I’ve never been one to play games.
They’re a waste of time and lack purpose—something that fools do to feel cunning or important. That type of affirmation means absolutely nothing to me.
If anything, I’m the one who makes the games and sets the rules that everyone needs to follow.
So imagine my fucking surprise when I find myself dragged into a game I didn’t sign up for. A game that shouldn’t have existed in the first place.
I’m in the middle of it now. Right there where the game—Gwyneth—is.
You can play with me all you want. I’ll be your toy.
Those mere words turned me into a fucking insatiable beast. I didn’t only win her in the middle of the game, but I also had every right to play with her, torture her, torment her.
A week now. It’s been a week since the day I broke my own protocol and brought sex to my workplace. When I ate her out and tasted her sweet cunt.
I don’t mix business with pleasure. Ever. It’s unprofessional, bothersome, and fucking distracting.
Or that’s what I thought before her, Gwyneth, my unwanted game. Because I sure as fuck didn’t think about the risks when I told her to open her legs, then proceeded to have her for lunch.
And like an addict, the need for more kept multiplying with each day.
Now, I’m the one who seeks that fucking distraction.
I tell her to behave and she doesn’t. Gwyneth really doesn’t know how to. She’ll either drop something and bend over to pick it up, putting her ass on display, or she’ll flirt with Christoph.
We’re only talking, she tells me. We’re friends and we talk. I wasn’t flirting with him. But fuck that, if she’s laughing with him and he’s the only intern she talks to, then it’s fucking flirting.
So I call her into my office, bend her over the table and eat her out. Sometimes I finger her until she’s screaming and writhing and begging. I love it when she begs, when her little body is so much at my mercy that she knows she won’t be able to escape my wrath unless she begs.
Then when I get home, I go up to her room and have her for dinner. I teach her how she should behave at the firm, how she should be focused on her work, not on anything else. That she’s not allowed to have lunches with Sebastian, Daniel, and Knox. Yes, one of them is my nephew, but still. She’s too easygoing around them, too vibrant, too alive, and I fucking hate that.
I also hate that everyone seems to be expecting cupcakes from her now. She’s been religiously bringing them to everyone, especially the IT girl and fucking Christoph.
She either stays up late or wakes up early to bake them while singing off-tune as Alexa plays her favorite band, Twenty One Pilots. She never told me they were her favorite, but she listens to them all the time, whether she’s in the shower, baking, or helping Martha in the kitchen. Anytime, anywhere. They’re her auditory vanilla milkshakes and ice cream, I now realize. They’re what keeps her at peace, even though her peace is loud.
All of it is too much. From her and the music to her body language. Because she doesn’t just sing and listen and bake, she dances, too, and it’s as off-rhythm as her off-pitch voice.
Gwyneth is a loud person when she’s alone. So loud that it’s hard to tune her out. So loud that she interrupts my violent silence. I used to prefer that simple nothingness, the lack of sounds, and the clearance of mind that helps me concentrate and work, but ever since she’s been killing that violent peace, whenever I hear her damn “Alexa, play Gwen’s playlist,” I can’t resist coming out to watch the show.
Like right now.
I lean against the kitchen’s entryway and cross my legs at the ankles. After I got home a while ago, I took a shower and then went to get some water while wearing a towel. Something that made Gwen stare at me bug-eyed as her cheeks, ears, and neck turned red. So I changed into sweatpants and a gray T-shirt. Sometimes, I forget I’m not on my own now and that there’s a woman who looks at me as if I’m the most beautiful and frustrating thing she’s ever seen.
In the past, I didn’t give a fuck about how women saw me. Yes, King and I often attracted attention for our looks and athletic bodies, but it was all a game. A shallow, meaningless game that had no effect on my life whatsoever. So why the fuck do I feel a tinge of pride whenever Gwyneth looks at me as if I’m the only man she sees?
Back to the present—I usually stay outside so she doesn’t notice me, but fuck it, I’m watching her up close and personal today.
Holding a spatula as a microphone, she plays the role of a backup singer to the one who’s currently rapping. The upbeat music fills the kitchen and she sways her hips and kicks her leg, seeming lost in the song.
I’m supposed to be going through a case file, but I’ll do that later when she goes to sleep. That’s when my violent silence returns and I can concentrate.
However, that might be a fucking lie, because I’ve been losing grasp of the word concentration since I made this chaotic girl my wife.
