Sebastian
Thirteen hours, thirty-four minutes, and sixteen seconds.
That's how long she's been on my island.
One hour I spent watching her sleep, trying to make sense in my head of why I was wasting time watching an unconscious girl breathe.
The remaining ten hours and twenty-six minutes, I've spent trying—and failing—not to think about the way she said "Yes, Daddy" when I left her room.
I lost the battle to stay away and found myself standing outside her room three times during the night.
I told myself it was professional. Making sure she was safe, calm.
But I have cameras in her room. I can check on her at any time on my phone, my computers, or one of the many observation stations throughout the main estate building.
The truth is, I stood outside debating whether to go in just to hear her breathing in the dark.
I didn't.
Instead, I went back to my office on the opposite end of the compound and stared at the plaque on my desk, willing the words to make sense like they used to.
By 3 AM, I'd given my head of security, Marcus, explicit instructions: check on her every thirty minutes and report back.
Lucky for him, he didn't ask why I was suddenly micromanaging a routine intake.
I’m not a man who’s ever been distracted by lust. I’ve indulged in the comfort and release of females from time to time, but it’s never been a compulsion.
But this girl.
As much as I fight the realization, I’m a man who does not believe there is benefit in masking the truth.
The first sight of her laying in that bed had my balls in a vice. If she’d reached out to touch me last night, I’m not sure I could have resisted. The urge to stuff her pretty little cherry cunt full of me nearly broke me.
I forced myself into bed, feeling her electricity surrounding me. For the first time since I came here after being forced out of the city for following my father’s orders, the bitterness I’ve carried like a tightening knot between my shoulder blades disappeared.
Every time I closed my eyes, those deep blue ones were looking back at me, that flush spreading across her cheeks, the soft "Yes, Daddy" that went straight to my cock.
I fought the erection all fucking night, and the two times I tried to take care of it, I couldn’t.
The practiced movements of my hand that usually elicit a climax easily within thirty to sixty seconds felt…flat. Disconnected.
Wrong.
So here I am, in my bedroom, looking out through floor-to-ceiling windows that frame a view of the infinity pool, the manicured gardens, and the lapping waves of the Mediterranean beyond.
I pour my fourth cup of coffee, battling back the hyperawareness my dick seems to have that she's awake somewhere in this compound.
That I told the staff to set her free, but not to allow her out of the house.
My room is clean. Controlled. Everything in its place.
Unlike my head right now.
During the night, I woke up the maintenance staff and ordered them to paint the largest and best of the other bedrooms in her perfect yellow.
I told them to figure out how to make the color the same as Belle’s dress in Beauty and the Beast, then hung up.
I told myself it was about establishing authority, showing her I keep my promises, demonstrating that obedience gets rewarded. That I’m to be trusted.
The truth is, I wanted to see her face when she saw it. Wanted to watch those eyes light up. Wanted to be the one who gave her something joyful, even if it’s in the midst of a nightmare.
But what I wanted most was to hear her call me Daddy again.
I drain the half mug of still scalding black coffee, welcoming the burn as punishment for allowing emotions to surface that will only complicate things.
Routine and order must be maintained, so I make my way down the hall, descend the main curved stairs, my footsteps echoing in the arched plastered ceiling as the air around me seems to buzz.
When I reach the grand foyer, I’m surprised to hear Maria's voice echoing in the hallway. It’s definitely her. Having a conversation with someone and sounding…downright chipper.
I rub the sharp bite of pain in my jaw as I walk. I popped a gold crown from one of my molars last night, clenching my fucking teeth so hard.
I make a mental note to call in a favor from the dentist on the mainland to re-secure the evidence of my growing mania.
Things are upended here for others, clearly, because in all the fifteen years she’s been in my employ and the hundred or so wards we’ve had here, I’ve never heard Maria…chat.
Yet here she is, jabbering like a drunk on a barstool at 2 AM.
"Your mother, she doesn't cook for you?" Maria sounds horrified.
"My mother doesn't do anything for me," Larissa responds, and her voice does things to me I hate. "She does things to me and for her. There's a difference."
“That is not right,” Maria snaps back as I close the last four strides to the entryway to the kitchen and swallow, then I freeze as though some curse has stolen my power of movement, because she’s right there, sitting at the kitchen table.
Like the universe is announcing to me that I’m royally screwed, a skewer of Mediterranean light cuts straight across her upper body, illuminating her perky teenage tits, and I want to pop her fucking cherry right here in front of Maria and the cucumber she’s slicing.
I should announce myself, but I’m stuck, my dick at half-mast already.
I’ve had guns pointed at my head. Knives slicing open parts of me that took a hundred stitches to sew shut, and I’ve never once winced or broken a sweat.
But when Larissa flips her hair down over her shoulder, reaches toward the ceiling in a lazy, seductive stretch, her body covered only by the thin white linen dress I had couriered to the villa after I made a midnight call to the owner of the most exclusive boutique in Naples, my hard-on thickens like a teenage boy on the internet with no parental controls.
Am I a bastard for dressing her like a virginal doll for my own perverse pleasure?
Sure.
I’ve never had a type. But generally it’s women who are sent to me, and if the mood is right, I indulge. The typical version would have long, tan legs, blonde, and likely low IQ.
I love a smart woman, this I know, but not in my bed.
I’ll never touch a blonde again. I already know this deep in my marrow.
Larissa is braless as well. I had the dress delivered to Larissa’s room by one of the nurses on staff, with instructions to bathe, then wear the dress, and nothing else.
I catch the deeper shade of her nipple’s flesh with the help of the line of sun that’s turning the white fabric nearly translucent.
The cascade of dark hair, still damp from her morning shower, rests over her left shoulder.
She takes the glass of juice Maria hands her and brings it to her sinfully pink lips, the curve of her neck extending when she swallows.
The dress sits low enough that I can see her collarbones.
They stand out far too much, but I trace them with my eyes to that small hollow at the base of her throat.
That small dip. That perfect, shadowed indentation where I salivate to press my tongue, taste her skin, feel her pulse flutter against my lips like a trapped bird.
Little Finch.
My cock stiffens angrily as I ache to reach out and fondle the pert little mounds under the fabric.
Jesus Christ.
“I wish I had a mother like yours. Or like you,” Larissa says.
“Mine is just the woman who happened to give birth to me. Home isn’t that great, maybe that’s why I’m starting to feel like this is a little vacation.
I needed a getaway.” She laughs, and her snicker drives a hot poker straight into my balls.
I catch Maria’s frown, then the flick of her eyes, sensing my presence.
“It will be what you make of it,” Maria offers with a soft touch on her cheek, then turns to the counter and returns to chopping cucumber for the glass water pitcher on the island.
“I guess. I should be fighting and screaming and demanding to leave, but,” Larissa draws a shoulder to her ear, and the ache in my balls nearly doubles me over. “I’m more relaxed here, even being kidnapped, than I’ve been at home in years.”
The resignation in her voice makes something twist behind my ribs like a knife slipping between bone. I want to find her mother, Denise Willis, and break every bone in her body. Slowly. Make her scream for what she's done to this girl.
She’s not mine, I remind myself. No attachments. No exceptions.
"Maria, thank you for tending to our guest." I nod as things happen in my chest that both confuse and frighten me.