24. Penelope
I’ve never spent the night in the same bed as someone else before. Izabella and I never had sleepovers in each other’s beds. In fact, the one and only time she did try to crawl into bed with me, I screamed until our nanny came and took her back to her own room. Somewhere at the back of my mind, it feels wrong to be here like this, but the overwhelming sensation that’s coursing through me is how unmistakably right it feels to have his huge, warm body curled up next to me.
There’s something about Hawthorn that makes me feel safe. He makes me feel cared for, protected, and wanted, and it terrifies me.
I like being near him.
I like him.
A lot.
More than I can even admit to myself, and even though that scares me, I don’t think I could run now even if I wanted to.
“Good morning,” he whispers, leaning forward and pressing his lips to mine. Kissing me softly, he pulls me into his warm, naked body. His hard dick prods me in the stomach, and realization dawns on me. He’s horny.
Coldness washes over me, and some of the joy of waking up in his bed evaporates. He wants to have sex, that’s why he’s being sweet and cuddly. It’s not exactly unexpected, I’m naked in his bedroom, we’re teenagers, and we have sex a lot. In fact, that’s literally the only thing we do. We argue, and we have sex.
Waiting for the kiss to turn sensual, I try to figure out if I should reach for his dick. Is that what he expects me to do? I mean, it’s right there, prodding me, it makes sense that he’s hoping I’m going to touch it. But he’s always the one to initiate sex; last night with the blow job, I kind of did, but he still started it.
“Why are you thinking so hard?” he whispers against my lips.
“I’m not,” I deny, forcing my voice to sound casual.
“Princess, I can practically hear your brain whirring,” he says, pulling away and leaning back to look at me.
Fear fills my stomach with icy tendrils that spread outward as I start to panic. Did I mess up? Should I know what to do? Is that what he expects?
Hawthorn’s eyebrows pull together, and his lips turn down slightly at the corners. “Why do you look like you’re freaking out?”
Unable to look at him, I pick a spot on his shoulder and stare at it, frantically trying to remember everything my mom ever told me about men and their expectations. Admittedly, she wasn’t preparing me for casual sex, more for manipulating them into doing what I wanted, but surely something she told me must be relatable to this situation.
“Penelope, look at me,” he growls in that authoritarian tone that I’m incapable of ignoring.
My eyes snap up to his, and I see the flash of heat that quickly passes through his intense gaze.
“I asked you a question,” he says sternly.
“I just…I don’t really know what to do,” I admit.
“Do, how?”
My eyes flit down to his hard dick, then back to his face. “I didn’t know if you expected me to start things.” I say, feeling heat rush to my cheeks.
A wry smile tips up one side of his lips, and he arches an eyebrow. “You want to know if it’s okay to touch me?”
“I thought…isn’t that why you were kissing me?”
The smile instantly falls from his lips, and I feel my own brows furrow in confusion.
“For fuck’s sake, Penelope, I didn’t kiss you because I want to fuck you,” he snarls, anger lacing his words.
“I—” I start.
“Have you considered that maybe I just wanted to kiss my fucking girlfriend the first time I wake up with her after spending the night together in my bed?” he shouts, jumping up from the mattress and glowering at me.
Confusion wars with anger, and I jump up too, crossing my arms over my naked breasts indignantly. “How am I supposed to know that’s all it was? I’ve never had a boyfriend, and I’ve never shared a bed with a guy. Plus, your dick was poking me in the stomach, what else am I supposed to think?”
“I’m a guy, it’s called morning wood. Stop assuming that I just want you as some fuck toy. I like you, Princess, I just wanted to fucking kiss you,” he cries.
My retort dies on my lips, and my mouth drops open in shock.
“Now get over here and fucking kiss me. Yes, my dick is hard, but it’s morning and you’re naked and hot, that doesn’t mean that all I’m thinking about is bending you over and fucking you. You’re my girlfriend, so sometimes a kiss is just a goddamn kiss.”
Relief overwhelms me, and I throw myself at him. The moment I’m close enough, he hauls me into his arms and slams his lips against mine. Unlike the soft, gentle kiss from before I ruined things with my insecurities, this kiss is hard, dominant, and punishing, and I love it. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I kiss him back, loving the growl of approval that vibrates against my mouth. His hands find my ass, and he picks me up, encouraging me to wrap my legs around his hips as his hard dick nestles against my sex.
