Page 139 of Broken Daddy
He better not try to help her clean up.
Hard no.
“You need help wiping,” he told her.
“I most certainly do not.” Jeez. If her voice grew any more high-pitched then she was going to start shattering glass.
“Baby,” he said tenderly. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“Yes, yes there is. We’re not . . . I don’t think we would ever be . . . that comfortable with each other where you would be able to do that.”
“I’m very hands-on. And there is nothing I wouldn’t do or want to do for you if you needed it.”
What was she supposed to do with that? She didn’t know what to say or even what he really meant.
Hands-on? Why would he need to be hands-on?
He wasn’t her boyfriend or her Daddy.
She might need to get that tattooed on her arm to keep reminding herself.
And why would she need him to do any of that? She had one good hand.
Devi shook her head. “I don’t . . . I can’t . . . please.”
“Fuck. Here you are. Getting ahead of myself. Just . . . if you need help, tell me.”
“Um, sure. Can you, um, turn your back. Please?”
She thought he might refuse, but then he turned around and moved to the sink to turn off the tap. She quickly cleaned up before he changed his mind and turned to flush. It was awkward, but better that she do it. Then she attempted to reach down and pull up her panties.
Suddenly, he was in front of her. He drew her panties up to her knees.
“What did I just tell you about needing help?” he asked gruffly.
“I’m not very good at asking for help,” she admitted. “I don’t like feeling like a burden.”
“You are not a burden, Devi.”
She wasn’t so sure of that. She’d felt like a burden most of her life.
“Can see you don’t believe that. So until you learn that you can ask for help, I’m just going to give it to you, okay?”
“You say that like you weren’t always going to do what you want. When I’m pretty sure you always just do what you want.”
His lips twitched as he lifted her onto her feet. “Hold onto me, baby.”
“You should probably stop calling me baby,” she informed him. Even though she liked it a lot.
“And why is that?” he asked.
“Um, well, because we’re not . . . well, that’s what you call someone you care about.”
“I care about you, Devi. Thought that part was obvious.” He lifted her into his arms, but instead of carrying her to the sink so she could wash her hands, well, her good hand, he started toward the door.
“Where are you going? I need to wash my hand,” she told him.
I care about you, Devi.
