The Housekeeper's Daughter Read online

  “It would. It’s pretty much the only thing I do, apart from the hookers, that gives me joy, and when you don’t eat what I lovingly prepare, I feel like I’ve failed,” he states quietly, and his honesty takes me back. He’s such a closed book most of the time that, when he does share like this, I feel hugely honoured and like a complete shit at the same time.

  “Oh Logan, god, not at all. I’m so sorry. I love your cooking. I love our mealtimes. Actually, I live for our mealtimes, but I’ve just not felt that hungry recently.” I shuffle closer to him and hold my hand to his cheek, stroking the stubble with my thumb. He leans into my palm. Not a second passes before his head snaps up, his eyes wide with shock.

  “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

  “You have to have sex for that to happen,” I lament.

  “Not necessarily.” His eyes dart suspiciously between my belly and my face.

  “I’m not pregnant.” Pulling my hands from his, I wrap my arms around my tummy. I’m not protecting anything in there, just my pride at his accusatory glare.

  “Good, because I still get first dibs on your womb if you want offspring. That was the deal when I invited you to move in.”

  “Fuck off was it the deal!” I snap, and he wisely leans out of my reach before I can nut punch him. “And you didn’t invite me…you found me living in your basement. Three months after I had already moved in.”

  “My little thief.” He never fails to get my heart hammering with the possessive way he says the word ‘my’. I love that more than I should. “I knew you were there after a week of having to double order in on bread and cheese. I thought for a moment I had an enormous mouse that liked his cheese in a sandwich.” He grins and wiggles his thick brows.

  “What? You’ve never told me that. Why the hell didn’t you call me out sooner?” My jaw drops, and he has the good grace to look at least a little sheepish. He offers up a slight shrug in his non-existent defence. “You let me freeze my arse off in the basement for eleven more weeks. Why?”

  “I needed to be sure.”

  “Of what?”

  “I needed to be sure you weren’t a wicked lie.” His voice drops to a whisper, and the sadness in his eyes breaks my fucking heart. We all have demons, but for the most part, they don’t come out to play. I don’t think that’s the case with Logan, but I know so little about him. He has to be the most private person I’ve ever met, and as much as I’ve tried, he won’t let me in. Whatever haunts him, he keeps it locked inside, and since I am not sleeping on the street because he took pity on me, I am not going to pry.

  We all have secrets.

  “Oh, Logan, come here.” I open my arms wide, and his face lights up.

  “Yes…boobs. I get the boob hug.” He grins like a schoolboy about to cop his first feel.

  “How can you be super scary intimidating one minute, and the next, you’re a complete dork?” He climbs into my hold, and his strong arms thread behind me, but we’re at a funny angle so we can’t get close.

  “Just lucky, I guess. And if it gets me close to these girls, I’ll happily play the dork.” He shifts and lifts me across his lap. My cotton girl boxer shorts are the only thing preventing his swelling cock from nestling where no man has ever been.

  “Don’t be an arse.” I slap the back of his head, which makes him laugh. He holds me tight, and it feels unbearably good. I hope it does for him, too. I feel like I am always taking from him, and he asks so little in return, just my company.

  “And it’s always him?” he asks after several long minutes. I had closed my eyes and almost drifted off. I draw in a steady breath and nod.

  “Yep, I haven’t seen him in so long, and yet it’s definitely him that destroys me every night.”

  “Something about first loves, eh?” he muses with a bitterness I happen to share.

  “They’re just dreams,” I reply flatly.

  “That may be true, my little thief.” He kisses the top of my head, and I smile at my nickname. “But these dreams are also a warning. It’s your subconscious speaking a truth you might not see, or might not see until it’s too late. Listen to them, and learn from them. Ignore them, and you may as well hand me that dagger.” He looks down at me as I look up. I know he cares for me. I wish I wasn’t such a coward.

  “You’d never hurt me.” I feel safe in his arms. I know him. More importantly, I trust him.

  “No, Tia, I wouldn’t, but since I can’t ever leave this house, I might not be around to save you, either.” He points this out with a mix of sadness and resignation that hits me hard. The last thing this man needs is my shit on top of his own.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say with enough conviction he actually smiles before giving me yet another lifeline.

