Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
DAMON
W hat in the actual shit did I just walk in on? And what the hell is she doing in my apartment? And in my shirt?
God damn it, I’m never going to unsee this. I am so going to fucking hell.
“Oh my god!” she shrieks, trying to cover up, but it’s useless. I already saw everything. “Unc ─ uncle Damon?”
Fuck. Dorothy.
Dottie.
Arrie’s best friend.
Why does that make my already hard cock, harder? This cannot be happening. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I turn away from her because I can see she’s embarrassed, and to also hide my erection.
I’ve never looked at Dorothy as anything other than my little niece that tagged along everywhere Arrie and I went, but damn it to fucking hell, she is not a little girl anymore.
This is not happening.
Why the hell did I think coming home unannounced was a good idea?
And why the hell didn’t Arrie tell me she was letting Dottie stay in my apartment?
I try to keep level-headed, but the anger simmers beneath.
Not because of Dottie being here, or my daughter not telling me anyone was staying in my apartment, but because of my reaction after seeing what I just saw.
I haven’t seen Dorothy since she her graduation, but I’d know those big violet-coloured eyes anywhere. The awkward teenager I remember is gone, and in its place is a beautiful, young woman.
A young woman I just watched come from the shadows of my lounge room like a creep.
A young woman that made my dick hard, who also happens to be my step-niece.
It’s not right.
Did I mention I’m going to hell?
I hear rustling behind me, and some things hitting the floor before silence. It’s deafening how quiet it is, but all I can focus on is her breathing. Shallow, fast… jittery, and it sure as hell isn’t helping my current situation.
I’ve been riding for the last three days straight, only stopping when I had to sleep or eat. I was hoping to come home, collapse in my perfectly comfortable bed, and sleep for twelve hours straight.
That isn’t happening now.
“Uncle Damon?” She curses, and I find a smirk playing at the corner of my lips for some stupid reason.
Slowly turning around, I find her pulling the hem of my shirt down to cover herself, but the damn thing is barely covering her pussy. Swallowing again, I lock eyes with hers, and I see the embarrassment and nervousness clinging to the corner of them.
I want to reassure her, but my feet are rooted to the ground. I’m finding it difficult to form a coherent sentence while looking at the woman I used to save from her deadbeat parents as a child, to the vixen standing in front of me.
It’s not fucking right.
Forcing a smile that I know she will know isn’t genuine, I hope my next words will at least calm her nerves a little, even though I know they’ll do nothing to temper my resolve and thoughts right now.
“Sweet Dottie.”
“Argh, don’t call me that.” she groans, lifting her hands to cover her face.
I fucking chuckle.
Not the time or place, asshole!
“Just Dottie then.”
She nods her head through her covered face, and I smirk. It’s cute. Fuck, I need my head read. Dropping my bags on the floor, they clamour loudly in the space and Dottie jumps and removes her hands from her face.
We lock eyes again but say nothing, and we stay that way for way too long to be appropriate. When she draws her lip into her mouth, I shake the stupor off and step forward.
She steps back and slips on something.
I rush forward and grip her forearm.
“Shit!” she cries out, her hand coming down on mine, sending a jolt throughout my entire body.
Clenching my teeth, I make sure she’s standing before glancing down to see that it was paint she almost slipped on, and the canvas lying on the floor. Crouching down, I pick it up and look it over.
It’s magnificent.
Perfect.
Peering up from my spot on the floor, I find her already looking down at me, gnawing on her lip and holding my shirt down again. She looks nervous, worried even.
“You painted this?” I say, breaking the silence.
She nods.
“Words, Dottie.”
She flushes, probably remembering the many times I’d said that to her growing up.
I am so going to hell.
“Yeah, yeah, I did. Arrie asked me to spruce the place up. Those were her words not mine,” she answers, narrowing her eyes.
“Woah, woah, tiger. I wasn’t going to say anything.”
That gets a small smile.