She never misses a chance to barge into my thoughts uninvited. Whenever I’m working, in a meeting, or even in court, I think about her on my desk with her legs wide apart as she moans my name and tells me she’s been a very bad girl and wants me to teach her how she can be a good girl. Though she doesn’t genuinely mean that, considering she’s always being naughty in one way or another.
And I can’t stop thinking about that, about her hidden tendencies and sweet taste. I haven’t been able to stop since the first time.
Since I touched her and got a hard-on for my friend’s fucking daughter.
I close my eyes to chase that line of thinking away.
When I open them again, Gwyneth is jumping to the music, screaming with the singer about silence. The same silence she’s massacring right now.
She turns in my direction at that exact moment and freezes, her eyes going wide, with her spatula mic still at her mouth.
“Nate.” My name comes out as a flustered sound in the middle of the loud music before she clears her throat and shouts, “Alexa, stop.”
The music comes to a halt and she grimaces. “Was I too loud?”
“You think?”
“Sorry. I thought you had noise-canceling headphones or something since you’ve never complained about the music before.”
That’s because I come out to watch. But I don’t say that, continuing to observe her instead. She has flour on her cheeks, which have turned red from all the singing and dancing. A cap covers her auburn strands, but a few stubborn ones are peeking through and she blows on them whenever they get into her eyes.
“I’m baking,” she announces, motioning at the bowls, the flour, the butter, and the mess on the counter.
“I can see that. Cupcakes, I assume?”
“Yup. I have to make more than usual since Daniel steals them. Oh, and I’m making all the flavors, because apparently, not everyone likes vanilla.”
I smile at how she pouts. She really sounds offended. Extremely so. I hope Christoph doesn’t like fucking vanilla either.
“That’s blasphemy, I presume?”
“It is!” She mixes what’s in the bowl with gentle, graceful movements. “What’s there to hate about vanilla? It’s peaceful and delicious and smells good.”
“It’s also boring.”
Her head shoots up and her chin trembles the slightest bit. When she speaks, her voice sounds clogged like when someone is about to cry. “You think vanilla is boring?”
“Sometimes.”
“But why? There are a lot of things you can add vanilla to, like shampoos and shower gels and essential oils and…and…all the cakes and milkshakes and ice cream.”
“That does sound like a lot.”
“And there are many others, like vanilla sauce, cream, yogurt, and smoothies. Oh, and did you know it’s used in many alcoholic beverages, too? Because it smooths the harsh edges of alcohol.”
“And that’s important?”
“Of course! There needs to be a balance, and vanilla is perfect for that.”
“I see.”
“Does that mean you changed your mind?”
“It takes more than that to change my mind.”
“Then I’ll keep on trying to convince you. One day, you’ll fall in love with vanilla and you won’t be able to go back.”
“You think?”
She gives a curt nod. “I’m sure.”
“That’s good and all, but where’s dinner?”
“Huh?”
“Don’t tell me you forgot.”
A delicate frown lodges itself between her brows. “Forgot about what?”
“When Martha asked to take the day off today, what did you say?”
“That I’d clean and cook and take care of everything.”
I raise a brow and her lips fall open. “Oh.”
“Right. Oh.”
“I…got engrossed in baking. Dinner slipped my mind.”
“Do you do that a lot? Get so engrossed in something that you forget everything else?”
“Yeah, it used to drive Dad insane. Sometimes, I’d be reading a book or cleaning and he’d call my name but get no reply. Then he’d find me and call me by my middle name because he thinks it makes him sound stern, which it doesn’t, by the way.” She’s about to smile, but her lips pull downward and I see the exact moment she dismisses it as if it never happened.
Gwyneth isn’t the type who’d forget about her father just because he’s in a coma. But that’s what it seems like recently. She’s stopped going into his room, removed her picture with him from the entrance hall of the house, and never talks about him anymore. She slipped just now by mentioning him.
“I’ll fix something,” I say.
“You don’t have to. I’ll cook pasta when I’m done.”
“It’ll be faster if you bake and I cook at the same time.” I’m already in the kitchen, searching through the cupboard for what I’ll need.
“I didn’t know you could cook.” She stares at me over her shoulder.
“I’ve lived alone for long enough to learn how.”
“So it’s only out of necessity? You don’t enjoy it?”
“Not particularly.”
“What do you enjoy then?”
“Work.”
She rolls her eyes as she scoops the batter into the small cupcake liners. “Work isn’t a hobby.”
