Page 28 of His Pretty Little Duet

When I enter my kitchen, I'm stilled by the sight of Fawn bowed at the hips, peering at a lower shelf in the fridge.

She's oblivious to my presence.

I lean my shoulder against the door frame, intrigued by her as she analyses the contents of my fridge. She moves nervously, every action hesitant. Her previously questionable submission, the dropping to her knees, it's not an act.

I can see that now.

Just like in the witness room. She relented. Decided she couldn’t win. So, she's either smart or weak; I think the former.

But her use of the word sorry... it has no meaning to her. She is casually sorry for everything. A little people-pleaser. I don't like it—at all.

My eyes drop to her small, petite feet before trailing up the length of two perfectly formed legs. I frown when my view is interrupted by the silky material lightly grazing the skin at her upper thigh. I know what it hides. A masterpiece of a figure, seamlessly feminine in a sweet girlish way. Not the kind you can create by visiting the gym and eating healthy, the kind that is soft skin moulded around a perfect frame—the kind that is genetic.

"I look like my mother,"she said.

No wonder Dustin had an affair with her mother. It would take a damn army to drag a body like that away from any man with a pulse. Away from her hair, near white, long, and thick, it drapes across her like a shield. Away from the lower curves of her arse in that bikini. Away from her long legs. Legs I should demand to fold, to kneel above me while she sits on my face... I ball my fists in tight.

She's too slim, though.

A soft sound surrounds her. Is she talking to herself? She scoops her long blonde hair to the side, laying it down one shoulder. I smile. Watching her in her own company, not pleasing anyone but herself, is insight.

Well, I did tell her to eat.

So, she is pleasing me.

She touches the cake container, her fingers tapping the lid softly, contemplatively. My cock twitches as she considers defying me. She pauses. Then twists to the door and retrieves the glass bottle of freshly squeezed orange juice.

I wish she had gone for the cake.

Seemingly in her own mind, she walks the glass bottle over to the counter, carelessly placing it down too close to the edge. It slips off.

Fucksake, Fawn.

I'm upon her just as it careens to the floor, smashing around her bare feet and ankles. Startled by the smashing sound, then by me, her breath hitches.

Glass pops beneath my shoes as I scoop her into my arms, cradling her against my chest. Her warm, weightless body heats that Butcher head of mine.

Her hesitation makes her clumsy.

Her lack of confidence is a damn issue.

I despised Dustin before I knew he had a daughter he never cared for... like him even less now she is in my arms and smells like... I lock my jaw.

Natural.

Feminine.

Sweet. Not a scent I often get from skin alone. It makes me consider Aurora's advice, overlooking the damage my temporary affection could have on her. I could spread her wide open and taste her sweat as it drips between her pussy lips.

Needing her out of my arms before that becomes a very real, raw reality, I plant her arse on the countertop and stare deadpan at the glass wading in the orange liquid marring the kitchen tiles.

"God, I'm sorry." She groans to herself. "I'll clean it up. And I'll squeeze more oranges tomorrow... if they'll let me squeeze them," she says, attempting to amuse me.

Gripping the marble edges on either side of her body, I sigh roughly. Then lift my attention, finding her wide-eyed gaze. "What would you have done if I wasn't here?" The question mocks me,loaded,annoyingly so. Images of her in the witness room plague me, of her arms holding her waist, her relenting to their interrogation.

At her neglect.

She glances at the glass, then back at me. "I'd survive. It'd just be a cut."

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