Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 41577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 166(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 166(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
I’d wanted my father to draw me like he used to. I should’ve known that it wouldn’t be so simple. Time had changed us. I wasn’t his little girl anymore, and the things he wanted from his models were things I had no business giving him. It was natural for him to get aroused with the others. I wondered if he slept with them, too. The thought made me sick, not from disgust, but from jealousy.
Although I had experience taking my clothes off over webcam, I had never been so naked with a boy before, let alone a man—and that's what my father was, a man. Jagged and smooth, hard and soft, so many amazing things at once. I was his daughter, but I was also a woman, with breasts and hips and the ability to give and receive pleasure.
He’d touched my pussy. No one but me had ever touched me there. It happened so quickly I hadn’t had time to process. But thinking about it now made me want to rub my thighs together.
I liked it. More than that, I wanted it to happen again.
Something was seriously wrong with me. I refilled the glass, running the tap too hard and splashing water everywhere. I forced myself to drink, to drown, to suppress these terrifying urges.
This man had abandoned me, but he was still my blood. Had six years apart turned us into strangers who could pass each other on the sidewalk and mistake one another for potential mates? My mind cried out for an explanation for which my body had no answer. None that made sense, anyway.
My lungs begged for air. I coughed, water spluttering from my mouth into the sink. I moved to set the glass on the countertop and misjudged the edge. The glass fell to the hardwood floor and shattered.
“Fuck,” I spat. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and stooped to gather the pieces.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs.
“What happened?” my father asked, coming to stand behind me.
“I dropped a glass.” My voice cracked from coughing. I couldn’t look at him. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He ripped a handful of paper towels from the roll beneath the cupboard, and knelt to help me collect the pieces. “Careful. Don’t use your bare hands.”
“I’m fine.” I sidestepped to toss the pieces into the trash. Pain shot through the base of my right foot. I shouted.
“Did you cut yourself?”
“My heel.” I stood on one foot, afraid to put pressure on the wound.
He scooped me into his arms as if I weighed nothing and carried me to the futon. He grabbed a bunch of tissues from a nearby box. “Hold these under your heel.”
I saw the inch-long chunk of glass sticking out of my foot and winced. My father walked to the sink, crunching glass beneath his thick-soled boots, and pulled a first aid kit from the cupboard. He dragged the chair he’d been sketching from over to the futon and rested my foot on his lap.
“You might want to bite down on something.” He withdrew a pair of tweezers from the kit. I closed my eyes and leaned back onto my elbows.
A jolt of pain zipped into my calf as he freed the chunk of glass from my flesh. I swore, then clenched my teeth against the throbbing in my foot.
“It doesn’t look deep,” he said. Something cold and wet slid over my heel. It stung. “Try to hold still.”
“Sorry.” I opened my eyes and a flood of longing filled my chest like oxygen. Memories of him soothing my bumps and bruises, bandaging paper cuts.
He curved a hand over my ankle as he cleaned the wound; I tried not to think about where those fingers had been. He dabbed a glob of antiseptic, cool and tacky, onto the cut, then layered the area with gauze and secured the dressing with medical tape.
“You should try to stay off your foot for the next day or two,” he said. “I’ll help you into the apartment.”
He held out his hand. I inhaled a ragged breath and accepted his help.
“Thanks,” I said, wrapping my arm around his shoulders. “Good thing you weren’t planning on having me stand for the painting.”
His jaw clenched. He stayed quiet as we made our way to the door, then said, “I’ve changed my mind about that. I don’t think it’s a good idea to have you model for me.”
I would’ve stopped in my tracks if he hadn’t been supporting me.
“Oh,” I said, the word sticking like a lump at the back of my throat. I should’ve been grateful. I should’ve been relieved. But all I felt was panic and disappointment, like he was abandoning me all over again.
“Is it…” I couldn’t make myself say the words. Is it because I made you hard? “Did I do something wrong?”