Page 62 of Cook

His fingers combed through my hair before he pulled back his hand. Reaching under my chin, he lifted my face to him. “I’m tired, Maddie. I need to sleep for a few hours.”

Yawning, he walked away.

Orange dust lingered where he had been standing, outlining where his boots had been. The grooves were lifted. I waited on my knees, now losing feeling in my hips as I listened for his door to close.

“Maddie, get up,” said Cook. “You don’t need to be on your knees.”

Slowly, I stood. My knees trembled as hot blood rushed down to my bare toes. I wiggled them, ignoring the pins and needles. My toenails were painted red, and the polish had chipped. Signora sometimes gave me heels to wear, and Tommy G. always required at least three-inch open-toed shoes. The man had a thing for toes, something I’d never understand.

“Maddie, look at me,” said Cook.

I raised my head. He stood halfway between the bed and me. Dark bags hung under his eyes. His hair was messed up by the wind with the silver strands running from scalp to tip in the otherwise black silk. Even his clothes seemed off kilter. This wasn’t the same Cook who left the house.

What had happened?

Cook scanned the living room, his hands stuffed in his pockets. “It looks nice. You worked hard while I was out.”

“It’s still dirty,” I said, not seeing what he did. Or what he pretended to see. Maybe he was lying to make me feel better, but I saw the truth. It needed a lot more work.

“It’s better than it was.” He pursed his lips. “In no time, you’ll have it all fixed up.”

It was going to need a lot of time, but that comment gave me hope. He liked what I was doing. I’d stay up day and night for weeksuntil it was gleaming and spotless.

All for Daddy.

“After the sun comes up, we can have breakfast and then develop the film,” he said, and I raised my head. Light illuminated his eyes, and he dragged his gaze down my body. “Come, help me get ready for bed.”

He turned on his heel, and I chased him into the bedroom. He already had his shirt halfway off, revealing his toned stomach muscles, chest, and ink for days. His arms were like iron, bulking in the right places. He dropped it to the floor, and I picked it up. The fabric smelled like him, leather and cinnamon, but as I stood so close to him, the scent engulfed me. A little exhaust from his motorcycle mingled with his natural spice. My stomach twisted, a low warmth ebbing up from my sex.

He had the perfect V, dipping into his low-hanging pants. Dark hair trailed from his belly button to below his pants. I wanted to discover where it went. Licking my lips, I tried to ignore the throb in my sex.

Cook twisted away from me, grabbing two boxes from his pockets and putting them into the top drawer of his dresser. He closed the drawer quickly, and I glanced that way, forcing my eyes off him. I couldn’t pounce on him unless he wanted me to, and he wasn’t ready for that. Instead, I would have to lay in my bed again and stroke myself.

I cleared my throat. “What’s that?”

“I’ll let you see later.” Then I forgot about the boxes as he dropped his pants.

His jeans pooled around his ankles, and he kicked them off. The fabric laid across the floor, but I didn’t grab them yet. His muscles rippled across his body as he stopped for sweatpants. His boxer briefs were tight across his ass, but I wanted to see his bulge. Sadly, he was turned away from me.

Still, saliva built in my mouth, and I swallowed it.

Cook threw on a T-shirt and then faced me. There was an illustration of a motorcycle with a few words: “Forget the bike; ride the biker.”

I rolled my lip between my teeth, and he glanced down.

“I don’t have anything blank,” he said.

Could I tell him I loved his T-shirts? They made him look younger than he actually was. Maybe one day.

When he sprawled across the bed, I crept up the side, dragging the blankets over his body. My fingertips trailed up his thigh, and he caught my hand. His glare had hardened on me. Heat spread across my body, burning for him. Especially when he gave me that calculated and hardened gaze.

Fighting against his grasp, I pulled the blankets to his chest and stared at the tails of the tattoo peeking under his sleeve. I imagined being in his arms again, falling asleep in the safety of his embrace. But he didn’t invite me into his bed. Instead, he closed his eyes.

“Take a break, Maddie. Sleep or read or listen to music,” he mumbled.

“Yes, Daddy.”

Cook sighed. “I’ll be up soon. Sleep never stays with me for more than a couple of hours.”

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