We stare at each other for a few seconds before I clear my throat and stand up, fixing the canvas back in its easel. Which I do for way too long than necessary, but I need to keep my hands busy.
“Arrie didn’t tell me you were coming home. I can stay at Arrie’s or my parents’.”
“Like fuck you will,” I growl, the fury bubbles beneath my flesh at the mention of her parents.
“Excuse me?”
I run a hand down my face.
“I mean, you don’t have to. It’s fine. You have Arrie’s room, I have mine, we both work, so we will barely see each other. It will be no problem,” I insist, covering up my outburst with a lie.
“Are ─ are you sure?”
No.
Yes.
No.
Fuck .
“Positive. How about you get some sleep, and I’ll clean this up?”
“No, no. It’s my mess. I’ll fix it.”
“Dorothy. Bed. Now,” I demand.
She goes quiet, but I need her out of this space so I can think straight because all I can smell is her. See her, and it is fucking with my composure.
I keep my back to her, feeling the muscles coil tightly underneath my leather jacket, and when I hear her bare feet pad along the timber floorboards, I release a staggered breath.
When I hear the door click shut, I kick my ass into gear so I can clean this mess and get to bed. I think we both know I won’t be sleeping for a while, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.
Two hours, three whiskeys, a shower and a wank later, I’m lying in bed looking at the dark ceiling feeling disgusted with myself. How the hell am I ever going to look at her the same again?
I need a distraction. I reach for my phone and open up my messages to find she had actually replied.
Was the devil tempted?
I want to tell her he was, I was, but the reasons surrounding the temptation is fucking wrong. I was thinking of Blossom, but I was also thinking of what I walked in on.
Dottie. Her hand between her legs as she edged herself, pulling on her nipples to the point of pain. I could tell every time she reached her threshold because her eyes screwed up and she’d let out this adorable gasp.
I know I’ve already said it, but I am going to hell.
He was .
It’s all I write. I feel like I’m betraying her, but that is so fucking stupid.
The read message pops up but she won’t reply. Her offline status has flicked on. What is she still doing up? I want to ask but I’m drained. Too exhausted to even think, and now post nut clarity has kicked in, I know what I need to do.
I just don’t want to do it.
Throwing on a white shirt and jeans, I grab my work boots and head out of my room to make a coffee before walking downstairs to check on the boys and shop.
I hear Dottie humming a tune I can’t discern, before I round the corner and find her in a pair of tight blue jeans that hug her ass like a second skin, and a white off-the-shoulder top.
Her purple hair is pulled up in a messy bun with what looks like a paintbrush sticking out of it and a pencil.
“Mornin’,” I grumble, causing her to gasp and turn around.
“Shit, Uncle Damon, you startled me.”
Uncle Damon. Fuck.
I notice the pink tinging her pretty face.
I can’t be thinking of her this way. For crying out loud, I watched this girl grow up, babysat her with my daughter.
“Soooo…” we both say in unison, and she dips her head.
“You go,” I offer, moving to the coffee machine and realising she’s already brewed it.
“I just wanted to say that now you’re back, I’ll finish the mural in the office and leave when Arrie finds a replacement for your receptionist. ”
Well, that settles that; I won’t need to ask her to leave. I’m sure I can handle her being around for a little longer, and it won’t take her long to paint a mural, right? I try and convince myself.
I have self-control. I pride myself on it. I can do this.
Dottie clears her throat, and I’m brought back to the conversation.
“Wait. Where is Selina?”
“Arrie fired her.”
I groan, pour the coffee into my mug that reads: Assholes need love, too , and turn around to face her. Leaning my ass on the timber top bench, I arch a brow at her for an explanation.
Huffing out a breath, she blows over the rim of her mug with her eyes on me before taking a sip.
My cock jerks in my jeans.
“She didn’t like her, and quite frankly, neither did I.”
“You didn’t huh? Why?”
She shakes her head.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Dorothy May Wilmott.”
“Would you not?!” she shrieks.
“Well?”
“I didn’t like the way she talked to Arrie.”
“And?”
“There is no and.”
