Page 17 of DILF

The asshole goes to protest, but Lily says, “’S’kay, Lars. He’s like my dad. You can go.”

Like her dad? She’s spitting back the words I told her days ago. Even ill, she’s a pain in my ass, and the fact that even while sick, she’s being sassy—it turns me on a little.

“You sure, babe?”

I don’t give him a chance to answer. Instead I herd him down the stairs and out the door, locking it behind him. On my way back upstairs, I grab some medicine and water.

“Shit. Why didn’t you call me?” I ask as I sit beside her. She groans and curls herself into a tighter ball. “When did it start? How long have you felt sick?”

“Shhh,” she says with her eyes closed. Her head is probably throbbing.

“I’ll shut up, but first sit up for a second and drink this.” She doesn’t move. “Lily, sweetheart, sit up. Take these and drink some water, you’ll feel better.”

I was just working on my bike so I’m a mess, all greasy and sweaty. I run to her bathroom, wash my hands and face, take off my shirt and toss it aside. When she still doesn’t move, I’m left with no other choice but to pick her up and hold her on my lap. She’s shaking against me, her fever hot against my chest.

“Open up, you’re burning up.”

I tap her chin and she takes the pills while I hold the water against her mouth. She swallows it and then buries her neck against my neck, her teeth clattering together. I run my hand up and down her back until I feel her shivers have stopped and she’s sleeping in my arms.

Fuck me…she feels good. Even while she sleeps, she’s pressing herself against me, small and soft. I need to stop these thoughts especially when she’s sick. I lay her on the bed and tuck her in tightly. She needs food, and I need a shower.

With only a few minutes, I jog to my house for a quick shower and grab the leftover soup she brought me. I’m back in her house, and I’m warming it up when I see the soup that the asshole brought her. I don’t know why, but I throw it away. I know it’s immature and stupid, but I don’t give a fuck right now.

I head back up. “Lily, when’s the last time you ate?”

“Coffee,” she murmurs.

“At my house yesterday morning?” I ask, and she nods and reaches for me.

“When’s the last time you threw up?”

“This morning.”

“You think you can eat something?” I ask, and she shakes her head. “You have to eat something. Please. Just a little.” I put the bowl on the bedside table, and she lifts the covers a little.

“You want me to get in?”

She nods slightly.

“I don’t think that’s—”

“P-please…” She’s trembling again, and I don’t have the strength to deny her, which is why I find myself sliding in with her. “F-f-feels good.”

“It does feel good, sweetheart.”

I rub her arm, and she wraps her entire body around me seeking warmth. “I-I f-feel h-horrible,” she chatters.

“I know you do. You should’ve called me. You were alone.”

“Y-you h-hate m-me.”

I tip her face up, her bloodshot swollen eyes wide as she looks at me. “I don’t hate you. Not at all. Hate myself, maybe. But you? No, not even a little.”

She rests her head on my bare chest.

“I promise if you eat a little, you’ll feel better. That empty stomach doesn’t help. Please?”

She nods, and I help her sit up. Her hands are trembling from the fever, so I scoop up a spoonful of soup and feed it to her. I do this a few more times until the medicine starts to kick in and her eyes droop.

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