The pot pie is only barely burnt, and I make sure to sprinkle lots of the expensive cheese over the worst parts, and then it’s fine. I dish it out, crack open the beers, and soon Zenny and I are sitting at the small table by the window, looking out over the darkening city.

“It’s strange,” Zenny says, after blowing on a forkful of pie to cool it off. “Even though it was uncomfortable to talk like that, I feel really good right now. Like I’ve just exercised or something.”

I was very busy staring at the little creases in her lips as she put them together to blow, and it takes me a minute to answer. “I agree. I’m glad it didn’t scare you off.”

“I’m not easily scared,” Zenny says as she takes a bite, and I watch the slow slide of the fork’s tines between her lips, the flutter of her eyelashes as she savors the food.

“No, I don’t think you are,” I murmur, knowing distantly that I should stop watching her so intently, but damn, the girl’s fucking gorgeous. I think I could happily sit and watch her balance a checkbook or browse through Consumer Reports, she’s that arresting to watch.

And she’s right. The air between us feels good. Clear and charged with all the right charges.

“This bossiness,” she says.

“Yes.”

She sets down her fork and studies me, a daring glint in her gaze. “So far I’m not all that impressed by it.”

I study her back. “Is that a challenge?”

“Maybe.”

“I haven’t started yet.” I pause. “It’s not one of my finer traits, Zenny. But it’s hard for me to turn it off for people I—” I stop because a very incautious word almost slipped out, and I’m scared at how not scared I am to say it in front of her.

“—people I care about,” I say instead.

“People you care about.”

“My brothers. My mother,” I say. “My sister, when she was alive…much good that it did her,” I add with some old, tired bitterness.

“What do you mean?” Zenny asks, and she asks it without playing into my obvious self-pity. She asks like she’d ask about the weather or about who tailors my suits.

“I mean that I was over-protective and stubbornly in her business all the time. School, boyfriends, what parties she was going to and if her cell phone was fully charged and if she remembered the mugging classes I begged her to take before she came to KU. And the whole time she’d been carrying this wound, this shame, years and years of what this man had done to her, and I had no idea. I had no idea that I’d failed to protect her until it was too late.”

“So you are bossy to take care of the people you keep close,” Zenny says, “but there was a time once when—in your eyes—you failed. And you haven’t let anyone new into that circle since.”

“I—” I break off because…well, she’s not wrong, actually. The people in my life—my parents, my brothers, Elijah—they were already there before Lizzy. I suppose I haven’t let myself get close to anyone new since she killed herself because getting close would mean feeling responsible for them and taking care of them.

And Lizzy’s suicide proved how inept I really was at keeping the people around me safe.

“I don’t know how you manage to do this,” I say, taking a quick swig of beer to hide my discomfort. “Make me talk about all kinds of depressing shit.”

Zenny reaches across the table to touch my hand. “Sean.”

“Yes?”

“It’s only a month between us,” she says quietly, “and I’m not your sister.”

I think of Tyler’s words yesterday, of his warning.

“I know that,” I tell her.

“Good. Because I want this month to feel real. That’s the whole point, for me to feel everything I’ll leave behind, not just the sex, but the companionship and friendship too. We are friends, right?”

“Yes, Zenny,” I say, watching how the city lights sparkle in her eyes. “We’re friends.”

She beams. “Good. Then that means it should be easy for you to be bossy. We’re friends and you’re going to fuck me, and that’s basically like being my boyfriend.”

I haven’t thought of it like that, and the surge of fierce pleasure at the thought of Zenny being my girlfriend, being mine, is impossible to ignore.

“That’s how I want us to be until this is over,” Zenny goes on, ignorant of the stormy happiness thundering through my veins. “I want to feel what a woman of yours would really feel.”

“I’ve never had a woman I called my own,” I say softly. “You’re the first.”

“Really?” She tries to hide her smile at that.

“A lot of things are new with you, Zenny. Even for me.” And I mean it. I may have done almost everything there is to do in bed, but I’ve never done those things with a woman I really cared about. A woman I could pretend was mine.

“Let’s start right now,” Zenny says, straightening up and pushing her plate back. “Say I’m your girlfriend. How would you act?”

I straighten up too. “First of all, you need to know that I’ll stop with the bossiness at any moment. Just say the word.”