“It can be.” I chop the tomatoes fast and she stares at me with weird fascination.
“Wow, you’re good with a knife,” she says because she easily gets distracted and has to express everything on her mind, then she shakes her head. “Anyway, there must be something else you enjoy outside of work.”
“No, there isn’t.”
She pushes the tray into the oven and when she leans against the dirty counter, her top rides up her pale belly and flour smudges her denim shorts, thighs, and even down to her sneakers. She won’t be happy when she finally notices that.
“How about…when you’re with Aspen? What do you guys do?”
“Work.”
“Really? You don’t do any other activities together?”
“Aside from work, no.”
She smiles a little, then says, “But that’s just sad.”
I throw the ingredients into the pan and add olive oil and some garlic. “That we’re workaholics and have no interest in anything that wastes our time?”
“That you don’t have hobbies. I’ll find you one.”
“No need to.”
“Yes, there’s a need to. Hobbies are important. Everyone I know has at least one, and some have a few.”
“Everyone you know is a kid. All kids have are hobbies.”
“That’s not true. There’s Daniel and Knox, and they like a lot of things, like sports and clubbing.”
“They tell you that?”
“Yeah.”
My spine jerks in a rigid line despite my attempts to remain calm. Fact is, I can’t stop thinking about her having cheerful conversations with those two bastards. Yes, she’s outgoing, especially with those who are nice to her. And it probably means nothing, but that doesn’t negate the fact that the idea fills me with a raw feeling I’ve never experienced before.
An irrational feeling I don’t want to find the reason behind. “Just what do you talk about with them?”
“Stuff.”
“Like?”
“Nothing important.”
“If it’s not important, then don’t talk about stuff with them.”
“But I like them.”
“You’ll stop it and that’s final.”
“No.”
“Gwyneth.”
“I don’t tell you to stop talking to Aspen. I’m being an adult, even though I hate her, so you can’t tell me either.”
I narrow my eyes. She’s becoming more and more shrewd at negotiating and putting her foot down. But I’ll deal with those two fuckers and whatever information about clubbing they’re feeding her.
I pour hot water into the pot and bring it to a boil, all while she observes each of my movements. “And why do you hate Aspen?”
“Because…because she’s mean.”
“Has she been mean to you?”
“She doesn’t even talk to me.”
“Exactly. So why do you think she’s mean?”
“Everyone at W&S thinks she is.”
“I’m not going to dig into everyone’s reason for thinking that. I’m asking about yours.”
“Well…Dad hates her.”
“You’re not your dad, Gwyneth.”
“Whoever Dad hates, I hate. It’s that simple. We’re one like that.”
“Is that why you haven’t visited him in a week?”
She jolts at that, her lips clamping shut. So, I was right. She’s been avoiding him or her feelings about what happened to him.
Silence stretches between us for long moments and only the sound of the boiling water can be heard in the air.
She clinks her nails in that fast, manic way that betrays her inner turmoil.
“Answer me, Gwyneth.”
“I…just got busy with the internship. I’ll do it later.”
“Later when? Tomorrow? Next week?”
“Just later.” She turns to leave, probably to go hide in the nearest closet.
“Stop.”
She flinches, her nails still clinking together, but she doesn’t face me.
“Turn around, Gwyneth.”
The shake of her head is so strong, so forceful, it shakes her entire frame.
“Baby girl, look at me.”
At that, she does, so slowly, until her eyes meet mine. They’re muted, the gray spreading all over the other colors, covering them until each eye is too gloomy, too lifeless.
“Tell me why you don’t want to visit King anymore.”
If it’s because of me, because she feels too guilty that we’re doing this while he’s in a coma, fuck, I won’t be able to handle it.
My guilt is fine, I can deal with it, but I can’t bear the thought that she’s being strangled to death by hers as well.
I’m older and have dealt with enough life situations and criminal cases to control it. She hasn’t. She’s still too young and inexperienced.
Despite her inability to sleep sometimes and her claims of having an empty brain, she’s still innocent.
And pure.
And I shouldn’t be so eager to fucking tarnish all of that.
She grabs a rag, wets it, and starts scrubbing the counter. Hard, fast, and with precise movements. But she’s staying in the same area, stuck on one spot that she’s scrubbing clean over and over again.
