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Except there’s no team. There’s just him. A father painting his son’s nursery in the dead of the night.
Did my father ever do anything like that for his daughters? Had he painted murals on our walls? Built us rocking chairs? Did he give a fraction as much of a damn about our births as Dmitri does about our son’s?
The simple answer is no. No, he had not. He hadn’t even wanted to be in the delivery room with our mother when she gave birth to us. I vaguely remember Mom telling our neighbors about it in that jokey-serious way you share unhappy stories so you don’t make other people feel uncomfortable about them.
The flip side of that coin was my ex. William spared no expense where his children were concerned. He used to tell me that he had a special coordinator when he was designing his children’s nurseries. He’d spent fifty grand on each one without batting an eye.
But money meant nothing to him. Add a zero, take one away—who gives a shit? He gave it freely because it wasn’t a symbol of anything at all.
Which is why, seeing Dmitri standing there, his bicep rippling as he pulls the roller brush down horizontally, makes my eyes damp with tears. He could be paying someone else to do this for him. But he’s here, doing it himself. Because he wants to create something beautiful for our child.
That, to me, is a real father.
The kind that doesn’t need perfect as long as it’s personal.
Yes, he is capable of terrible things. But he is capable of beautiful things, too.
This baby in my belly for one.
Stroke after stroke after careful, thoughtful stroke of azure blue paint, for another.
I retreat backwards through the doorway and shut the door as softly as I can. I creep back to my bed, nestle under the covers, and try to find a comfortable position. But after several minutes, it’s painfully clear that I’m not going to be comfortable until I get rid of some of this pent-up energy rattling around in my head.
And in other parts of my body that shall remain nameless.
Biting my tongue, I push up the slip I’m wearing and slide my fingers into my panties. I’m wet already. Only the slightest touch forces a moan from my lips.
I bite the inside of my cheek. He’s right next door. I can’t afford to put on a show, especially considering he’s the star of it.
So taking extra pains to be as silent as possible, I keep touching myself. Because apparently, I’m done trying to deny my attraction to him. I’m done pretending that the fact that he murdered my sister has destroyed my feelings for him.
I’m pretty sure I’ll regret this tomorrow, but for right now, I close my eyes and think about those beautiful granite muscles applying different kinds of stroke, after stroke, after stroke.
He’d have to fuck me from behind, though; I’m too big to be taken any other way. The moment I think about being on all fours in front of him, more desire pools between my thighs. I sigh deeply, clinging onto that feeling as I rub my fingers over my clit.
Pleasure crowds out the last vestiges of guilt. All the soreness and fatigue that clings to my bones evaporates into thin air. It’s nice to know that, underneath all the pain I’ve endured these past few months, I’m still me.
As I increase pressure on my clit, rubbing harder in fast circles, I imagine Dmitri lying over me, his cock taking the place of my fingers. His hard chest pressed against mine. Those perfect eyes fixed on me like they can see every thought that sears through my mind.
It builds all at once and I’m not prepared for the force of pleasure that swells up inside me. Which is why I cry out.
Loudly.
Way, way too loudly.
I clamp down on my tongue immediately after, but I know without having to look that it’s too late. I pull my hand out of my soaking panties and twist to the side, hiding my face against a pillow. My breathing is heavy and my skin is coated with sweat. I count the seconds… but everything is quiet.
Quiet.
Quiet.
And then…
I feel warm air on the side of my face. His breath smells of whisky. “Wren,” he whispers softly.
Despite my best intentions, I turn and meet his gaze. He’s closer than I expected. I freeze in place, wondering if I’ll have to admit what I’d just done. I’m in no fit state to think up lies. If he asks, the truth is gonna spill out of me.
Yes, I was masturbating to fantasies of you.