  “You want me to stay and sleep with you?”

  “Do you mind?”

  “You know I don’t, so long as you don’t mind my erection digging into your side for the rest of the night.” He states this as a matter of fact.

  “The only time I mind your erection is when I know it’s been balls deep in some hired-in skank.” I screw my face up at the thought.

  “Well, my balls have been nowhere near any body part except my right hand for a while, so you’re safe.” He waves his hand, and somehow that image hasn’t helped my face lose any of its distaste.

  “Delightful,”

  “Well, if you would let me fuck you, I wouldn’t need the hookers or my right hand,” he teases.

  “You’d stop masturbating if we fucked?” My tone is rightly incredulous.

  “No, but I’d have your right hand to do that for me if we were together.” He looks at me with a mix of arrogance and lust.

  “You know, I used to wonder why you only ever paid for sex. I mean you’re very easy on the eye. I guessed you could get any girl you wanted, but now…now I’m not so sure.”

  “Ah, you love my innate charm and straight talking.” His eyes dip to his solid erection, and I can’t help but do the same. It’s massive, kind of hard to ignore. My cheeks flash with heat, and I can feel the liquid pooling between my legs. This is a dangerous game we play, but I need him so much I can’t fuck it up. I let out a light laugh before blowing out some of the heat he is generating in my body.

  “Foul mouthed and filthy minded, you mean.” I push him playfully on his shoulder, like you would a mate, a buddy, not someone you want but can’t have, ever.

  “That, too. Just so you know, the minute you stop referring to me as your brother, I am in there.” He wiggles his finger in the general direction of my crotch, and I brush off his comment, like I have a million times before. I don’t think of him as my brother, not in the least; it’s just easier. I’m a fucked up mess of feelings at the best of times, but I won’t let sex change us, and I can’t risk losing him. “Now scoot over, and let me start the fondling process.” He slides in behind me and pulls me to his body. He moulds perfectly, his large frame completely encasing mine. His hand reaches up to squeeze one of my breasts.

  “Hug, not fondle.” I pull his hand away and entwine my fingers so I can hold him safely at my waist.

  “Potato, po-tah-to.” He rolls his hips so his cock is wedged right up against my arse. It’s going to be a long night. His breathing quickly becomes shallow, but I know he’s still awake, so I ask something that plagues me.

  “Why don’t you try having a real relationship, Logan? You deserve better than this.” I mean it when I say the words, but it doesn’t stop the painful twist in my gut all the same. No, not my gut, maybe just a little higher. He lets out a sleepy groan and pulls me tighter to his warm body. There’s not a millimetre of space between us.

  “Girlfriends tend to want to go on dates, T,” he reasons

  “I guess,” I sigh. I don’t really believe that’s his only option for normality, but I do understand his situation is complicated. Before I can contradict him, he whispers into my ear.

  “Besides, there’s nothing better than this.”

  I can hear
Logan stirring from his slumber. He can sleep like the dead, and often, when he’s wrapped around me like he was last night, I can barely breathe. It feels good, though, so I’d never complain. He makes me feel safe, and for someone like me, that is worth its weight in gold. Or more importantly, worth me keeping my legs together and fighting the feelings I have for him. Logan deserves better than me. I doubt he feels the same, anyway. Needing someone for company is one thing, but loving them is entirely different, and even that counts for shit in my experience, so I’d rather close that door and just have whatever it is we have. It works, and that’s all that matters.

  “Come back to bed, Dodge.” He lets out a rough throaty yawn that morphs into a sexy deep moan and satisfied sigh. He mixes up the nicknames he calls me depending on his mood. He called me the not-so Artful Dodger the night he caught me thieving from his fridge all those months ago and it’s stuck, along with T, little thief, and trouble, but I’ll answer to anything if it’s said with that deep sexy drawl.

  Stop it, Tia. Just stop.

  The bed creaks with the weight of his movement, as he stretches and pulls himself up. He drags his hand over his sleepy dark features, his long mane falling over his face, his thick brow furrowed as his eyes finally fix on mine, and he releases that brilliant heart-stealing smile. The drapes may still be drawn, but I doubt the sunrise would rival that view for shine.