“Because I don’t want to think about him being gone. Because when I go to the hospital and smell that godawful stench of antiseptic and step into his room, I know he won’t smile at me or hug me or call me his angel. Because he’s there, but not really. Because when I read for him and touch his hand and cry, I don’t think he hears me. If he did, he’d come back. He said he wouldn’t leave me alone, that he’s not Mom. But he didn’t keep his promise. He abandoned me like she did, and now, he’s not here. And it hurts too much to think about it or him or that my parents hate me so much that they both abandoned me at two different phases of my life. So no, I won’t go tomorrow or next week or next month. If I do, I’ll see him but not talk to him, and I’m a little mad at him because he didn’t keep his word. So I’ll just think of him as if he’s gone on a long business trip and will be coming back soon. That’s the only way I can keep myself together.”
She’s breathing heavily by the time she finishes and there’s a tear that has run down her cheek and is forcing its way into her mouth, but she doesn’t pay attention to that as she scrubs and scrubs, faster, harsher, longer.
I slowly approach her and grab her hand. It’s wet and has turned red. She also scraped her nail against the surface until a few droplets of blood came out.
She’s still clutching the rag tightly, like she did that piece of glass the day I told her about King’s accident.
“Let it go.”
She shakes her head, her full attention still on the counter.
“Drop it, Gwyneth.” I press on her wrist hard enough that she opens her deadly grip and releases the damp, bloodied cloth.
“Now, look at me.”
She does, though hesitantly. Fuck. The way she looks at me is so pure and fucking trusting that I don’t know why it stabs me in the goddamn chest.
“King didn’t abandon you, do you understand? It was an accident. If it were up to him, he’d wake up and get back to you. He’d never willingly leave you. If you don’t feel like visiting him, I won’t force you to, but I think he has a better chance of waking up if you keep talking to him.”
“You think?”
“I do.”
She nods meekly.
“Are we good? Have you stopped thinking he abandoned you? He’s not your mother. He hated that woman. Because fuck her. Do you hear me? Fuck her for leaving you in the streets and being a coward who ran into the night.”
“Yeah, fuck her.”
“Good.”
She smiles through her tears and I love the fucking sight of it, how the green rushes back to the surface, chasing away the gray. She never gets upset for very long. She’s always striving to move forward and trying her best to stay afloat.
Because she’s special like that.
“Hey, Nate.”
“What?”
“You didn’t comment on my language.”
“You get a pass.”
“Fuck yeah.”
“Gwyneth.”
“What? You said I get a pass.”
“Not twice.” I inspect her finger, and thankfully, it’s not bleeding anymore. “And stop hurting yourself, or I swear to fucking God…”
“What?” The word is so breathy, it’s barely audible.
She has this habit of wanting to know the consequences. Sometimes, I suspect she does it on purpose, just to see my reaction.
“Or I’ll eat you out, drive you to the edge, but will not let you come.”
“No…not that.”
“Then stop hurting yourself.”
“It’s subconscious.”
“Then make it conscious. “
“How do I do that?”
“By practicing self-control and discipline so you never spiral out of what’s expected.”
She shakes her head but doesn’t remove her hand from mine. As if this feels so fucking natural, like it does for me. “That’s not possible, Nate. People can get out of control sometimes. It’s what makes us human. If we were all perfect, it’d be like watching some sci-fi movie, which I don’t really like. I prefer horror.”
“Even though they scare you?”
“I like to live on the edge…wait. How do you know they scare me? I don’t think I’ve mentioned that to you.”
“King did.”
A smile paints her lips. “And you remembered it.”
“I have a strong memory.”
“Whatever.” She’s still smiling as she gets on her tiptoes. At her closeness, images from two years ago rush back in.
But it’s different now. So, so different.
It doesn’t feel odd or fucking disturbing that she’s close. Unlike then, I don’t question my morals or my damn humanity. They can fuck off.
Gwyneth doesn’t kiss me, not on the mouth, anyway. Her lips graze my stubble as she gets back on the soles of her feet. “Thank you for talking to me about Dad. I don’t know how I would’ve done this without you, Nate.”
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck!
I get slammed by that tinge of possessiveness that strangles the fucking life out of me.
And this time, all I can think about are the words I told my best friend the day I visited him right after I released my beast on his daughter.
I’m taking away your little angel, King, and she won’t be pure and innocent anymore, because I’m taking that away, too. I should say I’m sorry, but I’m not. I won’t apologize for what I’m about to do. I don’t know what exactly she is to me or where we’ll go from here. But I know one thing for sure.
Gwyneth is now mine.
