Leashed by Luxury

V. Over/Under Again

I let him kiss me, a gentle press that returns with more vigor each time. I thumb his sick-sharpened cheek as if I can’t decide if I want to pause or provoke him. He takes it as encouragement, tipping his nose into mine, almost an up-swinging nuzzle, reminding me of a bobcat licking the gloss off a bone. But Daddy is a cagier predator. He mutters, “Sei bella,” and "così dolce" (so pretty, so sweet), like we didn’t start the day as testy as teenagers. Though teens are known for a pendulum of fervor: apathetic to angsty to making out under moonlight.

I certainly didn't wake up expecting his confessions or tenderness. Let alone his softness...or, scratch that, his hardness grazing my thigh as he glides me onto his lap. The nylon of my tube dress makes it easy. Or am I making it too easy...?

Do I want to make things harder though? Er, more challenging, I mean. My job already makes me an entertainer (of bad ideas), s*x often being a bank exchange, the swipe of a credit card between knees, but that's not what ever drew me to Daddy...that's not why I've ever found myself in his bed before. It's not like I'm ever trying to swindle my earnings back. Just the affections.

I swallow, heart flittering with the talisman reminders of what attracts me to him: the confidence that smolders in those eyes, the strong bones in his face and fingers, the scent of slight clean smoke, cedar, mint sprig, and dewed dandelion. When he's hushed, holding, mushy on our mother tongue. The times he's wreathed me in cool sheets, stroked my brow, told me how proud I've made him, how rich and fulfilled. "Il mio cuore, la mia vita" (my heart, my life).

So how could I deny him? Want to, especially if he's dying, maybe trying to make amends?

Just how rare the words or pets come anymore, that makes them all the more precious, pearls to hang on to long after he's gone.

"Angel," I breathe, hoping he never gets his wings to leave me. Control freak, like him. That's why we're entwined like this. My legs over his, thighs spreading so I can corkscrew around his calves, use his crocodile Oxfords as footrests.

"Naria," he replies with a smirk, teasing my dramatics. A big hand rolls down my long, loose curls. "You're not telling me to stop."

I blink, leaning in, face warming a bit at his casual call out. "When have I ever done that...when we're like this?" I look down at our tangled legs, my nose nearly brushing his neat beard.

He hums in agreement. "Brava bambina," he says with a little laugh.

I pull a face, pushing his chest only half playfully. When he first brought Joles around, I'd get so pissed, him constantly telling me variations of, 'Be a good baby, do what I want' like a Lana song—or without saying the second part out loud: Be good like her. "Ah, and who's here right now?" I remind, some flint or steel (not yet both) in my tone. "Not her."

"Ahhh." He waves down my snide remark like his was a light joke. Forget about it. "I didn't bring her up."

"But you meant h—"

He plugs up my dismissal with a hard peck, humming around my mouth that there only ever seems to be one good girl in the house at a time.

"Oh, and it's me today? I'm honor--"

He muffles my sarcasm with his tongue, two squeezes on my bum that bring me closer. "My girl, my girl, just let me love you," he teases low and ironic, like doting on a mischievous puppy.

I roll my eyes, and he rolls his hips, patting the side of my face like a faux warning to relax, redact, resolve, dissolve.

"I do love you, difficult girl." His eye meets mine despite the dark drape of our hair. As if the pupil could hammer home the point, how he pins me, understands the words I want even if he tacks insults and innuendo and an uninviting tone to them. A kinder kind of guilt trip.

"Then act like it." My brow twitches and furrows deeper as he bites my ear, then tells me to shush.

That riles a retort that dies in my throat as his fingers file under the dress, swirling in a come-hither motion under my thigh, my panties. Until I'm melting into the "Calm down," come hailing, c*m-hailing entreaty.

I close my eyes, shelving my chin on his shoulder. It's more cutting a perch than I remember, more protruding. Makes a coil of mortal dread sink beneath my navel. My lips press together. Won't well. Won't dwell on what brought me here today. I sigh and bury my face in his stubble, his neck, the cologne, the virility he has left. My arms loop us closer. Knuckles pad my jaw so I can hang on to his shoulders. Wrapped like branches, I can pretend we're in a little storybook swing. Timeless, weightless. Safe, resting.

But our bodies keep swaying, shifting like sifting sands through an hourglass. Small grinds and niente murmurs as his fingers soothe just the way I like. Smoothing cream, clingy fabric into soft curves and crevices, thickening the heat. Circling until I fuss and fidget.

Warm and wet, his hand, my face and fica, it reminds me of playing in the waters of the Amalfi Coast. Marrying the sweet with the sexy, innocent with the erotic. Once, he promised me we'll go back there, shoot something scandalous, have our own private vacation like before he snatched up Joles and cindered our relationship. Depraved and divine, it will be and this is now. This, the way Daddy wired me to respond.

I arch, feet floating up to get me kneeling on his knees. My toes curl into his jeans as he circles with more precision. Such tight knots, deep grooves, that my whole body sways with them. His other hand grips my hip, keeps me from falling. But only physically.

"Oooohhh, oohhhhh," I'm moaning, the echoes in the empty house mortifying me. It sounds like I'm performing for the polished floorboards, but I'd rather be as clammed up, mute, as he wanted me. Play it close to the chest. That's what I'd normally say, but how's that been working for us?

"Good girl, good girl," he prompts, head and voice low to watch me.

Watch me pant as he pulls down my screen-print panties. The sage green cacti pattern and my halfhearted shaving job show pretty clearly that I wasn't anticipating this, which makes it hotter.

Makes him groan, "Sei bella," as he unbuckles with his dry hand.

I reach down, dizzy, to rub him over me. "Daddy, let me." Set the pace. Show you paradise. How being good to me gets good for yo--

The front door swings open with a clack against the wall, making the mirrored key table shake. The money tree loses a leaf. It drifts to the floor like the confetti the blonde intruder holds. Blinded by balloons, she sings, "Bonne fête papa! Haaaaapppyyyyy Faaa-- Oh, oh mon dieu!" A bulbous balloon with a graduation cap blocks her sight intentionally this time. Guess there was a seasonal sale or English still isn't her strong suit.

Angel and I stiffen, half-clothed, half engaged. His hand covers his c**k, but the shock is that it's there at all. Sure, Joles and I have s*x with men all the time for work. But we don't ever watch each other. We don't discuss. Even if we've broadly been Angel's live-in girlfriends, we're more like frosty sister wives. We do live right by Mormon country, after all: Lancaster, PA. The mindset is: Keep your lip and camisole buttoned, and maybe we can be cordial, carry on like roommates, distant cousins or some such delusion.

"Euh, désolée... Should I...?" she apologizes, turning toward the threshold like she's not sure if she should walk out of her only home.

Rubbing my face like I can't believe it either, I lift from his lap. They're obviously not fighting like I presumed. Not if she's packed along a party. Even if it's a 'let's make up' soirée, mine is worse. Desperate. Random. She must think I'm high on molly or low on money. Last time she saw Daddy and me at home, I was ripping up an old birthday card I made him. I couldn't stomach that he was talking about taking some other b***h to Mykonos when I've never been and it would be on my dime.

Angel fixes his pants. Tugs down my dress, sliding my panties under a pillow like it matters.

"Don't go," I tell Joles, surprising all of us. Looking to Daddy as if saying, I'm really trying to change too. To kill the things in me that hold us back. "I want you to stay."