  “Oh, someone’s been busy.” His eyes flit from mine to the easel over my shoulder. I have been engrossed for hours choosing this distraction over sleep in the end. I find it’s the only thing that really calms me. It’s the only time when there is no pain, no memories. There’s nothing but me and my canvas, whatever that might be. This week it’s a watercolour, and I have been working on this picture for a few days. I really wanted to get it finished today before work, and I have been putting the finishing touches since the early hours. I find it hard to admit a piece is finished when I’ve put so much of myself into it; it’s like I can’t let go.

  Stupid, I know, and this one is slightly different, so I don’t have the same attachment, but the feeling is still there, just diluted. A little like the pastel layers of watercolour paint on this hand-pressed paper. For me, portraits are too personal, especially from a live model so I always shy away and explain that portraits aren’t my thing. However, I wanted to give my boss, Maria, something for taking a chance on me. I managed to get a few pictures from her Facebook page and opted for a watercolour of her only grandchild.

  I think it’s finished. I rinse my brush vigorously in the jar of water before drying it carefully on the cloth in my lap. Looking over at Logan, I can see him appraising my work. The level of concentration always fascinates me. He never just glances; he studies. He takes his time, and he takes it all in.

  He sees everything.

  My own demons and my nightmares I think I’m so smart at hiding, well, they never go unnoticed, not by him.

  He flips onto his tummy and drags himself to the end of the bed. He lays his arms flat along the wrought iron frame and drops his chin to rest his head, never taking his eyes from the painting. Several minutes pass, and I silently study him as he literally watches paint dry. I bite my lips to stop from smirking.

  “Don’t smirk, this is serious stuff.” He flashes a quick glance my way, and his tone only pitches with a mild warning. I hold my hands up in mock surrender.

  “Oh, I know…deadly serious. My work doesn’t leave this room without your seal of approval.” I’m grinning now and even risk a playful shake of my head.

  “Damn straight it doesn’t,” he retorts and arches his brow high as if I’ve said something ridiculous. This whole situation is ridiculous. It’s not like I’ve sold anything.

  “So do you like it?” I ask after another pause for observation and requisite silence. He holds up his finger to stop me, and I am about to lose my shit if he makes me wait any longer when his face changes from stern to warm and then fills with overt pride. That look just about makes my heart burst.

  “Really, you like it?” I repeat.

  “It’s…it’s not your normal depressing abstract shit, so, yes, I love it.”

  “Hey, I like my abstract shit.” I fold my arms defensively over my chest, and he is instantly leaping over the bar on the bed and is seated beside me, naked. He sits cross-legged and lifts me into his arms.

  “Um, naked, Logan,” I cry out.

  “Um, always naked, Tia,” he teases, his arms squeezing, but he refrains from pulling me down into what I know is a semi-erection just waiting to rise. He continues to speak as if this isn’t the most awkward thing ever. Maybe for him, it really isn’t.

  “I love your abstracts, you know that, but you can’t deny they are some seriously fucked-up shit, dark and full of your pain.” I stiffen in his hold. “Hey, it’s okay, T; it’s how you cope. I get that. We all have our outlets.” His voice softens, and his breath is warm against my neck. “Anyway, as I was saying, the portrait is different. This, well, it feels full of hope.”

  “Hope?” I twist in his arms and look up, but he doesn’t look down. He’s just staring at the little girl on the easel.

  “Yeah, it’s a child before the world got involved and fucked her up. So that moment you captured on her face right there is pure undiluted hope.” I follow his gaze, and his bright smile fades. I feel the wave of sadness at his beautiful words.

  “God, you’re wasted here, Logan.” I grab his chin. His stubble prickles my fingers, and when I tip his chin so he meets my gaze, we are face-to-face in a curtain of his dark, glossy hair. I swallow the dryness and try to ignore the building tension. I can’t fathom the reason for it, but I feel it as clear as I feel him growing hard beneath my bottom. I power on, ignoring the sensual nudging below. “You should be a poet or a writer, Logan. Not a computer geek with an over-active right hand.” I try to joke, but it falls flat with the intensity of his gaze.

