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Sebastian
It’s almost ten that night when the last of the guests leave and aside from the caterers who dash about cleaning up, the house is finally empty again. I pour a glass of scotch and sit on the arm of the couch in the living room. The amber scotch warms my mouth and trails down my throat like liquid fire, setting my belly ablaze, the warmth spreading out through my body. I stare into the glass as I swirl the scotch around then raise my gaze to the framed picture of Eddie and me that hangs on the wall in front of me.
In the photo, we’re standing with our arms around each other’s shoulders in front of Firehouse 132. We’re both wearing smiles that look more grim than happy. But then, Eddie rarely smiled genuinely after Rose was killed—the victim of a carjacking gone wrong. Though there was just one body, two people died that day though. Eddie was a shell of himself after that. He wasn’t the same man I’d grown up with. Wasn’t the same man who steered me toward a life of service with the fire department. He wasn’t the same man I’d known for thirty years. It might have been more merciful if the carjacker had shot and killed him too.
I drain the last of my scotch then get up and pour myself another. The caterers finish their duties and say their goodbyes before leaving. And with them gone, the house is completely still and silent once again. I look toward the back of the house and frown. Bree hadn’t emerged from her room after I’d dropped off her plate of food. I’d hoped she would come out if only so I could spend a little time with her. It’s a terrible temptation, of course, and one I should avoid. But I swear to God the girl is like catnip and I can’t help myself.
The floorboards in the back of the hose creak and then her bedroom door opens, the light from inside spilling onto the hallway floor. When Bree walks out into the living room, I nearly drop the glass I’m holding. She’s dressed in a pair of boy short panties that showcase smooth, shapely legs that are unusually long for her only being five-two. They’re so tight against her skin, they give me a perfect view of that heart-shaped ass and a suggestion of the sweet cleft between her thighs.
I lick my lips and try to work a little moisture into my mouth as I admire the way her t-shirt cups and accentuates her full, round tits while baring her taut, milky-white midriff and I have to fight the urge to run my tongue across that soft, pale skin. Bree’s strawberry-blonde locks spill down over her shoulders and her lips are pouty, full, and make me start imagining all the places I’d love to feel them all over again.
“So, everybody’s left?” she asks, her voice low and sultry.
“Looks that way.”
“Good.”
She drops down onto the couch and folds her legs under her. My cock thickens in my pants, and I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to stop it from becoming obvious. The pink tip of Bree’s tongue slips out of her mouth and wets her lips, making them glisten in the dim light of the room and my balls ache as I picture her running that tongue all over them.
Her gaze drifts down to my crotch and a faint grin flickers across her lips. It’s like she’s teasing me. It’s as if she knows the effect she’s having on me and is enjoying it. Though I want nothing more than to bury my cock in that sweet little cunt and fill her with my seed right here and now, on that couch, I have to fight off those feelings. Eddie wanted me to take care of his daughter. He sure as hell wouldn’t want me fucking her in his living room.
The sultry little smile on her lips fades though as she pulls one of the sofa’s decorative pillows into her lap, cutting off my view of her tight, curvy body. Bree giveth and she taketh away. It’s like a game with her… get me hard then leave me twisting in the wind. The corners of her mouth pull down into a frown, a sour look crossing her face.
“Why, Uncle Bastian?” she says, her voice soft. “Why did you talk my father into sending me away? Why did you let me hate him all these years for it?”
“You know as well as I do that your father wasn’t the same after your mother’s death. Part of it was his grief, of course. But the other part was the cancer and the treatment. I knew he didn’t want you to see him going through chemo,” I tell her honestly. “I calculated that the best thing for you was to send you away, so you didn’t have to watch him deteriorate. He and I talked it over and we both thought it best that you went to a boarding school so you could start building a life for yourself. He wanted you to build a life free of his grief and illness.”
A number of emotions scroll across her face, but she finally settles on anger. Her eyes narrow and her jaw clenches as Bree balls her hands into fists. She lets out a long breath and forces her hands open, glaring at me with undisguised rage in her gaze.
“And you both gave me no say in this? Neither of you thought to even ask me about what I might want?” she asks, her voice low and tight.
“No,” I reply. “You were a child, Bree. Your father did what he thought was best for you.”
“A child,” she spits as if the very word is offensive.
“Yes. A child,” I repeat. “You were twelve at the time.”
“Almost thirteen.”
I arch an eyebrow and give her a sour look. Bree looks down at the pillow in her lap for a moment as her cheeks flush. She knows what I’m saying is true, but she wants to be angry. More than that, she wants to hold onto that anger. She feels it’s righteous and justified. It’s a child’s anger. All she needs to do is cross her arms, stick out her bottom lip, and stomp her feet to complete the image of a petulant little girl. It’s completely at odds with that woman’s body sitting before me and I hate to say it, but that incongruity is hot as fuck to me.
“Your father loved you, baby girl. He was a good man, and he did what he thought was right by you,” I tell her. “You don’t agree with his choices and that’s fine. That’s your right. But he’s gone, Bree. He’s gone and there’s no need to hold onto this anger anymore.”
“He ruined my life—”
“No. He didn’t. Derrick Holtz, the man who shot your mother and the cancer that took your father ruined your life,” I say with heat in my voice. “So, you can either keep holding onto that anger like a child. Or you can grow up, act like an adult, and realize that your father didn’t send you away because he didn’t love you. He sent you to school because he loved you so much that he didn’t want you to see him deteriorate, which would have left its own set of deep scars on you.”
She sniffs and throws her head back, a haughty expression on her face. Bree glares at me for a long moment in silence and even then, with anger etched into her every feature, all I can think about is stripping her naked and fucking that rage right out of her. Everything seems shot through the prism of my own lust and desire for her. Even the nickname I gave her years ago—baby girl—seems somehow sexualized to me now that she’s older. It’s a declaration of possession. Ownership. It’s become my claim to her.
God help me.
She tucks her hair behind her ears and sits up a little straighter. “Well, I guess none of that matters now. Like you said, he’s gone,” she says. “I’ll move back home and start school—”
“Yeah, about that,” I interrupt.
“I don’t think I’m going to like what you’re about to say.”
“Your father’s final wishes were for me to sell this house and for me to take care of you.”
