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Sure, I’d gone on dates before but they always ended with me excusing myself after dinner and wanting to before the main course even arrived. The women I’d gone on dates with were fine people and I’m sure they’d make some man very happy one day. Just not me.
No, there was always something missing…something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Until now. Until her.
Something about her shyness, the way she carries herself. The way she’s so small and all I can think about is protecting her, being her real-life force field, and keeping everyone and everything that could harm her away.
Something about the way she comes into work in the morning, and I know…I watch her arrive each and every morning on the CCTV. The way she practically skips up to the front gate, her pigtails bouncing playfully around her tiny little head. Those bright colorful shirts with slogans like “Take Me To The Beach” accompanied by a picture of a palm tree. The way she pops her gum, or the fact that I know she chews watermelon Bubbalicious because I see it on the tray when she enters the metal detector each morning, removing her backpack and its contents. Even her backpack telegraphs who she really is, the hearts all over it, and the tiny teddy bear attached to the zipper pull tab.
I lean back in my chair, watching her sad eyes take in the tops of her shoes. “What would your father do if you broke something around the house?” I question, needing to know more about this beautiful creature without a past. Her resume was bleak, and it’s illegal to ask for certain kinds of personal information, so I don’t. I’m a private man myself so it’s only fair to respect other’s privacy, but when it comes to her I’m dying to know more. I need to know more. And I won’t stop until I do.
“I…I don’t have a father.” Before I can tell her she doesn’t need to elaborate she offers more information about her past. “I never met him and my mother said very little about him before she died. And what she did say wasn’t very flattering.”
“I’m sorry,” is all I can muster.
“It’s okay. It only made me stronger, taught me to be more self-reliant, and make decisions quickly.”
“These decisions, Ms. Dubois,” her unique surname rolling from my lips causing my dick to flex in my trousers. As sexy and elegant as it sounds, the name I really want to hear is mine, coming from her chest in deep moans while I show her pleasure she probably doesn’t even know she’s capable of feeling…yet. The pleasure she deserves, and the kind of satisfaction I will give her, in all parts of life. “Don’t you get tired of making all these decisions? Don’t you wish, sometimes at least, you could kick your feet up in a nice warm bath and let others make all of life’s hard decisions for you?”
Suddenly a smile tries to make itself known, but she bites down on her lower lip, my fists clench at the sexy gesture she doesn’t even realize is bringing me to my knees. “It’s my job to clean bathtubs, not to r
elax in them.”
“What if it was the other way around? Would you like that?” I push, trying to plant the seed in her mind, get the mental movie rolling inside her head.
“Who wouldn’t? I’ve been cleaning all my life and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted to wonder how things would be if the shoe was on the other foot, but it’s not, and cleaning has got me to where I am today. I mean, I used to clean the orphanage constantly, knowing that if it was clean there was a higher percentage chance someone might adopt me, but unfortunately, no one ever did.”
“You wish you had that? Someone to take care of you? A…daddy?” the word comes out before I even realize I’ve said it. Before I can do anything about it she takes the ball and runs with it.
“Yes, a daddy,” she confirms, her eyes rising up off the floor and piercing right into mine. Her pupils dilate in real-time. “That’s exactly what I want.”
A moment passes where both of us are still enough to be mistaken for statues ourselves.
“Sorry,” she says, shaking her head first and ending our virtual stare down game of ‘chicken.’ “I’m very clumsy and I apologize for hurting your statue.”
I rise from my chair abruptly, folding my hands together and keeping them in front of my groin, hoping to hide my obvious reaction to this princess who has had a life that is anything but deserving of the tiara she should have permanently affixed to her crown.
“Camila,” I say, her name alone making my hips thrust forward ever so slightly. “There are certain rules I expect of you in my house…certain rules you haven’t been given as of yet.”
“You mean rules after the probationary period ends?” she asks, getting visibly excited that her job isn’t in jeopardy. The tips of her toes turn up as she rocks back and forth on her heels.
“These are different kinds of rules. For instance, you won’t refer to yourself as clumsy, or belittle yourself in any way.”
“But I am.”
“Only if you think you are, and being that this is the first time anything other than absolute perfection has happened while you’ve been working here, it’s clear that you’re not clumsy.”
She opens her mouth to protest, and I quickly raise a finger.
“You’ve worked thirty days here so far. Thirty times eight hours a day is two hundred and forty hours. One mishap in that time period is well over a ninety-nine percent success rate. That’s higher than any endeavor in the business world that I’m aware of.”
Her shoulders relax, and it’s only then I realize just how much tension she was holding. “Thank you,” she says. “When you put it that way—“
“Put your hands on my desk,” I interrupt.
“What?”
“The way you look at me, little one. Those immaculate manners. Your dimples. Your innocence. Your shining record of stellar work here…it’s all going to cause me to forget that you still do, yes you do, need to be punished for the statue mishap.”
She swallows hard and I extend my hand, motioning with four fingers toward me and then pointing to the desk. “Hands on the desk, and once they’re there they stay like they’re glued down.”