  “We’ve talked about how you might replace my right hand…” I slap my hands over my ears and wriggle from his lap, grateful he helps me off, or I would probably injure his now solid, and, honestly, this close up, enormous erection. I have to force my eyes skyward.

  “Yes, we have, so let’s not. Besides, there’s only so much teasing I can take before I might start to believe you,” I joke.

  “Who said I was teasing?” He doesn’t sound like he’s joking.

  “Logan,” I warn.

  “Tia.” He mimics my tone, but he still looks anything but playful. He looks incendiary.

  “How about some breakfast?” I deflect and am grateful enough to let out a huge relieved breath when he answers.

  “You’re cooking?” He stands, his erection defying gravity and straining to reach his belly button. I spin on the spot. Man, I can’t stop looking. I wasn’t always like this, and in fairness to him, he’s always wandered around the house naked at night, sometimes during the day, but always at night.

  “If you like.” I hand him one of his t-shirts I stole from the laundry, but he just chuckles and holds it in his hand.

  “Only if I want to spend the rest of the day in the toilet, Dodge. I think I’ll take a rain-check.” He chuckles and makes his way to the door. I still haven’t turned round, pretending to gather my clothes and tidy. I am the least tidy person, and I know he must be grinning his arse off. Only I won’t turn round to check. I can just sense the amusement.

  “I’m not that bad, I’m just not as good as you.”

  “I’ll cook, but I need to deal with this first.” I turn because I’m an idiot and actually thought he might be referring to something other than his cock.

  “What the hell, Logan!”

  “Price of being nestled up against your fine arse all night. So you can watch or join in.” I’m transfixed at the sight of him palming himself, stroking up and down, and I know I shouldn’t, but it’s hypnotic and really hot. I never thought that could look hot, never felt anything like I feel now, watching him. My face is on fire, blood’s rushing in
my ears, and I can feel a liquid heat between my legs that I barely recognise. I physically shake myself, and after my momentary lack of sanity, I slap one hand over my eyes and manoeuvre Logan toward the open door with the other.

  “Or the third alternative, you can go back to your own room, you complete animal.”

  “Fine, fine…but just so you know, we’re inevitable, Tia,” he calls out as he pads down the hall. I shut the door and slide to the floor, my heart thumping so loud I can no longer hear his heavy footsteps. I exhale and drop my head to my hands.

  I wish that were true.

  I don’t bother to get dressed, just pull on some old pj bottoms and an oversized hoodie that also belongs to Logan. I pull the collar up to my nose and take a deep sniff, and it smells just like him despite being fresh out of the laundry. A rich scent of manliness with a hint of thick forest after a downpour. Ironic that his aroma is the very essence of nature when he never steps a single foot outside. As tragic as I find this crippling phobia, he brushes it off with the same dismissive statement whenever anyone asks.

  ‘The world’s a fucked up place, so why the hell would I want to go outside when everything I need can be delivered right to my door?’

  I’ve been living here for just under two years, and I have to say, he has a point. I only feel safe and happy when that front door closes behind me.

  The kitchen is the warmest room in the house courtesy of the Aga kicking out a gentle heat 24/7. Faint and delicious smells linger until they are replaced with Logan’s current cooking project. This morning it’s bacon. My mouth waters, and my tummy rumbles in anticipation. I silently pad the length of the kitchen in my bare feet and take my seat at the table where Logan has already poured me a piping hot cup of tea. The steam is rising in gentle plumes, and I dump a large heaped spoon of sugar before I blow to cool it enough to take a sip. He’s facing the cooker and most likely didn’t hear me enter from the other end of the forty-foot long room. His naked arse cheeks seem to be taunting me. The tight round muscles flex and move when he jiggles to the angry Irish folk music blaring through the speakers. He does have a white tie knotted in the middle of his back, the ends of the apron dangling perilously close to the crack in his arse. I smile at his only concession to clothing in the kitchen. Safety first when there’s bacon frying. It’s not that he’s always naked; he’s just mostly always naked.