32 - Arsehole
Logan
The woman who stands in my way shares a lot of physical traits with my vixen.
Same big round eyes, an identical button nose, frame slight and bordering on underweight.
Regardless of the similarities, their personalities could not be more different if they tried.
Where Cordelia is warm and kind-hearted, her mother is selfish and cruel.
They both have a streak of sass, and it’s obvious she’s inherited that from her mum. But that’s where the likeness ends.
I glare at the tiny woman. Even in her revolting pink stiletto heels, she barely reaches my chest. “With all due respect, Colette, I’ll put a battering ram through your front door if I have to.”
Her flawlessly painted lips pinch together in a sneer. She’s clearly miffed with me using her first name. Probably one of those who thinks it’s disrespectful, coming from someone younger.
“I’ll call the police,” she threatens. But even as the words materialise, her face turns a shade paler.
I scoff. “Go ahead. They’re in my fucking pocket, darlin. Stop wasting my time.”
With that, I barge past her, narrowly missing knocking her small frame to the floor. She shrieks, but I ignore her, wasting no time jogging up the stairs. The door to Cordelia’s room swings open, crashing into the adjacent wall.
She must have heard me coming because she’s already sitting up, back ramrod straight against the headboard, the whites of her eyes stark against the crystal blue.
“Logan.” Her voice is a mumble, edged with suspicion.
It’s been three whole weeks since I set eyes on her ethereal beauty or heard her sweet voice.
She looks different. Sallow skin clings to her bones, accentuating the hollowness of her cheeks.
Eyes usually so alive with roguish spunk now appear dull, lifeless.
And her hair doesn’t catch the light like it normally does, lacking that glossy sheen.
The whole spectacle pisses me off, and before I can process what I’m doing, I wrap my fingers around her arm.
Which is leaner than I remember. What I truly want to do is draw her into my arms and never let her leave my sight again.
Hold her and chase away all her fear and pain.
But I know Cordelia. She’s not the mushy type, and I doubt that would help her out of this slump.
So, arsehole it is.
“Enough hiding, vixen,” I say firmly, giving her a tug. “Out of bed now.”
She makes a whining noise in protest, but I’m willing to drag her out of bed if she so chooses. Pulling back the covers to reveal her slender limbs sends a visible shiver through her body, and a badly timed rush to the end of my cock. She pins me with a furious look, to which I arch a stern brow.
“If you make me ask again, it won’t be with words.”
Her eyes narrow to slits, but she heeds my warning and clambers out of her pit. She strides past me to retrieve a pair of pyjama bottoms, thinking she’s clever when she brushes past my bare arm with more force than necessary. I chuckle to myself and head downstairs to the kitchen.
Rummaging around in the cupboards, I find the ingredients I’m after and get to work whisking the eggs and milk together in a jug.
Mom taught me how to cook. From a young age, I’d spend most nights with her in the kitchen, observing and dipping my fingers in the bowls of various mixtures and sauces.
It’s a good job she instilled some of her talent into me.
If Dad were in charge, we’d have eaten takeaway every day.
Halfway through, Cordelia pads into the room in pink fluffy slippers.
I’m not sure whether it’s their ridiculous size or her poor nutrition that’s causing her coordination to be so lax.
But she grumbles and takes a seat at the floating island, heaving a sigh.
I offer her a smile which she doesn’t return. Shocker.
“What are you making?”
I peer at her over my shoulder. “An omelette.”
She pulls a face and sticks her tongue out whilst I plate up her food. The wrinkles on the bridge of her nose show her disapproval when I lay it in front of her, alongside a pint-sized glass of juice.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You want me to be mean, Cordelia? I can be mean and a controlling arsehole if that’s what it takes for you to listen.”
“You’re already a controlling arsehole,” she spits back, eyes flitting up and down my body. “In a fancy suit.”
I scoff. “You reckon? You’ve not seen nothing yet,” I cock a brow at her. “When I get back this afternoon, you’ll tell me exactly what else you’ve eaten. And you’re going to piss in a pot for me. I want it basically transparent, understand?”
She stares at me with hatred in her eyes. When she doesn’t answer, I lean in closer, and she shrinks into herself a little.
“Cordelia,” I warn, gesturing to her plate. “I’m not against tying you to the chair and spoon-feeding you like a toddler. Or hooking you up to a drip”
She snorts, snatching the fork off the table and angling it at me. “You can’t do that; you need medical training.”
My lips stretch into a smug smile. “I did work experience with St John’s in my teens. How hard can it be?”
Her eyes narrow into a critical gaze, and she says nothing. So, I wrap my fist around her ponytail and pull. “Do we understand each other, vixen?”
Her eyes grow wide but quickly revert to glaring.
“Oui, I got it. Now fuck off.”
“Good girl,” I duck my head to kiss her upside down on the lips, but she stubbornly turns her head to the side.
So, I seize her chin, squeezing her cheeks between my finger and thumb.
Her eyes pop open and a dark smile finds its way to my lips.
There’s something about seeing the fear flicker through her eyes that gets me riled.
She needs to take me seriously, and if this is the only way to get my point across, so be it.
“You wanted me to be serious. Now. I am.”
Holding her head in place, I plant a sloppy, wet kiss on her lips, making sure to coat them. When I release her, she chases the taste with her tongue.
“Love you,” I say with a wink.
I straighten my jacket, smoothing out the invisible creases, then stride out the door.
If Mum’s death taught me anything, it’s that you never leave anyone you care deeply about on a bad note.
I’d love nothing more than to spend the day bossing my little girlfriend around; I know she loves it, really.
It gets her wet, turns her on. She craves domination. But today I have bigger fish to fry.
I’m meeting with Trixie.
Not that I’m particularly thrilled about it.
But Dad wants to introduce her to me properly…
with clothes on. So, we made a date for coffee at a local cafe.
Why am I wearing a suit? Because last time I saw this woman, she was in her fucking birthday suit, being hammered by my father in his office.
I need to feel overdressed on this occasion.
The chosen cafe is surprisingly empty, save for a couple of tables. Did Dad arrange to meet here specifically for that reason? Hey, I’m not complaining. I’d rather as few people as possible witness my impending embarrassment, because let’s face it—it’s going to be.
The two of them walk in and the bell above the door jingles like a bloody church bell. Why am I imagining them married already? For fuck's sake. Trixie Cox. Makes me want to throw up in my expensive shoes.
Stop being a dick, Logan.
They’re holding hands like some kind of fourth-grade middle schoolers. Dad approaches the table, his dark eyes pinning me to the uncomfortable wood.
“Logan,” he says, pulling blondie to his side. “I want you to meet Trixie.”
My gaze slides across to the woman beside him. I put on my best professional smile—one that’s not laced with seduction or something equally sinister.
“Pleasures all mine,” I reply, standing and extending my hand, like a complete gentleman.
After the initial re-introductions the conversation flows over coffee.
I ask Trixie where she and Dad met and have to hold my tongue when she tells me she’s a dancer.
At Velvet. A strip club. Dads never raced to change the subject so fast. Turns out she has a son around my age, which Dad announces happily—as if we’re going to bro bond over video games or something.
One thing is painfully clear, though. Dad is smitten. Every time he talks about her, his eyes shine with a light I’ve not witnessed in years. He laughs at her jokes and listens intently to her stories. Like a lovesick teenager. I’ll say it once again: like father, like son.
Looks like this one may be here to stay. And part of me, a tiny piece of my heart, is rooting for him.