There’s a timid knock at the door. That was fast.
“Come in,” I call out.
Joan enters, wearing all black. Only this time, instead of a habit, she has on loose pants and a turtleneck sweater, which is stretched to its limit over her seriously ample breasts.
My mouth is already watering, and it has nothing to do with the food on the tray she sets down beside me.
She’s trying to be proper—do everything right. But as she straightens up, I catch her eyes lingering on my chiseled abs. Just like I thought: not as innocent as she thinks she is.
“Momma doesn’t let you have any normal clothes?” I ask, dragging my eyes up her body.
She’s slim, almost lanky, with big wide eyes and lips that beg to be kissed. Unlike most the girls I’ve been with, they’re not pasted up with lipstick or gloss either.
For some reason, the fly on her trousers gets my blood flowing. The pants are proper and modest, like something a CEO would wear. Not like the anatomy-huggers most girls wear these days that leave nothing to the imagination.
“These aren’t normal?” she replies, her voice soft like a flute.
Her shyness amplifies my desire, causing my muscles to tense and my jaw to clench. She even smells untouched. Clean, no perfume. Just her. And it has my blood surging.
She glances at the floor, and I quickly correct her. “It’s okay, you can look.”
Her body goes tense. She knows she’s been caught in the act. “Look?”
I smile and take a puff from my cigar. Her nose twitches like a little rabbit. She’s never been around expensive smoke before.
“Don’t be coy, my little nun. I saw you looking at my abs. It’s fine. That’s what they’re there for.”
Her face instantly flushes red, and she turns, looking at the wall like it’s somehow interesting.
“I…I was just trying not to spill—”
“Don’t lie to me, Joan. I’ll always be able to tell.”
Her denial pulls at me. Excites me. What is she trying to hide?
I inspect the tray. Everything’s there. The toast, the butter, the orange marmalade, the fresh fruit salad…
“Will there be anything else?” she asks. “Or can I go?”
“You can go,” I reply. She turns, but before she can exit out the door, I snap my fingers, causing her to freeze. “Wait!”
Her body is trembling like a leaf in the wind. “Yes?”
“This is an orange, Joan,” I say, pointing to the sliced fruit before me. “I asked forgrapefruit.”
Her face drops. She looks at me, twisting her fingers together nervously.
“I’m sorry. I’ll go get you one now—”
“No,” I reply, my voice low and restrained. “You didn’t follow instructions, Joan. This isnotwhat I asked for.”
She stands before me, so vulnerable and innocent. If I were a religious man, I’d thank God for creating her and sending her my way. Her beauty is spellbinding.
“I’m sorry, Amon. Let me just fix it for you.”
“That’s not an option,” I reply, setting my cigar aside. “You must be punished, Joan.”
Her jaw drops, giving me a glimpse of her little red tongue. “Punished!?”
