“I’m not a monster,” I tell my reflection.
With the low light and the shadows cast by the flickering fireplace, I look older. The planes of my face sharper, my cheeks sunken.
Are those wrinkles around my eyes?
I stand up.
What is important, though, is that I have self-control. I didn’t touch her. And now she’s in my house, and it’s fine.
I am in control.
I want to control her.
She doesn’t know what sex is. I’d need to teach her. Teach her to be my good girl.
I’m fine. She can be upstairs, and I’m fine.
Ding-dong!
I should be annoyed, but I’m glad of the distraction.
A guy wearing a red jacket with the Fontaine’s logo embroidered on the pocket stands there.
“I have a delivery for, uh, Daniel? Danielle?”
“Dani.” I grab the bag then toss the guy a twenty.
Fucking seriously?
Now I have to take this upstairs.
Have to see her.
I should knock on her door, but I don’t.
Maybe there’s a part of me that wants to show her that she’s here at my whim, that everything here is mine, including her.
Or maybe I just want to walk in on her, her fingers slipping between her legs, her head thrown back as she pleasures herself at the thought of being with me for the first time.
I shudder.
She’s lying on the bed, one leg propped up, the white robe falling off her knee as she rocks her leg back and forth innocently, like a teenage girl lying in bed watching TV.
Defile.
That’s what I want to do.
I want to ruin her.
She wants it, though. She said she does.
She wants me to spread her. Wants me to make her scream as she feels a cock inside of her for the first time.
“Aw, you brought my food up!” Dani hiccups and tears her eyes from the TV.
She’s been into the wine. I replaced the screw-top bottles with corked ones, and there’s a discarded wine opener on the coffee table next to a mangled partial cork.
She raises a goblet of red wine to me. “My hero!”