Grinding myself against him, I wait for him to slide his cock into me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he ends the kiss and holds my gaze, a smirk playing at his lips. “Hell no, Princess, you don’t get my dick.”
“What?” I gasp.
“Until you get that this,” he says, motioning between us with his chin, “isn’t just about sex, I’m not going to fuck you. I like you, Penelope, and I thought we had this figured out. But apparently not, so until we do, until you understand that you’re my girl and I’m your guy, my dick is persona non grata.”
Pressing a soft peck against my lips, he unfurls my legs from behind his back and lowers me to the floor. Turning his back on me, he opens the closet and grabs a pair of gray sweatpants from the dresser, sliding them on, and hiding his hard dick from my sight.
Completely confused, I watch as he turns to look at me, his eyes raking over my nakedness. “I don’t understand. Are you serious?” I ask.
Ignoring me, he opens the dresser again and pulls out a black T-shirt. Striding over to me, he unfolds the T-shirt and drops it over my head, holding the fabric patiently while he waits for me to push my arms through the sleeves. The shirt is soft and smells deliciously like him, but it’s huge on me, swallowing my frame from my neck to almost my knees.
Smiling even wider, he winks at me, then turns me in the direction of the bathroom and slaps me on the ass. Once I’m done, he grabs my hand and pulls me from the bedroom.
Baffled and a little horny, I let him tow me into the boat’s galley. Lifting me up onto a stool at the island, he presses a quick kiss to my lips, then turns and heads for the refrigerator. Opening the door, he leans down to look at the contents.
“What do you want for breakfast? I’ve got eggs, bacon, and some sausage links.” Twisting around, he looks at me. “I could make pancakes?”
“I’m not really hungry,” I say, twisting my fingers awkwardly in the fabric of the shirt.
Sighing, he stands up fully and turns to face me. “Princess, you need to eat, breakfast is the most important meal of the day. You hardly ate anything last night, plus, I like to eat, and I’m not going to have breakfast while you don’t.”
“You can eat, and I’ll go get dressed,” I say, pointing in the direction of the bedroom and twisting on the stool.
“Stop,” he snaps in that tone that makes my muscles freeze into place.
Gentle hands encircle my waist as Hawthorn pushes to stand between my legs. Tapping my chin softly with his thumb, he waits silently until I look at him, his eyes soft and full of…concern?
“Why don’t you eat?”
“I do eat. You’ve seen me eat,” I say with as bright a tone as I can muster.
“I’ve made you eat, there’s a difference. Yesterday, Izzy, she mentioned?—”
“I don’t want to talk about that,” I blurt loudly.
“Penelope.” His tone is a warning and an entreaty all at the same time, but for the first time, I completely ignore him and shake my head adamantly.
“Hawthorn, I’m not going to talk about that,” I say, my voice shaking but lined with steel. I won’t tell him; I won’t tell anyone. I just won’t.
An emotion that I don’t understand flashes across his face, and he reluctantly nods. His shoulders sag a little, and he leans forward and presses a soft kiss against my lips. “Will you eat with me?” he whispers.
“I—”
“Please.”
“Okay.” I nod.
His lips claim mine a little harder, it’s a thank you and a reminder that he’s in charge all at once, and I melt into him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and clinging to him like he’s the only thing holding me upright. Sometimes I think that maybe he is.
Reluctantly, he pulls back, but his eyes are a little haunted, and the humor has faded from them. “Breakfast,” he says with a decisive nod, as he turns back to the refrigerator and pulls out a carton of eggs, some thick slices of bacon, mushrooms, and a few other things that I can’t quite see from where I’m sitting.
“Omelets,” he announces brightly, turning back to the refrigerator and grabbing a block of cheese.
“I normally just have green juice in the morning.”
“Omelets,” he says with a little more force.
“Egg whites?” I ask hopefully.
The look of disgust on his face makes me laugh.
