She rushes across the room and plants herself in front of one of the two doors. “You’re invading my privacy.”
“You trying to tell me your bedroom and bathroom are a pigsty in contrast to the living room and kitchen? I don’t buy it.” I sidestep her and open the unprotected door.
It’s the bedroom. Ordinary enough with a four-poster queen-sized bed. A pink comforter. Girly. Not unusual. There are a few pink pillows on it. Also not weird. So she has a girly side. Her furniture is white. Dresser. Bed posts, bedside tables. I wonder if she has sex toys in the drawer. I’m just about to turn around and head back for her living room to sit on her couch until she speaks to me, when I spot something pink peeking out from under the closet door. Tulle? Surely not.
I stride over and open the door.
And then I stop breathing. Bingo. The closet is jammed with things for a young girl. Toys. Stuffed animals. Dresses and shoes and blankets.
She has a kid. That’s what all the fuss is about.
I spin around. “You have a daughter?” I feel betrayed, I might not have cared that she has a child, but why didn’t she tell me?
She stares at me and finally, her shoulders drop and she shakes her head. “No, Hudson, I don’t have any kids.” She swallows. “Shit.” And then she turns around and rushes from the room.
I glance back at the obvious evidence of a child, wondering why the hell she would continue to lie about it. Does she think I’m so shallow that I would care if she had a kid?
My eyes scan the contents of the closet closer. One side contains all her clothes, the ones I’m used to seeing her in. Jeans. Shirts. Tank tops. Her shoes are lined up perfectly underneath.
The other side is a hot mess. The hangers contain clothes for a young girl. I inspect the floor closer, squatting down. It’s covered with dolls and their clothes, fluffy pink animals, a dress-up box that is spilling over with the tulle I saw under the door. There are coloring books and crayons. Markers and colored pencils. A huge haphazard stack of books about a babysitting club.
I’m totally confused. Obviously, a child either lives here or visits often. Maybe she has a niece. I’m just about to stand when something catches my eye. The shoes. Pink tennis shoes and white ballet slippers. Fuzzy bunny house shoes. I freeze as I blink at them. They are exactly what a little girl would wear, but they are not little. They are adult-sized.
I jump to standing and scan the hanging clothes again. Everything in this closet would fit Cindy. Not a child. These things are hers.
I glance at the door. I know she hasn’t left the apartment. She wouldn’t do that. She’s in the living room or kitchen or possibly the bathroom. And now I understand. She’s panicking because I’ve discovered her secret.
I hesitate. It makes no sense to me why she wouldn’t tell me she’s a little. I’m a Dom from a club that has a lot of members in the Daddy/little lifestyle.
I flatten my palm on my forehead. I’m an idiot. Just because I’m a Dom does not automatically make me a Daddy. If that’s what she craves, she probably hesitated to tell me out of fear I won’t share the kink. Makes sense.
I think back, wondering if there have been signs I missed, and then I remember the pencil that rolled out of her bag that night at the pizza place. She’d been so embarrassed and defensive about a pink pencil for no real reason. Now I understand why.
I slide my fingers along the row of dresses and choose one, lifting the hanger from the rod. It’s a fairly simple cotton and polyester blend. The sort of dress a toddler would wear. Pale pink with short puffy sleeves, smocking across the chest area, and an empire waist that leaves the rest of the dress full. The bottom edge has a lace ruffle that matches the ruffle on the sleeves.
After a moment’s hesitation, I remove the dress from the hanger and then bend down to grab a soft blanket. It’s small. The sort of thing a child would carry around to soothe themselves. It looks well-loved, so I’m betting Cindy has used it a lot. I’m also betting she needs it now more than ever.
I push to standing and leave the room with these items in my hands. A quick glance around the main room tells me she must be in the bathroom, which is closed. I knock. “Cindy?” I force my voice to sound calm and gentle.
There’s no response. Shocker.
I try the handle. It’s locked. “Cindy, open the door so we can talk.”
Whimpering is all I hear. Shit.
I’m out of options here, so I head for her kitchen and start opening drawers. It only takes a few tries to find her junk drawer—although even that’s a stretch since it’s organized. Seconds later, I’m unfolding a paper clip. It takes about ten more seconds to pick the lock on the bathroom door after I return.
I open it slowly, my heart racing. Cindy is sitting in the corner of the tub, knees drawn up, face buried against them. She’s rocking back and forth.
A quick glance at the vanity reveals pink ribbons and hair bands and a brush with a princess on the handle.
Her dress and blanket are tucked under my arm as I squat down beside the tub. My only goal right now is to get her to respond, and it seems like the best way to do that is to demonstrate I don’t care a bit that she’s a little. I’m fucking turned on more now than when I had her underneath me, butt in the air while I fucked her.
That was hot. This little girl curled up in the bathtub is hotter. Jesus.
“Cindy, can you get out of the tub for me, baby girl?”
She flinches.
I reach out and run my fingers through her messy hair. The ponytail she always wears is loose at the back of her neck and several locks of her hair are hanging around her face and shoulders.
Since calm and soothing didn’t work, I decide to change tactics. Firming up my voice, I say, “It’s time to get out of the tub now, baby girl. I’m going to count to three and then you’d better be on your feet or your bottom is going to be very sore for the rest of the night.”
Please, God, let my choice be the right one.
She jerks out of her curled ball and lifts her face. Her eyes are wide as she blinks at me.
I stand. “You heard me. Out. Now.” I step back and point at the floor.
She hesitates and then slowly rises to her feet and steps out of the tub. A tear is running down her cheek.
I flip the lid shut on the toilet and sit. “Come here.”
She shuffles closer.
I reach for the hem of her shirt and pull it over her head, forcing myself not to hesitate when I notice her bra. It’s more like a training bra. No padding. No fastener. The kind she pulled over her head. It’s white with a little bow between her small breasts. Her nipples are puckered and completely visible through the thin cotton material.
I say nothing as I pull it over her head next, deciding I don’t want her to wear it right now. As she covers her tits with her hands, I remove her jeans, again forcing myself not to react to the pink panties she’s wearing that have little teddy bears on them. I realize what she’d been doing while I waited outside her apartment. She’d been dressed in something little and had to scramble to change before she could open the door. She hadn’t bothered with her undergarments.
My cock is pressing so hard against my jeans that I fear it might push its way out the top.
“Arms up,” I demand.
She slowly releases her breasts and holds them high.