“Is the word ‘asshole’?”

I grin. “Yes.”

“I can do that.” She wiggles a little in her seat, like a cat waiting for a string to move across the floor. “Seriously, Sean. I’m starting to think you were bluffing.”

“I don’t bluff, sweetheart. It’s why I’m so good at business.” I take a breath, because this is new to me, letting my natural inclination to control spill into a relationship that’s not familial. But it feels good, it feels nice, and I’ve been fighting the urge to take care of Zenny in all sorts of ways since the gala—allowing that urge out to play feels delicious.

And of course with Zenny, it takes a very different shape than it usually does with my family, the lust and affection and protectiveness twining and twisting into something new. Something I’ve never felt before.

“To start, I want you to finish what’s on your plate.”

Zenny’s eyebrows furrow, and I can tell she wasn’t expecting me to say something so ordinary.

“Eat your dinner, Zenny. I won’t tell you again.”

Eyes narrowing, Zenny picks up her fork and starts to eat.

“You want to call me an asshole yet?”

She swallows a bite. “Not yet.”

I smile. “Good. Take off your shirt.”

Her fork clatters to the plate. “What?”

“You heard me,” I say silkily. “I want to see you while you eat. I want to know the color of your bra, I want to see the shape of your little nipples as they pucker up, all cold and needing to be sucked warm again.”

She swallows again, and this time it has nothing to do with food. “Jesus,” she whispers, and I can’t tell if it’s a swear or if it’s a prayer. It doesn’t really matter either way; she’s tugging her shirt off as fast as she can, tossing it behind her.

I rumble in approval, leaning forward to get a better view. She’s wearing a pale lavender bra, a sweet color against her warm brown skin, and I can see the dark circles of her nipples under the thin fabric. I can see them hardening, pulling up tight.

I can also see the faint shadows of her ribs laddering down her sides and a faded mandala-like doodle spiraling out from her hip.

A college student who sometimes forgets to eat.

A college student bored in bed while she studies and draws idly on her own skin.

In classic Zenny fashion, she is a mix of fearlessness and uncertainty, squaring her shoulders and hiding nothing from my hungry gaze while she bites nervously at her lower lip.

“Perfect,” I rasp, and I see how my praise affects her. Good. I plan on praising her lots over the coming month. “Now finish eating while I look at you.”

“I—what?”

“Finish eating. I know you went to the shelter after your classes today, and I’m going to guess that you haven’t put anything in your stomach since maybe some coffee you had this morning.”

The corner of her mouth twitches. “Maybe.”

“And how often is that the case? That you’re doing so much between school and the shelter that you miss your meals?”

One of her hands comes up to rub at her shoulder as she looks away. “Often,” she admits.

“That ends tonight,” I say sternly. “Eat.”

There’s a moment when I think it’s coming, the inevitable asshole, the moment she tells me to stop. She doesn’t need some white guy playing Daddy with her, she definitely doesn’t need someone treating her like she’s not capable of caring for herself. But Carolyn Bell was a social worker until her cancer diagnosis, one Bell brother was a priest, another Bell brother burns a candle at both ends like his wick will never run out. I’ve seen what happens to busy people, and I know it’s much, much easier to justify losing a night’s worth of sleep for the cause than it is to justify taking ten minutes to make a sandwich. The most selfless people, the most driven people, they need permission to take care of themselves, they need someone who will put them first, because they won’t do it for themselves.

The word asshole never leaves her lips. Her eyes flash with irritation, then they shimmer into some internal struggle that leaves her lower lip trapped between her teeth and her hand hovering over her fork.

After a short silence, she picks up the fork and takes a bite. And another. And another, until her plate is clear. I watch her the entire time, stretching out in my chair and thrilling in this new feeling that’s a potent mixture of desire and a caveman-like satisfaction at tending to someone’s needs. The combination of seeing her eat the food I provided and the promise of all that smooth skin slowly pebbling into goose bumps.

She pushes her plate back and sets down her fork, giving me a look that says well? And also giving a little shiver of anticipation, because she thinks that was it, that I had my bossy fun and now we’ll move on to the part where I fuck away her sort-of virginity.

I do really, really want to do that. But I have plans first. Because if she really were my girl, there’s a certain way these things would unfold and since I’ve officially committed to Project Doubt, I’m going to give this experiment everything in my considerable power. Seduction, affection, bossiness, fun—everything.