Grabbing the carton of eggs, he holds them to his chest protectively and shakes his head at me playfully. “You’ll hurt their feelings, even eggs know that the yolk is the best bit,” he says in mock indignation.
A giggle bursts from my lips, and he smiles at me.
“My omelets are the best, prepare to be amazed,” he boasts, grabbing a huge pan and some other things before setting to work.
Unable to tear my eyes away, I watch as he moves happily around the kitchen, chopping and mixing, humming animatedly to the music he turned on after he grabbed all the ingredients.
All my life, my food has been prepared by a housekeeper or nanny. I don’t think I’ve set foot in the kitchen at home more than a handful of times, so I’ve never really watched someone cook before.
Hawthorn looks happy, like he’s really enjoying this menial task. It’s odd. We’re rich, and Mom always said rich people employ staff to do the menial tasks for them because they have more important things to do with their time.
“Voilà,” he says with a flourish, placing two plates on the breakfast bar with huge fluffy yellow omelets on them.
Scooping me off my stool, he spins me around, kisses me quickly, then places me back down with a playful laugh. Grabbing silverware and two glasses of orange juice, he takes the stool next to mine and smiles. “Cheese and bacon omelets,” he declares.
Dragging my plate toward him, he cuts off a slice and lifts the fork to my lips. “Eat,” he orders.
Parting my lips, I let him feed me, tasting the rich, tangy cheese the moment it hits my tongue. I chew tentatively at first, groaning when the salty bacon, fluffy eggs, and cheese all meld together in a delicious bite of wonderfulness.
“Good?” he asks.
“Really good,” I whisper.
“Told you, you’d be amazed,” he says, flashing me a smug smile as he cuts off a piece of his own food and eats it.
He pushes my plate and silverware toward me, and I stare at the omelet like it’s a snake ready to bite me. I know how ridiculous it is to be scared of a plate full of food, but I am. Even after one bite, I can already hear my mom’s taunting voice, telling me how fat I am and how, even with billions of dollars, no one would want to marry me when I’m so disgusting. Bile fills my mouth as the memory of my mom forcing her fingers into my throat and making me vomit again and again until my stomach was so empty that all I was expelling was blood and stomach acid fills my head.
Closing my eyes, I inhale slowly, trying to force the thoughts away, to block out the memory of the pills she made me take that made me so sick and weak I could barely stand. I would have gladly taken a beating over being so hungry that I thought I would die, all because I’d eaten desert. It didn’t take me long to learn that eating something my mom hadn’t approved came with pain and humiliation—a lesson that I’ll never forget.
“Princess.”
I can hear Hawthorn’s voice through the memory trap I’ve slipped into, but I can’t seem to resurface from my waking nightmare to respond to him. This never happened when I ate breakfast with him the first time I ever came here, nor when he cooked for me the other night, so why is it happening now?
“Penelope.”
This time his voice breaks through my meltdown, and I’m jolted back to reality, sucking in air as my eyes crash open.
“Hey,” he cries, cupping my cheeks as he stares at me with worry-filled eyes.
Blinking, I glance up at him, then immediately drop my chin, incapable of looking at him after knowing he just witnessed my meltdown.
“What the fuck just happened?” he demands, his grip on my face tightening in an unspoken order to look at him.
“Just a bad memory, that’s all. I’m fine now. I’m going to go take a shower,” I say, trying to pull away from his touch.
“No. Your ass is staying right where it is, Penelope. I’m fucking serious. What the hell just happened? You were fine, then you were just gone. I was calling your name, but it was like you couldn’t hear me.”
“I don’t know what it was, I think maybe I’m sick. I’m not used to all the cheese,” I say, forcing a smile onto my lips.
“You had a tiny forkful, barely a taste.”
“I’m not used to eating in the mornings. I told you that,” I snap, yanking free of his hold and jumping down from the stool.
“Penelope.”
There’s no mistaking the dominance in his voice, and I stop, hating and loving how much control he has over me.
“Come here.”
“I don’t want to,” I say desperately.
“I know, but we both know you’re going to come anyway.”
Some of the sternness has gone from his voice, and I turn around and close the distance between us. “Happy?” I bite out.
“Sit.” He points to the stool I just left.
