Touch Me, Daddy のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 71 - チャプター 80

My Camillia is full of surprises.Just when I think I understand her, when I think I can predict how she will react—she turns my world upside down.Shit.The naughty word trips off her tongue. What else can I make polite little Camillia say?If we were in my hotel suite, I would drag this out. Would make it last for hours and hours, only stopping to rub Camillia’s shoulders and bring her glasses of ice water.But we’re not in my suite. We’re exposed, out in the open, and though that adds a sharp edge to my hunger, it also hurries me along.I don’t want Camillia to get caught here with me. Nor do I want her to catch a chill. So I scoop her into my arms, backing her against the wall, and wait with gritted teeth as she fumbles with the button of my pants.“Sorry—I can’t—”“It’s alright. Relax, sweetheart.” She sighs softly, melting in my arms, and tries again, slower this time. My button pops open and her pale hand reaches inside.I hiss as her fingers close around me.“You must be quiet

“Oh my god.” Wendy ushers me into the apartment, pulling my bag off my shoulder. “Avery!” she yells into the living room, then turns to me. “What happened?”I sniffle, too ashamed to say the words. I can only shake my head, mute.“Did he hurt you?” Avery clatters into the hallway behind Wendy, her blonde hair scraped into a French braid. The two of them are puffed up, ready to pick a fight.I think of the gentle way Alain held me. The worshipful look in his eye as he slid inside me, sealing us together.“No,” I rasp. “But I’m out of the academy.” I suck in a shuddering breath. “I’ve lost everything. I’ll never be a dancer.”They hiss, faces twisting. They know how much this hurts me. How hard I’ve worked for ballet.“We’ll fight it,” Wendy says at once. “We’ll campaign. Or kick up a fuss. There must be something we can do.”I shake my head, lip wobbling, and they both deflate. Avery takes my elbow and pulls me through to the living room.“It’ll be okay,” she says softly. “There’s more

No one hates Ansel Carson more than Philomena Laurent.The mere sight of him makes her blood boil. He makes her cheeks burn, not from shyness, or attraction, but pure, primal anger. And it doesn't help that she sees him every day. He talks to her more than everyone else at work.She's an intern.Below him.Meant to serve and be at his beck and call. 24/7.But Philomena knows herself. She knows her purpose, and that is to ruin Ansel.He caused her so much grief. He ruined her father, and now she'll get her revenge by ruining his life.It doesn't matter if he's nothing like she imagined. Philomena doesn't care about his larger-than-life presence. His deep voice. How his body moves under his well-pressed suit, or the way his eyes fixates on her whenever she's close.Her crush on him doesn't matter. Her revenge on the other hand?She must have it. Getting Ansel Carson's affection will never be better than revenge.-------------------Aura.What is an aura?According to the Oxford Diction

It’s quiet when I get home. I drop my keys into the bowl by the door and toe off my shoes, eyes and ears all assessing. Is he here? The apartment is messy, with shoes abandoned by the entrance and a teetering pile of mail on a stool, but it’s our usual low-grade clutter rather than the bombsite I’ve walked into a few times before.“Dad?” My voice echoes in the quiet. This is an old building and the walls are thick—thank god. Else we’d have been kicked out a long time ago.Blowing out a long breath, I wander through the familiar rooms, my fingertips brushing over the furniture: the bookcase that needs dusting; the cracked leather sofa with a crocheted throw; the scrubbed kitchen table that we sit at for dinner when we’re Making An Effort. No signs of life—but no wreckage either.So. That’s good.And I know it’s harsh, since my dad must be working a late cleaning shift, but I’m glad for a few moments alone. I still glance over my shoulder, guilt churning in my stomach, as I lift the kit

Was I always like this? Driven and joyless. Obsessive and stressed. So fucking tired that it feels like the weight of the world is pushing down on my bones.I swear I remember lazy summer days and nights spent laughing, not working, but they’re a hazy memory. Maybe even a dream. When I play them in my mind on late nights when I can’t sleep, it’s like watching an actor in a movie.Tonight, I can’t sleep, but for a brand new reason. Usually it’s my greatest hits: my Ignis tech will never work; my father died without ever respecting me; I’m going to die alone, etc, etc.Predictable woes. Almost soothing with how cliched they are. But tonight…I flip my pillow to the cool side, burying my face in it with a groan. Tonight, it’s her.Philomena. My bubbly assistant. The woman who makes the world’s worst coffee then stands over me as I drink it; the woman with a front row seat to my many failures. She’s barely been my assistant for a month, and already she’s seen so many disasters. I’ve never