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And that one fateful night when I let myself, she pushed me too far.
I took her in every position imaginable, made her scream my name over and over again, beg me for more. I discovered the secret that she held so close to her chest. I unraveled her so beautifully, till she was a quivering mess in my hands, so pliant, so eager, her eyes desperate and begging. She let me take her in every way I wanted to, and it still wasn’t enough.
That morning after, as I watched her sleeping on the couch of my office, arms and limbs tangled with mine, I came to a pained realization that I couldn’t keep her. She was too wild and free to be caged by someone like me.
I would have broken her.
My possessiveness when it came to her, as I stroked my fingertips over her soft cheeks and curled her hair around my finger, she would suffocate under it. If I thought that I could salvage anything from our previous friendship, I was wrong.
Watching her walk away was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and one thing I’ve always regretted, and yet it made me breathe easier.
I stared at her resignation letter, which had half a dozen ‘fuck you’s’ in them as well. She complimented my dick in a few interesting ways as well.
I still have that letter.
I just wasn’t able to throw it away.
Walking inside the building, I take the stairs, bag in one hand and flowers in the other.
Sarah suggested flowers as a peace offering.
But as I reach the door, I wonder whether it is a wise decision after all.
I ring the bell, and a few minutes later there is shuffling on the other end, and the door opens to reveal my daughter, who gazes up at me in wide-eyed curiosity.
I stare down at her not knowing what to say.
Her piercing blue eyes, the same icy color as mine hold innocence and mischief. She wears a small sundress, and her cheeks are rosy, her inky hair was pulled in a small ponytail.
She would have continued the staring contest if she hadn’t seen the bag in my hand.
“Why do you have Pocahontas?” she demands with her girly voice.
I glance down at the bag before offering it to her. “It’s for you.”
Her eyes widen before she looks over her shoulder and shouts. “Mama, a stranger wants to give me a doll! Can I take it?”
I wince at the pair of lungs on her, and I hear another shuffling sound before a familiar-looking man rushes over and scoops Mila up by her waist, frowning. “How many times do I have to tell you not to answer the door?”
I feel unsettled at seeing an unknown man manhandling my daughter, but Mila seems perfectly content being held by him and wraps her arms around his neck, whispering conspiratorially. “He’s got a Barbie doll.”
“Mila!” The man gives her a scandalized look. “What have we discussed about judging people?”
Mila blinks at him. “But it’s weird. He’s a big boy.”
Should I be insulted?
The man looks at me, exasperated, and then grins. “Hi, I’m Ron. You must be Zayn. Come on in. Eve’s cooking.”
If I thought Mila was loud, Ron is two steps ahead of her as he practically screams, “Eve, your boy-toy’s here!”
“Boy-toy!” Mila repeats, gleefully. “Mama’s boy toy!”
Boy-toy?
I don’t know whether to be amused or put off. But the man who just answered the door has my attention.
Ron is a like a canvas that is splashed with bright colors. His shirt is orange, his pants blue. His pink belt makes me try not to stare at it. The man is fair with silver hair and striking green eyes. The only word that can be used to describe him is pretty.
