”
“You know Betty? I ask cautiously.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “I’m guessing your roommate is going to be Octy?”
“You know Octy?”
His chuckle is dark and full of angry amusement. “Rockhead Point is a really fucking small town. My boss’s sister is married to a Barnett, everyone knows the family. Their house is up the hill from my place, and Hal, my landlord’s daughter, is married to a Barnett too.”
“Are they…?” I pause. “Bad people? Because Octy speaks very highly of Betty, they used to work together in Rapid Falls.” My heart starts to race as I panic, worried that he’s going to say they’re assholes or something.
Sighing, he scrubs his hand over his face. “No, the Barnetts are the best fucking kind of people. The moment the women meet you, they’re going to want to adopt you.” I’m not sure why that’s a bad thing, but he sounds thoroughly pissed off about it.
I open my mouth to speak, but he talks over me yet again.
“My break is over; I have to get back to work. Text me a picture of your lunch, one before you start and one when you’re done, and make sure you eat more than you did for breakfast. And Etta.” He waits, staring at me intently. “Behave.”
Before I even work up the courage to speak, he cuts off the call, and my screen goes black.
What the hell just happened? Since he called my name last night, his behavior has been so hot and cold he’s giving me whiplash. When he showed up at the bus station, his body language and behavior made it abundantly clear that he did not want me here. But then he kissed me and pressed his very hard, very large cock into my belly and called me a good girl. Now he’s demanding I eat and telling me I need someone to take care of me, but he sounded furious that I was going to be working for someone he knows.
I’m so confused.
Does he hate me? Could this all just be an elaborate mindfuck to mess with me the way he did when we were kids? But what would be the point? I texted him and told him I was going to stay in a hotel, and he still came to the bus station knowing I wasn’t expecting to see him. He brought me here and insisted I stay. He cooked for me and seems to actually care about my well-being. Surely we’re too old to be playing stupid, childish games?
Knowing that the only person who can answer all of my questions is him, I exhale and try to shake off the confusion that I can’t do anything to resolve right now. Picking up my plate and silverware, I carry them into the kitchen, then clean up, washing everything I used for my breakfast in the basin. Once I’ve put everything back where I found it, I stand in the middle of the living room unsure of what I should do now. I don’t actually start my new job for another two weeks, so I don’t have any work to do. There’s a huge TV hung on the wall and a gaming console on a shelf beneath it, but it feels presumptuous to assume he’d be okay with me using it. Touching his things was strictly forbidden when we were kids, and the fear of his retribution is enough to have me refilling my coffee and heading back upstairs.
I feel better the moment I close the bedroom door behind me. This isn’t my room, but it is the room he told me to use, so it feels okay to be in here, unlike the rest of the house that feels like his domain. Pulling out my laptop, I open my emails and check through the unread ones, finding one from the realtor Octy and I contacted in Rockhead Point. Attached are listings for several rental apartments, but it’s clear from the pictures that all but one aren’t really suitable.
We don’t have a crazy list of needs our new home has to contain, we just need two bedrooms somewhere safe and within walking distance of work. Our main issue with finding a place is that our budget is pretty low, and rent in this tiny town is high. Clicking into the video call app, I find Octy’s name and hit dial. She answers almost immediately, and her face appears on the screen a moment later.
“Hey bestie,” she says, smiling widely.
Octy looks like what I’d expect a goth version of a Bratz doll to look like. She adores dramatic, black makeup but dresses like an emo baby doll. Her hair is naturally black, and she has full, thick bangs, and today, like most days, she has her hair in pigtails tied with elaborate vintage lace ribbons.
She’s sexy and curvy and so undeniably Octy that my bad mood dissipates the moment I see her face.
“Hey, how’s packing going?” I ask.
Her red-tinted lips turn down into a frown. “My landlord is being an asshole. He’s trying to say that my furniture is his. He’s threatening to take me to court over my pinball machine because I had to take the window out to get it in, and now he’s saying that it’s a fixture of the apartment, and I have to leave it behind.”
“That’s not fair,” I cry. “You can’t leave it behind, you love that thing.”
“Over my sexy dead body am I leaving it behind. It’s my pride and joy, so I might have to go to court. That also means I’m probably going to be here for another week, or maybe two. I’m so sorry, Etta. I know you wanted to wait until I got there to look for apartments. Is the hotel awful? Can you stay there longer, or do you want to just go and look at places for us on your own?”
“I’m actually not at the hotel,” I admit sheepishly.
“What?” she shrieks dramatically. “Are you still in Vegas? Where the fuck are you?”
“No. I’m in Rockhead Point. I’m at Oscar’s place.”
“Why the hell are you there? You hate him. And didn’t you tell me you’d text him to say you didn’t need to stay with him? Did your asshole stepdad, bully you into staying with that psychotic stepbrother of yours? Is he being a dick? Did you bring the pepper spray I got you? Go give him a face full of pain, then get the hell out of there. I’ll call Betty, and she’ll set you up in her spare room. She said you could stay with her anyway.”
