Tess

It takes all the energy I have not to collapse and crawl back into my apartment. Good heavens, what did I do? I swallow hard.

Oh, yes, that.

I shut my door behind me, lock it, and slide my back against it and down to the floor.

The wood floor feels cold against my backside and a cool chill greets my spread legs. It’s because your panties are over there, I remind myself.

Curran didn’t notice my generic underwear. But even if he had, I don’t think he cared. I hadn’t cared. And in remembering how his tongue swirled and his lips suckled, I don’t think…wait, what’s my name again?

My head spins as I think about how I clutched him against me, how I didn’t want him to stop, and how I screamed for more. I want him. There’s no denying it now.

Even though I probably shouldn’t have him.

I wrench myself from the floor, my hot skin cooling quickly as I wander into the kitchen. I wash my hands, then open the refrigerator door to sort through what remains.

Damnit. I have just enough food to get through the weekend before the grocery clerk delivers more on Monday. If Curran hadn’t taken me out to eat, I would have gone hungry today. Although I’m typically more careful, I hadn’t rationed out my food allotment for the week appropriately.

I check the bundle of kale. Although I’ve developed a tremendous distaste for it, I’m sad to find that the edges have begun to wilt. The late nights of helping Declan this week, followed by the even later nights of studying, had demanded more calories to help me function. And kale, let me tell you, doesn’t quite cut it.

I shut the crisper tight, knowing I’ll need more food to keep going. But I don’t dare make that request now. Father’s still pissed. I don’t have to call him to know that.

Well, today he’s not alone.

The strict meal plan he concocted infuriates me. So does his notion that I’m putting on too much weight—especially knowing how badly I struggled with anorexia. Jesus, it’s not enough to buy me clothes I despise, or keep me from making friends by denying me a phone and a car, and sticking me in a place where only elderly people live. He won’t let me work to earn my own money—and he doesn’t give me any money to live on. Nothing. Not even enough to buy myself a cup of coffee.

Around Christmas, he gave me twenty dollars. It joined the almost one hundred dollars I’ve saved throughout the last two years. “What do you need with more of my money?” he asked the last time I worked up the courage to request an allowance. “I already provide you with a home, clothing, and food.”

Is this crazy—like batshit crazy? Yes. Of course it is! I doubt, though, that many people would understand why I tolerate it.

What it comes down to is fear. Fear of making him angry, which my mother always warned me against. Fear he’ll hurt me physically, like he did so many times when I was young, and frail, and helpless. Fear I’ll be homeless and alone.

To some, this fear isn’t rational. To me, it’s all I’ve ever known. That, and his severe control.

I don’t have a bank account and I don’t have any credit. He’s told me that if I get a job, he’ll cut me off and I’ll be burdened with rent and utilities I can’t afford and saddled with several hundred thousand dollars in tuition. I’ve tried to apply for academic scholarships, only to have an administrator call my father and be forced to withdraw my application.

My father has me right where he wants me, and he knows it. And every time I focus on what a tyrant he is, I become blind with anger. And yet, even my anger isn’t enough to stop me from being afraid.

This time, though, my emotions fizzle before they threaten to choke me. I shut the stainless-steel door. Curran’s kindness saved me from hunger, but his touch…now, that did a lot more.

I don’t realize I’m smiling until the phone rings and I sense my good humor fade. Father’s likely calling to inform me of my latest punishment.

“Hello?” I answer, my tone clipped.

“I take it it wasn’t as good for you as it was for me?” Curran asks on the other end.

My skin prickles with heat. “Sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

He pauses. “Another guy?”

“No!” I shake out my hand, trying to settle. “Not like that. Not like you.”

“Not like what we just did?”

I fall against my couch. “No, nothing like that.” Ah, and there’s my smile again.

“Good,” he says.

I think I should say something more; instead I wait for him to speak.

“So,” he says. “We messed around. Like, a lot.”

I sense the regret in his voice. “Curran, don’t,” I find myself pleading.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t tell me that you’re sorry, or that you didn’t mean it.” Seeing as your tongue told a different tale.

“It’s not that I didn’t like it, or didn’t want what happened, ’cause I did.”

“Then why do you sound so upset?”

“Tess, it’s my job to watch you. I don’t get paid to go down on you.”

His bluntness catches me off guard, and perhaps it does him, too. “Well, you know what I mean,” he adds.

“You were watching me.” I grimace when I hear him laugh. “Not during the act, but when I— What I’m trying to explain is that regardless of what occurred between us, you performed well—”

“I could tell by the way you were screaming.”

Good. Lord. I clear my throat. “What I mean is you swept the apartment for any potential threats—”

“And then yanked off your panties like a teen trying to get laid,” he reminds me.

Curran really has a talent for stopping me in my tracks. Despite my litigation training, I can barely find my voice. “And—and you made sure I was safe—”

“Up until I tossed you on the table and spread your legs wide open.”

Perspiration builds between my breasts. “My point is, you made sure all was well before we, I mean, before you did what you did.”

“How about afterward? Did I make sure all was well after you left me in the elevator? Nope. While I was trying to pull up my pants, some psycho could have come out of your neighbor’s apartment and killed you.”

“That was my fault. You were distracted following the, ah, attention I gave you.”

“And that’s exactly my point. I’m on duty, Tess. This can’t happen again.”

In the silence that follows, I notice how cold my apartment is. As I consider what to say, I wander into my bedroom to check the thermostat. I stop dead when I see the note my father taped beside it.

Contessa,

I think you need reminding who provides you a home to reside in, and all the luxuries that come with it. Your heat has been disconnected. It will remain that way for the rest of the week to give you time to reflect on my generosity and how quickly it can abandon you.

He signed it Donald Newart II.

Damnit. It’s a wonder he didn’t disconnect all my utilities! “Are you saying you don’t want me?” I manage, the hostility directed at my father finding its way to my voice.

“No.” Curran’s tone is absolute. “I’m only saying I can’t have you when I’m on the job.”

Good to know. “What time is your shift over?”

The allure in my voice is clear, and Curran doesn’t hesitate. “A couple of hours.”

I crumple the note with my free hand. “Well then, let’s say in a couple of hours you pay me a visit. It’s cold in my apartment. How would you like to keep me warm?”