Page 12 of Step-Sinner

I leave the journal on my thighs, the pen resting on top as I turn my palms upward in a ‘what the heck’ gesture. “Same as it was earlier. I don’t want to be here, but I’m here, so if you’re just going to keep asking me that, it’s going to be a long thirty days. Or, however long my reservation at Chez Margaret’s is.”

He nods, clearing his throat, not a flash of distress in his dark features. “It could be a productive thirty days if you’ll let down your guard. I’m here for you, Kitty. I think we can at least agree,your life was not on the path you would consider ideal. Can we agree on that?”

I nod, wishing I could say otherwise but I don’t see the point. There’s something about him that simultaneously has my libido turned up to ten while making me feel comfortable and unjudged.

I have a vision of me sitting on his lap, his hand wrapped around my head so it’s tucked into his chest as I confess all my sins, my hopes, my dreams, my sadness as he stokes my hair. Somehow, I know, he’s going to fix all the broken things in my life.

Including me.

Stop. Focus.Don’t let him lead the way. You have a plan here, stick to it. Get some dirt on him so you can have some leverage. Just in case.

“Well, if you are going to be here anyway, why wouldn’t you want to get the most out of it?” The toe of his shoe moves up and down in slow, hypnotic waves, crossed over his other leg so that it points my way. I catch sight of the cuff of his dark trousers under the robe, killing my dirty dream that he’s commando under all that black fabric.

Stick to the plan.

“You’re right. I should get the most out of it.” I shift my body a quarter turn so my ass raises from the cushion, my shorts riding up with the friction from the velvet into the crack of my rear end.

“That’s a girl,” he says and that minute hint of approval tugs at some magical part of me I didn’t know I had. “Your journal is going to be important here. It’s a safe place where you can share anything with me without repercussions. It’s between us alone.I’m bound by our fiduciary relationship to keep everything we discuss confidential.I’myour safe place, Kitty.”

His breathing seems a tad rushed and unsteady as my heartbeat kicks around in my chest. I push my tits forward, knowing my nipples are praising Jesus right now as the seam of my stretchy yoga slash booty shorts soaks through. I clench my inner muscles, desperate for the rising tide inside me to crest.

“I believe you,” I say in my most sultry voice, trying to focus on my plan. I bite my tongue between my front teeth on an innocent sigh. “I need a safe place.”

I think he starts to groan but instead coughs, adjusting himself in the throne chair, covering his mouth with those long, incredible fingers before continuing. “I will give you an assignment at the end of each session. Something I want you to write about—not talk about, but write about. Then, you’ll leave your journal with me at breakfast, and I’ll write in it also. Giving you my thoughts on whatever it is you wrote.”

“Do you do this with all the girls that come here?” Jealousy prickles over my skin. This journal exercise feels astonishingly intimate and it’s ridiculous, but I want this to be special. Only for us.

What do I care about the other girls? Good gravy, he’s apriest, Kitty. Nothing is happening here besides some hormonal bi-polar disorder I developed on the flight from Orlando to Cape Highsmith, Maine.

“Some. But not like this. I want to know about you, Kitty.” The way he says it makes me feel seen and heard in a way I haven’t since my dad passed away. “Not this version of you you think willeither attract men or repel them. It’s a costume, it’s not you, is it?”

I’m torn between wanting to tell him to fuck off and caving, confessing my sins and my dreams and letting him pick up the pieces and weave me back into the girl I thought I would be, not what I’ve become.

“You sound like my stepfather.” I harden, remembering how Hoover always said how I dressed made me look like a slutty clown.

“Hoover?” Our eyes clash in the heat from the fireplace that wavers between us, sweat prickling under my boobs and down my back. “I assure you, I am not your stepfather.”

Something crosses over his features, but it’s unreadable. “Yeah, but he’s the one that sent me here. You must have talked to him.”

“Yes, early this morning.”

“I guess you know each other.” I narrow my gaze as he flicks his eyes to the fire.

“Enough only to have him trust me with your care. He and I have spent time together in the past. He knew you would be safe here with me and that possibly I could help you.”

Safe. Help.

Hoover’s never cared about me being safe or helped. Just quiet. Or gone.

“Trust takes time,” I mumble, wanting to believe him as my heart launches into hopeful flight.

“I’ll work my hardest to make that time as short as possible.”

God, why does he have to talk like that? Why does he have to look like that?

I mean, I’ve kissed three boys in my life. Well, two boys and a man. And none of them were memorable in any positive way. The first one barely counts. It was third grade and Jimmy Feilmeister who was in fifth grade asked me to dance at the Harvest Festival. I was akid, for heck sake, I didn’t know the moment he got me out in the middle of the dancefloor he’d turn into the tongue monster. I went crying into the girls room where I hid in the last stall until my father came looking for me when I wasn’t outside waiting for him at the end of the night.

Then, there’s Hank.

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