Glancing up, I’m surprised to find the food pushed to the other edge of the counter, out of my direct line of sight. Sighing, I climb back onto the stool, reluctantly lifting my chin to look at him.
“Was it the type of food, or just the food in general?” he asks.
“It was nothing.”
“I asked you a question. I expect a proper reply,” he warns.
Dropping my gaze to my hands, I whisper, “It was both.”
“Are you anorexic? Or bulimic?” he asks slowly.
I shake my head.
“So…”
“I’m only allowed to eat certain foods,” I whisper.
“And cheese, egg yolks, and bacon aren’t on the list?”
I shake my head again.
“Let me guess, your mom told you what to eat?”
“She didn’t want me to get fat,” I say, so quietly it’s barely audible.
“And there were consequences if you didn’t do what you were told,” he says, but this time it’s not a question because he already knows the answer. “Please look at me,” he begs, gently lifting my chin.
After a while, I lift my gaze, terrified at what I’ll find in his eyes. I expect to see pity or revulsion, but instead I see anger.
“This didn’t happen the other times we’ve eaten together.”
“I know.”
“But something triggered you today?” he asks.
Shrugging I sigh. “I guess so, I could just hear her in my head, and then I remembered…” I trail off, unwilling to rehash my repugnant past.
“Your mom is an ugly, old, jealous cunt.”
My mouth falls open, and a giggle bursts free, filling the silence.
“A nasty, mean, evil, fucking cunt,” he says, louder this time. “I fucking hate them, both your parents, but especially your mom, she’s a fucking disgrace.”
Another slightly hysterical giggle escapes my lips, then another, until I’m laughing like what he just said is the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.
“I don’t know what that evil cunt did to you if you broke her rules, but I’m going to guess it was bad. That’s what you were thinking about just now, isn’t it?”
I nod, the laughter dying on my lips as my mind flashes back to the grin on her face as she held out those godforsaken pills to me.
“I wish I could take those memories away from you, but I can’t. Tell me how I can help.”
“I don’t know,” I say, sighing wearily.
“You normally have green juice for breakfast?”
“Mrs. Humphries made it for me.”
“What was in it?”
“Kale, cucumber, ginger, celery, lemon, and apple.”
“And that’s all you have till lunch?”
I nod.
“I’ve only ever seen you eat salad at school.”
“Mom had the school prepare a special lunch for me.”
“Which was a salad?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“And dinner?”
“We ate out most nights,” I say.
“So you ate whatever was prepared?”
“No.” I shake my head. “She told everyone I had food allergies and that I was a vegetarian. They’d prepare something different for me,” I admit, hating every word that’s coming out of my mouth.
“What did she say you were allergic to?”
“Nuts, dairy, wheat, I’m not sure what else.”
“From what you just told me, you’re only eating about a thousand calories a day,” he says angrily.
“Nine hundred,” I whisper.
“Fuck,” he hisses, jumping off his stool and pulling angrily at his hair as he paces the length of the kitchen. “She was literally starving you,” he mutters.
“No,” I scoff. “That’s not her starving me.”
“What?” he hisses, stopping and spinning to face me, his chest heaving.
Shaking my head, I clamp my lips together, not willing to confess everything else she did.
“Okay, I’m going to fix this,” he announces, striding back toward me and scooping me off the stool. Carrying me like I’m so fragile he’s worried I’m going to break, he places me down on the bed. “Don’t move,” he orders, spinning around and disappearing out of the door a moment later.
Confused and sad and terrifyingly hopeful, I tug the hem of his T-shirt down and shuffle up the bed until I’m resting against the pillows. When he enters the room a moment later, his arms are laden down with stuff.
“Hawthorn, what’s going on?”
Dropping what he’s holding on to the top of the dresser, he turns toward me, his eyes angry and intent. “We’re going to have breakfast,” he announces.
“I’m really not?—”
“I promise you’re going to like it,” he interrupts, crawling up the bed, parting my legs as he settles into the gap between them.
His lips find mine, and he kisses me desperately, nipping at my lower lip, then sucking it into his mouth as he appeases his need for control. “Let’s get rid of this shirt,” he says, peeling the fabric up my body and pulling it free of my head before he flings it to the side.