Octy is talking so quickly I struggle to keep up with all the questions she’s asking me.
“Yes, I texted him last week, but he was at the bus station when I arrived and he just kind of brought me to his place. I told him I’d booked a hotel, and he just said no.”
“No?” she asks. “He can’t just say no.”
“I know, but he did. So now I’m in his house, which is far enough out of town that I can’t walk back. It was dark, so I’m not even a hundred percent sure where I am, but I’m pretty sure this place is up the mountain.”
“Did he kidnap you?” she asks, her voice little more than a whisper. “Blink three times if this is a hostage situation.”
“He didn’t kidnap me…well, I mean, I guess he sort of did, but I’m not a prisoner. If his house wasn’t so far from town, there’d be nothing stopping me from leaving.”
Tipping her head to the side, she looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Wait…he sort of kidnapped you?”
“No,” I say quickly. “Kidnap is the wrong word. Railroaded is probably a better description. You know I’m not very good at confrontation.”
“Etta, I’m going to need more than that. Explain exactly what happened,” Octy says, her expression shrewd as she narrows her eyes at me.
“Okay, so he’s crazy big, like huge and kind of scary, and he said that he’d agreed for me to stay with him, so I was staying with him. I tried to argue, well, I planned to argue, but then we were in his truck and miles from town before I thought of anything to say.”
“Okay, you’re kind of freaking me out now. Do you want to be there, or do you need a rescue? I can call Betty; I’ll activate the Barnett bandwagon and have them all swoop in to save you if you need me to.”
“No, no.” I wave my hands in front of the screen. “I’m fine, I promise I am. And actually, he knows the Barnetts, and you, apparently.”
Her brows furrow. “I don’t know anyone called Oscar.”
“He goes by Oz now.”
Mouth dropping open, her brows shoot up to her hairline, and she looks more like a cartoon than she ever has before. “Your evil stepbrother is Oz?” she shrieks.
“He’s not my stepbrother.”
“Fine, your stepdad’s son—which totally means he’s your stepbrother—is hot firefighter Oz?”
I nod.
“Holy fuck. He seemed so nice. Is he a sociopath and the nice guy appearance is just a front?” she asks excitedly.
“I guess people can change in fifteen years,” I say, trying and failing to sound nonchalant.
“Bullshit, people don’t change. Has he been an asshole?”
“Not really,” I sigh. “But he’s bossy and scary and…” My cheeks heat as I remember the way it felt to feel the evidence of his arousal against my stomach.
“Oh my god, you fucked him!” Octy screams, clasping her face in her hands.
“I didn’t fuck him,” I protest, albeit a little weakly.
“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” she singsongs.
“I did not have sex with him,” I say a little more urgently.
“Hmm, but you want to, don’t you? Holy shit, you want to bone your stepbrother, god, it’s like a book, that’s so hot,” Octy gushes.
“I do not want to bone…” I wrinkle my nose at the word. “My stepbrother.”
“Tell me everything, every detail. My vagina is as dry as a nun’s cunt after Abel the asshole’s bullshit, I need some salacious details to help me get my motor running again.”
Abel is Octy’s ex-boyfriend. I never met him because he wasn’t interested in meeting any of Octy’s friends. He was a dick to her, and although she’ll never admit it, he really hurt her. He pursued her relentlessly, but the moment they started dating, he made it his mission to break her down. He criticized her appearance, her style, her job, and her relationships with her friends. He systematically tried to change all the amazing things that make Octy, Octy.
She broke it off with him when Betty offered her the job here in Montana, but I know he still calls and texts her regularly. She’s not crazy enough to take him back, but I know his verbal abuse has affected her more than she’s willing to admit.
“Etta, details,” she whines, flashing me the baby doll eyes she knows I won’t be able to refuse.
“Nothing’s happened…well, not really. He met me at the bus station and brought me to his place. For the first hour or so, he was angry and cold and distant, which is kind of what I was expecting. He hated me when we were kids, and I know he only agreed to have me stay at his place because Bruce forced him to.”
“ But… ” Octy prompts excitedly.
“But then he made me dinner, and he started being…well, kind of bossy, but not in a really mean way.”
“Bossy, how?” she asks cautiously.
“He told me I hadn’t eaten enough, then made me eat more.”
“I mean, that’s kind of…” She trails off, and I laugh.
“Weird. But also, kind of sweet…right?”
“I was going to say high-handed. But we could go with weird, but sweet too.” She giggles.
“He gave me rules.”
“Rules.” She laughs. “What kind of rules?”
Sighing, I rest my cheek in my hand. “If he texts, I have to reply, if he calls, I have to answer, and he seems to have a thing about making sure I eat, because he says I have to eat three meals a day, and he wants me to send him pictures.”
“Oh my god, he’s daddying you, that’s so freaking hot,” Octy gasps.
