CHAPTER HUNDRED AND THIRTY-ONE

VIOLET POV

Daddy Spencer and I get ready for bed together every night. I’m brushing my teeth when he joins me to brush his teeth, and I take a final pee before sleep while he’s finishing up.

      He doesn’t always wipe me, but he always watches. He’s watching when I discover a healthy splotch of blood on the tissue paper.

      My period.

      My first period in this house.

      He spits out his toothpaste and rinses his mouth. “We now know Daddy hasn’t given you a situation along with his cum,” he comments. “At least not yet, anyway.”

      I guess I should feel relieved, but I don’t. I feel strangely sad.

      “That’s good, I suppose,” I say, assuming that’s the right response.

      “Do you really think that’s good?”

      I wipe more blood away. “Yeah,” I say, even though I don’t think I mean it. “That’s sensible, right?”

“I’m not worried about being sensible, Violet, I’m interested in how you feel about it.”

      I don’t really know how I feel about it, I tell him so. He kneels down beside me and wipes me afresh. It’s become so normal, him doing this, I don’t even flinch. “It needs some thought,” he says. “If it’s not something you’re happy to risk, we’ll have to use protection.”

  The idea of having him fuck me through a slimy condom doesn’t sound horny at all. I like how we do it. I like feeling him, only him. I’m not interested in having a load of rubber inside me.

There’s blood on my knickers, so Daddy Spencer heads into my bedroom and finds me a fresh pair. He takes the pack of sanitary pads from my collection of toiletries and tears one open. I wonder if anyone else does this, but it’s only a passing thought. I don’t really care what anyone else does anymore, just as long as it’s good enough for us.

  I get to my feet and he slides my knickers up my thighs, complete with freshly placed pad. “That should keep you comfortable for the night,” he says.

      “I hope I don’t ruin the sheets.”

      He smiles. “It doesn’t matter if you do, sheets can be replaced, sweetheart.”

      That’s not what I really want to say. I want to tell him there’s an icky sadness in my belly, as though I was secretly rooting for something I didn’t realise I wanted. I want to tell him that I’ve been having flutters doing my child development lectures at college and wondering how it would feel to have Daddy Spencer’s baby growing inside me.

 I want to tell him that maybe it wouldn’t be that bad. That maybe I’m more ready than I thought I was, want it far more than I ever expected it to.

      I tell him nothing of the kind.

•

•

Maggie Connor pours us a sneaky vodka from her dad’s bottle and tops it up with cheap cola. She clinks her glass against mine as she plays some drum and bass compilation I really don’t like, as though simply having a bit of alcohol is cause for celebration. It doesn’t feel like it. Not so much.

  I’ve learned since her last birthday that some celebrations really mean something, but it seems Maggie Connor didn’t get tagged in that particular life post.

 “Gonna get so fucking trashed tonight!” she tells me, and my stomach rolls before I’ve even taken a sip. I have no doubt she’s gonna get so fucking trashed tonight, only there’s no way I’ll be joining her in that. Not with Daddy Spencer’s Mercedes waiting like a pumpkin carriage as midnight strikes.

 I’ve been telling her all week about my curfew. I didn’t say it like that, that it’s a curfew, just that we have plans. Plans. We do have plans actually. Spencer is going to take me shopping for a Christmas party dress tomorrow once the birthday celebration is done and dusted. He always says birthday celebration in that tone now when it comes to Maggie Connor. He says everything in that funny tone when it comes to Maggie Connor.

“Are you wearing that?” she asks, and I stare down at myself to work out exactly which that she’s referring to. I’m dressed up, for me, wearing one of the sweet dresses Spencer bought me and a pair of smart enough leggings underneath. He told me I looked beautiful, and I felt it. I’m not going to let Maggie Connor ruin that for me.

      “I love this dress,” I tell her.

      “Sure, it’s nice,” she says. “But we’re going out. Can’t you wear something more dressy?”

      Slutty, she means.

Her own black little number is up to her ass and barely covers her nipples.

 I’ve actually been wondering how it would feel to wear something like that, but only for him, and only at home. Only when his eyes are dark and dirty and he wants me like that.

I definitely wouldn’t want to wear it for a club full of drunk randoms, though.

      “I love this dress,” I repeat, and there’s that confidence in my voice again that surprises me every time it comes out.

      “Suit yourself,” she says, and downs the rest of her drink.

      I take another sip of mine and it tastes icky.

      “You used to be more fun than this.” She rolls her eyes. “This older guy crap is making you so dull, Violet.”

 Not so long ago it would have hurt to hear I was dull. Not so long ago I’d have tried my best to make her birthday the best night ever and downed that vodka with her and told her she looks amazing.

      Being with Spencer is changing me, she’s right about that. I feel it right the way through me, the way I have so much less time for her nasty opinions, or her whining about what I should and shouldn’t be doing as her bestie. I didn’t realise how many little conditions she has over every single thing we do together.

  Spencer has rules, but they’re all for me, for us. Maggie Connor silly rules are for nobody else but herself.

      She checks herself in the mirror for the millionth time, and snaps a selfie and uploads it with a load of trendy hashtags for her fake friends on social media, and then she grabs her handbag.

      “Come on, bestieeeee,” she whoops. “It’s party time!”

      I can hardly contain my excitement.