“Yes, there is, girly, don’t lie to me.”
Drawing her lip into her mouth she turns away, and I can see the war waging in her mind from here. The damn cogs are so loud they’re drowning out my own thoughts.
“Dottie.”
“Arrie told me why she didn’t like her.”
Ah fuck.
I decide to play dumb .
“And why didn’t she like her?”
Now it’s her turn to arch a knowing eyebrow at me.
“Really? I’m twenty-four, not thirteen, Uncle Damon. Quit the bullshit.”
Her sass makes my smirk widen, and I’m not even going to mention what’s going on in my jeans right now, but I need her to stop calling me fucking Uncle Damon. It makes my reaction toward her even dirtier than it ought to be, and I’m not sure I hate it.
Fuck.
“Ok, Miss Independent, then tell me: what am I bullshitting about?”
Her cheeks turn redder than a fucking tomato.
“Really?”
I wave my hand at her to proceed.
“That you…” she trails off.
I shouldn’t like this as much as I do.
“That I?”
“That you, ah, yeah.”
I kick off the bench and move toward her. Standing a meter away from her, I lean forward and look her in the eye.
“That I what? Fucked her?”
Her chin dips and a few strands of her hair fall from her messy bun, shielding her features and reaction from me. I don’t like it. My fingers itch to move the hair, but just as I’m about to do exactly that, the door slams closed and my daughter yells out.
My fucking daughter.
We spring apart.
“Dottie! You best be up, bitch. I want to see the sketch you did,” she says, rounding the corner only to lock eyes with me.
Surprise fills her face before she’s running and jumping into my arms .
“Daddy! You’re back? You said you weren’t coming back for another year or so.”
My eyes find Dottie’s before they dart away, and I stroke Arrie’s hair.
“Baby girl, I missed you.”
She hops down and swipes at the stray tear falling down her face. Then she punches me in the shoulder.
“You’re an asshole.”
“What was that for?”
“I haven’t seen you in twelve months, and you show up without telling me. What time did you get in?”
I fight the urge to look at Dottie. I can still see her on my couch with her legs wide open, that glistening pink pussy begging to be punished. I lost control, and that’s on me, not her.
“Dad? You in there?” Arrie asks, clicking her fingers in my face and I realised I spaced.
“Sorry. A lot on my mind.”
This time I do look at Dottie. Her whole face is flushed, and I can see her chest is too. She’s thinking about it, wondering how much I saw of her, of what she was doing.
Swallowing, I focus on Arrie.
“I got in late last night.”
“And you’re back for good?”
“You know the answer to that, baby girl.”
Arrie deflates, and I want to kick myself in the nuts. I can’t be here permanently. Not again. I’ll keep the workshop and the apartment, but Arrie will eventually own everything.
The thought of growing old in this damn town makes me break out in a sweat.
“Worth a try,” she says, laughing lightly. “So has Dottie showed you this masterpiece?”
I look over her shoulder to Dottie .
“Masterpiece?”
“The mural.”
“Mural? Oh shit. That’s what we were talking about before you arrived,” I answer, raising an eyebrow at Dottie to find her scowling at me.
“Woah, princess, did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed, Dottie?” Arrie asks.
She sighs. “I didn’t get much sleep.”
“But you finished the draft for the mural.”
“I did.”
She walks into the loungeroom, and we follow. Her eyes linger on the couch where I watched her play with herself, her steps falter, but she rights herself and stalks over to the easel and canvas I put back together before I went to bed.
Dottie looks at me first and then her eyes are on Arrie. Mine follow. Arrie has her hand over her mouth, stepping closer to the painting.
“It’s fucking perfect! I knew you could do it.”
“You like it?”
“Of course, I fucking do!” Arrie exclaims, enveloping her in a hug.
I finish my coffee in one gulp, my eyes still on hers, and then I’m stepping out of the loungeroom.
I need some fucking air because I can’t fucking breathe in there. With one last lingering look in the direction I just left, I wonder if I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.