His gaze rakes over my naked body, heat flashing through his eyes before he presses a soft kiss to the small swell of my breasts. “You’re so fucking beautiful. Have I told you that? Every fucking inch of you.”
Jumping off the bed, he steps over to the dresser, and I watch as he peruses whatever he has up there before grabbing some stuff and turning back to me, his eyes sparkling with intensity. There’s a bowl overflowing with bottles, jars, and food clutched to his chest.
“What are you doing? What’s in the bowl?” I ask, pushing myself farther up the bed and pulling my knees up to my chest, like they can somehow shield me from him and whatever he has in mind.
“We’re going to play, Princess, that’s all,” he says softly, crawling back onto the bed and sitting in front of me, placing the bowl beside him.
“Play?”
“I’m hoping we can make some good food memories for you.”
Hope swells in my chest and then shatters when my gaze falls on the contents of the bowl.
“Just focus on me, ignore what’s in the bowl, all you have to do is look at me,” he orders, pulling my hands from where they’re wrapped around my knees.
He smiles, and a layer of tension melts from my shoulders.
“That’s it, baby, it’s just you and me, there’s nothing and no one that can hurt you when it’s just us,” he coos, cupping my cheek and stroking his fingers softly over my skin.
“Kiss me,” I beg, needing him to ground me and to stop my mother’s voice from invading this moment.
“Always,” he whispers, a second before his lips find mine.
He kisses me as if I’m made from the most delicate glass, like I could shatter at any moment. Wanting more, I wrap my arms around his neck and press myself against him, silently begging him to take over, to take control. Instead, he pulls away, never deepening the kiss, and leaves me breathless and panting.
“I’m not made of glass; just because I’m fucked up doesn’t mean you have to treat me like I’m breakable,” I snarl, suddenly angry.
His palm snaps out, and his fingers collar my neck, not hurting me, just holding me firmly and comfortingly. “Not breakable, Penelope, just precious.”
My lips fall open, and tears fill my eyes. He thinks I’m precious. That must be a lie, my only value was the inheritance, but that’s gone. I don’t have anything else to offer him.
Opening my mouth to protest, he silences me with a finger, wiping something smooth and cool across my bottom lip.
“What—?”
“Shh,” he says, leaning forward and sucking my lip into his mouth. “Mmm, chocolate,” he purrs.
“Chocolate?” I ask, instinctively licking my lower lip and tasting the remnants still on my skin.
His mouth finds my nipple, licking at it, before something cold and wet replaces his hot tongue. Glancing down, I find him circling my pebbled nipple with a strawberry, the juice leaking and drawing a pink path along my skin.
His eyes find mine, and he takes another bite of the fruit, leaning down to lick the juice from my breast. He teases me again, drawing a heart shape around my nipple, before biting the strawberry and licking the juice off me.
Heat pools in my stomach as he sucks and licks at my sensitive tip, and I arch my back, pushing my breast toward his hot mouth and silently begging for more. He doesn’t oblige, instead, he takes the final bite of the strawberry, chewing and swallowing before pressing his lips to mine, the sweet taste of strawberry filling my mouth.
When he pulls back, I try to follow him, but he evades me, dipping his finger back into the jar of chocolate spread and coating my bottom lip with it again. My tongue dips out before I even process what I’m doing, and my eyes widen in panic, but he kisses me, making me forget everything except the taste of his tongue and the feel of his lips.
“You taste fucking delicious,” he coos when he pulls away again. “Hmm, what’s next?”
I flinch when he slides a chunk of cold melon across my skin, drawing a line of juice down between my breasts and over my stomach. His tongue follows the path, licking the sticky liquid from me, before he pops the whole chunk of melon into his mouth and chews it.
Grabbing another piece, he swirls lines of juice over my stomach, licking it clean before eating the fruit again.
A part of me hates the sight of the food, but a bigger part of me wants to taste what he’s tasting to experience this with him. When he lifts the next piece to his lips, I grab his hand, diverting the melon to my mouth and taking a tiny bite.
“Hey, that’s mine.” He laughs, snatching the fruit away and pushing it into his mouth. “Now stop moving, I’m enjoying myself.”