“He is not…daddying me. That’s not…no.”
“Oh my god, you could call him daddy. Does that do it for you? Do you think it does it for him?”
“Octy, you really have to stop reading all those daddy dom books,” I chide softly, rolling my eyes at her.
“Pah, you think they’re hot too. But you didn’t answer my questions,” she singsongs. “So, where’s Daddy Oz now?”
“Stop!” I shriek, but I’m laughing so hard there’s no real force in my words. “I am not and will never call him daddy. That’s definitely not something I’m interested in.”
“Urgh, boring,” Octy exaggeratedly scowls. “Daddy doms are the absolute hottest in books. If I can get Wednesday online again, the next time I hook up with a guy, I’m going to call him daddy to see if it does anything for me in real life.”
“Wednesday?” I question.
Arching her eyebrows, she smirks, then lifts her hand so it’s visible on the screen and points straight down. “I’ve renamed my pussy Wednesday, because right now she is really not perky.”
“Oh my god, Octy,” I shriek, then we both laugh so hard that tears fill our eyes.
Once we’ve calmed down, Octy waves her hands, fanning herself. “Okay, back to you. So, Oz is bossy?”
“He kissed me,” I blurt, unable to keep the truth to myself any longer.
“Oh my god, he kissed you?”
I nod. “And his dick was hard and… huge .” I let my eyes go dramatically wide, and Octy echoes my expression back to me.
“Remind me why you haven’t fucked him? Maybe if you took a ride on his massive cock, he could stop being the bogeyman for you.”
“I can’t fuck him. He was so awful to me when we were kids. I still can’t fly because of him, and I get panic attacks just thinking about the shit he did back then.”
“I can hear the but coming,” Octy prompts.
“But when he calls me a good girl, it does something to me,” I admit, immediately blushing.
“He called you a good girl?” Her voice is soft and kind of dreamy.
I nod. “He told me to behave too.”
“Wow. Why is that hot?”
“I don’t know, but it is, isn’t it?”
She nods emphatically. “So hot.”
“But now he’s gone.”
“Gone where?” she asks.
“Work. He left this morning before I woke up, and he’s gone until Wednesday, and I’m stuck in his house, doing what he tells me to and letting him watch me eat.”
“Oh shit, I forgot the smoke jumpers do shifts and that they live on base while they’re working.” Tipping her head to the side, she narrows her eyes. “Wait, did you say he was watching you eat?”
I nod. “When I got downstairs this morning, there was a note telling me what to have for breakfast, and then he texted and called, and then we ended up video chatting while I ate.”
“That’s a little weird.”
I nod.
“Do you think he’s a dom?”
I shrug. “How the hell would I know? I’ve never met a dom, and I really don’t think the doms in books are at all how they’d be in real life.”
“The Barnetts are all a little bit extra. I overheard Beau threatening to spank Bonnie the last time I had dinner there, and all the brothers are crazy, growly alpha males. Granger and Alice seem like they have a power exchange situation going on, and Betty’s pretty kinky, so I’d guess Cody is too. It wouldn’t surprise me if Oz had some control issues, it’d make sense for those types of guys to band together.”
“You can’t just assume they’re all into…that kind of stuff just because you overheard someone say something and because Betty is a little kinky,” I say, feeling uncomfortable discussing my new boss’s sexual preferences.
“Don’t be a prude, Etta. It’s fun to wonder if all those huge dudes are ordering their wives about and spanking their asses when they don’t do as they’re told.” Her laugh is playful, and I can’t help but smile back at her.
“Fine,” I concede. “But that doesn’t mean that Oscar, I mean Oz, is that way.”
“Babe, the dude ordered you around, demanded that you eat, and gave you rules that he insisted that you follow. I bet when he kissed you, he held you in place, not allowing you to have any control over the way he touched you, didn’t he?”
Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I press my palms against them, trying to hide my reaction.
“Holy crap, I was right, wasn’t I?” She giggles excitedly.
Glancing away from the screen, I press my lips together and stay quiet.
“Do you like it…him?” she asks, and she’s not playing anymore. Her tone is serious, and there’s a hint of something that sounds a little like jealousy in her voice.
“He was so awful to me when we were younger,” I say, instead of confessing how my body reacted to his dominating behavior.
“I know,” she says, sighing softly. “But that was a long time ago. It’s okay to give him a second chance.”
“I don’t know if I can,” I admit. “But I’m also not sure that I can stop myself from doing what he tells me to, either, even if that’s us doing…intimate stuff.”
“Intimate stuff.” Her voice is teasing as her lips twitch, slowly spreading into a mischievous grin.
Ignoring her, I close my eyes and suck in a sharp breath. “He told me that I’m staying with him until you get to town. But I don’t think I should stay here. Part of me thinks I should just walk the few miles into town and check into the hotel I already paid for.”
“But you’re not going to, are you?”
I shake my head. “No, I don’t think I am.”