I stand up, not bothering to adjust the thick penis pushing against my slacks; I’ve been hard for so long tonight that I’ve stopped caring if it shows. Zenny’s eyes follow my body as I clear the table and set the dishes in the sink, and more than once, I see her gaze linger over the ridge of my erection.

I resist the urge to smirk, but only just, coming back after washing my hands and helping her out of her chair. Then I trace a finger down her belly, circling her navel until she shivers.

“I’m going to unbutton these jeans, Zenny,” I tell her. “I’m going to unzip them. Then I’m going to slide my fingers inside your panties and play with what I find there. Yes?”

“Yes,” she breathes, her stomach quivering under my fingertip, and I make good on my word, slowly working the metal jean button through the buttonhole until it pops free.

Zenny gives an answering exhale—shaky but determined. I keep my eyes on her face as I tug the short zipper down, keeping tabs on her expression, on her comfort. Some embarrassment is normal, nerves are to be expected—but there’s a razor-fine balance I need to maintain between giving her what she wants and pushing her too fast. A month just isn’t enough time to do this properly, to cultivate and tend to her blooming lusts. To awaken her body.

If I could ask for anything right now, it would be a year with her. A year of tutoring and teasing and bossing and savoring her.

Even a year wouldn’t be enough.

That thought pings through the rest of my musings, loud and resonant, and I’m not sure where to put it, so I ignore it for now. I need to focus on what’s important, which is the girl trembling all pretty and eager in front of me.

I run my fingertips along the scalloped line of her panties, which match the color and the filmy material of her bra. I know without asking that this is probably the most daring lingerie she owns, and despite how modest it actually is—there’s no straps or mesh or cut-outs or any of the usual trimmings that makes women’s underthings into confections of fun—it makes the entire effect more delicious somehow, more sinful. My sort-of virgin, my almost nun, trying to be naughty and instead looking more innocent than ever.

I look down to where my fingers toy with the top edge of her panties, then back up to her face.

“Are you nervous, baby?”

“Yes,” she confesses, her hands going up to my shoulders and fisting in the shirt there.

“Fun-nervous or bad-nervous?”

She thinks for a minute, which I appreciate, because I need her to be sure. I need to be sure. I wasn’t bullshitting her when I said I was worried about our age difference, because the things I want to do with her are not just dirty, but like, dirty dirty. The kinds of things you don’t admit to wanting in the harsh light of day, the kinds of things that make even a man like me blush.

Keep her safe.

“Fun-nervous,” she says. “If you would—” she stops.

“Tell me, Zenny.”

She takes a breath, pins her eyes on mine. “I’m ready for more. I’m nervous, yes, but it’s excitement, not fear.”

“Good.”

“So,” she swallows, “give me more. It’s fun and I like it, and I’ll call you an asshole when I’m ready for you to back off.”

It’s my turn to swallow. Her green-lighting more in that signature combination of careful and bold is almost enough to make me throw all my plans out the window and just kiss the hell out of her until we end up on the floor in a hungry press of hips and mouths. To fuck the soft split between her legs until I’ve fucked away this fierce infatuation, the alarming affection and possessiveness I already feel for her after such a short time.

Sean, I scold myself. Fucking stop it. I was the one who was all I’m doing this for you earlier, and I’ll hold myself to that if it kills me.

this is for her

this is for her

this is for her.

“Okay,” I say, finally gathering myself. “I’m trusting you to call me out on being an asshole. Now take off your jeans, darling. It will make it easier for me to play with you.”

She kicks off her flip-flops and wriggles out of her jeans with a perfunctory kind of shimmy, and I find myself strangely drawn to the sight. I’ve paid lots of women lots of money to undress for me, I’ve fucked society wives determined to show off every expensive stitch of their La Perla or Agent Provocateur—but I’ve never seen a girl undress like this, artlessly and quickly, without performance. It feels intimate, somehow, and it makes me wonder what else I could get hard watching her doing. Brushing her teeth or putting on lotion. Tying shoelaces.

Then she’s in front of me, all bare skin and thin silk. Her nipples are begging to be sucked, her belly is tight, and her hands twist together in front of her panties, as if she wants to hide herself from me and is trying not to.