Smiling, I lean my head back against the pillows and let him play. Every now and then he coats my lips with the chocolate, kissing it off me and filling my mouth with the sweet, creamy taste. He doesn’t push me to eat, but he smiles when I pull his hands to my mouth, nibbling at the fruit and licking the juice from his fingers.
“Last one,” he says, twirling the strawberry stalk between his fingers. “What shall I do with this one?”
Grabbing it from him, I smile, holding it up teasingly. “I think I should get to play with this one.”
“Your wish is my command,” he says, with a playful arch of his eyebrow as he grabs me and rolls us until he’s lying on the bed and I’m straddling him. Putting his arms behind his head, he winks at me. “I’m more than ready to be your breakfast dish.”
Suddenly unsure, I falter, but he grabs the strawberry from my hand and bites the tip off. “Better hurry up or I’ll make you my plate again.”
Smiling, I rub the strawberry against his lips, leaning down and licking them clean as I draw patterns of juice across his chest, following it with my tongue and loving the sweet, salty taste of his skin. “Mmm,” I hum against his lips, kissing him again, before lifting the berry to my mouth and taking a tentative bite.
When everything you eat is weighed, measured, and approved, food becomes something to endure. When noncompliance results in punishment, food is just something to tolerate, laced with pain and awful memories. It’s easy to ignore the hunger, to push it down with all the other things I know are wrong, but I did anyway.
I got so good at following the rules that until Hawthorn fed me pancakes and bacon the other week, I’d almost forgotten what real food tasted like. Angry and fueled by righteous anger, I’d gorged on ice cream and cocktails at the hotel, but in penance, I’ve barely eaten since. I’m still frantically trying to atone for a woman who regularly starved me for days on end, just to teach me that men never want fat women, no matter how rich they are.
My gaze rakes over Hawthorn’s beautiful body beneath me, tracing the lines of his lean muscles and toned abs with my eyes. Licking strawberry juice from his skin isn’t a trial to be withstood, it’s not something to be endured, in fact, everything about his body is all pleasure.
Instead of rubbing the strawberry over him, I take another bite, dropping the stem to the bowl, and then just lick a line from his abs all the way up until I find his lips. “You taste good,” I whisper. “Thank you for breakfast.”
“You’re welcome,” he says, wrapping his arms around my back and pulling me down to lie on his sticky chest. “Maybe we should just eat everything off each other’s bodies from now on.”
“I think it might get a bit messy, but I’m not against it,” I whisper.
Laughing, he switches our positions again until I’m beneath him and his hard dick is pressing against my sex.
“I want you,” I whisper, lifting my hips off the bed to rub my pussy against his sweatpants-covered dick.
“What, you want this?” he taunts, grinding himself into me.
“Yes,” I breathe, lifting my leg and curling it around his back. “Please.”
His laugh against my ear is full of warmth. “You want my dick in you, fucking that tight cunt until you’re screaming my name?”
“Yes,” I gasp, squirming beneath him, seeking the friction I need.
“I want you too, Princess. I always want you. But what did I tell you earlier?”
“Huh?”
“You don’t get my dick again until you really believe that I want you for more than just your pussy,” he growls, scooping me off the bed in an effortless movement and taking us both into the bathroom.
“What?” I cry indignantly as he lowers me to the floor, reaching over to flip on the shower. “Are you serious?”
“Deadly,” he replies stone-faced. “You’re not my fuck buddy or my booty call or a one-night stand. You’re mine, Penelope, and until you really understand that, I’m not going to fuck you. Because having you, having you submit to me, having you give your body to me, it fucking matters. It’s more than just sex to me, and I thought it was to you too.”
My mouth falls open and I gawp at him. “I…” Words form in my mouth to tell him that I know it’s more than sex, that I feel the same way too. But I don’t say them because I don’t want to lie to him and because I don’t know if I really believe that he actually wants me.
“It’s okay,” he says softly. “I’m going to show you that this is more, and I’ll keep showing you until you believe it. I’m falling for you, Penelope Rhodes, in spite of all this other bullshit, in spite of your parents, in spite of me and you. You’re mine, you gave yourself to me, but you don’t seem to realize that I’m yours too.”