I step forward, deciding to give her hands something to do. “Hands on my shoulders like before,” I tell her. And then I add, a little sternly, “No hiding from me. You’re fucking beautiful and I’ll stare at every inch of you until I get my fill.”

She puts her hands on my shoulders again, a little smile playing across her mouth. I can guess why.

“You like being called beautiful?” I ask, brushing my lips across her forehead. Then across her cheeks. Her eyelashes flutter in girlish happiness and I both curse and thank every man that came before me who didn’t give this woman every compliment and tender word she deserved. It’s ridiculous that she’s twenty-one and she’s never been properly petted and praised, and yet thank God, because otherwise I wouldn’t be the one in front of her, here and now, with my fingers tickling gently along the top of her panties.

“You are beautiful, Zenny,” I say with my lips still against her cheek. My fingers slide beneath the elastic border and her belly tenses even more. “Your face is stunning, your body is a work of art. But it’s you I can’t stop thinking about, how you ask for things and how you argue, how you tease and how you rant and how you glow when you talk about what matters to you. When I say the word beautiful, sweetheart, know I mean it.”

She nods, about to answer, when the pad of my middle finger brushes against a narrow triangle of short curls.

“Oh Zenny,” I say, my cock giving an abrupt, painful throb. “Oh baby.”

“What is it?” she whispers, tilting her head to meet my eyes.

“On the couch,” I say hoarsely, pulling my hand from her panties and giving her ass a little swat. “On your back.”

She moves backward, turning uncertainly toward the living room as she does and giving me a view of her perfect ass. Firm enough to curve, soft enough to bounce a little as she walks, sloping into strong thighs and up into hips made to have my hands curled around them. I can already imagine the heart shape her ass will make when she’s bent over for me.

Fuck. Me.

With a stilted breath, she lowers herself onto the sofa, dark curls like a halo around her head on the cushions and her bra and panties pulling tight against her skin as she arranges herself. And I prowl up to her like a cat, like a predator, like a hungry man coming to a banquet table.

“Should I take off my—” Zenny’s thumbs hook in her panties, but I still her movements with a steely look.

“That’s for me,” I say. “I want it.”

“You want to be the one to take off my underwear?” Her thumbs don’t move, so I squat down beside the sofa and give one little nip with my teeth, which sends her hands up to her chest. And then I keep my mouth at her hip as I speak, letting my breath warm and tickle the skin there.

“I’m not going to take off your underwear. I’m going peel this silk off you like the skin of a fruit, and then I’m going to eat you. I’m going to suck on you like a plum. I’m going to unwrap you like a Christmas present and then you’ll see what a happy boy I am.”

She’s breathing hard, her copper-tinted eyes dilated and dark on mine.

“But first,” I say, turning my lips to drop a real kiss on her hip, flicking my tongue along the edge of her panties, “there are some things you need to know.”

A flicker of impatience across her face; an involuntary press upwards with her hips. “Sean, we’ve been over this—”

“No,” I murmur, moving my mouth closer to her navel, which silences her. “This is different. I know you trust me, you know I trust you. And now it’s time for me to show you what I would do if you were mine, my own sort-of virgin.”

Her belly quivers under my lips. “Yes,” she says, her voice dry until she wets her lips. “Yes…I…I want to be that. Yours to do with as you like.”

“You are, darling. You are.” I chase a finger up her thigh until she gasps and jerks underneath me. “My little virgin. That boy before, he didn’t do a good job with you, did he? He didn’t know what a gift he had in your body, in your sweet little cunt.”

My finger gets to the edge of her panties where her thigh meets her body, and her legs part of their own accord. “He didn’t tell you all the things you need to know.”

Her back arches as my fingers skate over her center, light as a tickle, and to the other edge of her panties. “N-no, he didn’t.”

I tsk. “He should have known such a smart girl would want to know everything first. He should have known that you would have wanted to hear about your cunt. And about the parts of him that would hurt and ache until you made them feel better.”

Her breath hitches and her eyes go glassy. “Are you going to tell me?”

“Oh yes, sweetheart.” I can see the pout of her cunt through her panties, the tempting secrets underneath. And when I run a finger straight up her middle—fuck, yes—she’s wet, wet enough to leave a sweet little spot on her panties as I press them against her flesh. “I’ll tell you everything.”