Nurturing Britney (Surrender Book 7)

by Becca Jameson

  Shit. I take several deep breaths and inhale…pancakes? I haven’t had pancakes or even breakfast for years. My stomach growls, so I slide out of bed. When my feet hit the floor, Bunny falls off the edge of the bed.

  As I grab for her, I remember more.

  My God. I had a nightmare. I woke Davis. I must have cried out. I shudder at the memory of that bad dream. Mr. Lazinski’s voice. And the other man. “She’s exactly what the buyer is looking for. Young. Long hair. Small tits. Pure. Virginal.” My boss’s words linger in my mind, making me panic.

  I shake the nightmare from my head and let another nightmare slide into its place. Davis was here. He brought Bunny. I groan as I remember climbing into his lap and wrapping my arms around him. I have no idea what possessed me to do that.

  No one has ever come to me when I have a bad dream. Sometimes, when I was a child, one of my foster brothers or sisters might have shouted at me to stop fucking crying and go back to sleep, but no Mommy or Daddy ever came to soothe me.

  I climbed into his lap on instinct, craving contact with someone kind. Now I feel like a fool. But he never once acted like he was bothered by my silly nightmare. In fact, he’d brought me Bunny. That alone tells me Davis is sensitive and thoughtful.

  My stomach grumbles again, and I pad to the bathroom. When I shut the door, I see myself in the full-length mirror on the back of it and groan again. Great. I’m wearing nothing but panties and a tank top. This is what I had on while I climbed all over Davis. Jesus.

  I use the toilet and then wash my hands and brush my teeth before noticing the blue material on the counter. He told me he’d left me clothes. My gaze jerks to the spot where I left my jeans and bra. They are gone.

  When I slowly pick up the sundress, a pair of clean panties falls on the floor. I ignore them to hold up the dress. I’ve never worn it. I don’t know why I even bought it. One day when I was at the thrift shop getting some shirts and jeans, it caught my eye and I ended up purchasing it.

  It only cost two dollars, but when I got home and hung it in my closet, I felt foolish. I would never wear it. And now, here it is. It’s the only thing he’s left for me. Except for panties. Even my bra is gone.

  I remove my tank top and panties from yesterday and put them in the hamper against the wall. After putting on the clean panties, I stare at myself. I’m so simple. I wonder what he thought when he got to my apartment and found out how little I own and how frugal I am and how boring. What woman owns nothing but plain white cotton panties?

  Taking a deep breath, I put on the dress, surprised to find that it actually fits. The thin straps and fitted chest area wouldn’t have permitted a bra anyway. I turn around to face the mirror again. I feel…pretty. That’s not a sentiment that usually enters my mind.

  I know men gawk at me. I know they’re attracted to me, but I rarely think of myself as pretty. It’s not worth it. Most of my life I’ve wished I was more boring and didn’t stand out so people would leave me alone.

  I’m sure a shrink would have a field day figuring out how and why I came to work at a strip club, but the answer is simple. Finances. I have no skills except for my body. I actually met one of the other dancers by accident one day at the thrift store. She took one look at me and said, “Girl, you could make a ton of money with that body.” The rest was history.

  I return to the counter and find the brush. My hair is a mess. It had been damp when I went to bed, and now it’s tangled.

  I jump as a knock sounds on the door. “Britney?”

  “Yes.” I reach over and open the door.

  Davis’s gaze roams up my body and lands on my face. “I heard you moving around. I made pancakes. Do you like pancakes?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” The brush is stuck in my hair, and I awkwardly tug at it.

  Davis steps fully into the room and sets his hand over mine. He’s wearing low-hanging jeans that fit him like a glove and a black T-shirt that’s almost too small. It’s tight around his huge muscles. “Let me help.”

  I release the brush and lower my arms to my sides.

  He frees the brush and then takes a step back to pat the toilet seat. “Sit.”

  I hesitate for only a moment, wondering what on earth he’s planning, and then lower myself to the seat.

  Seconds later, his hands are on my hair, and he’s gently working the brush down its length.

  I close my eyes and dip my face down, letting him work his magic. I honestly believe this is the best moment of my life. How pitiful.

  No one has ever brushed my hair before. If they have, I was little. I don’t recall. My only memory involving my hair makes me wince.

  Davis pauses. “Did I pull too hard?”

  “No. You’re fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.” Please don’t stop.

  He resumes, working his way from the ends upward, carefully ensuring every tangle is out. Even when it’s smooth, he keeps stroking through it from top to bottom. I’m in heaven.

  “Have you ever cut it?” he asks in a gravelly voice.

  I cringe. “Not intentionally.”

  He pauses before continuing. “What does that mean?”

  I don’t know what possesses me to open up to this man I met just yesterday, but the words come tumbling out. “When I was six, I got lice at school. I was living in a foster home with eight kids. My foster mother was furious and didn’t want to deal with my hair, so she cut it all off. I looked like a boy for six months. I never cut my hair again.”

  His hands still and he sets the brush on the counter before muttering, “Jesus, Britney.” He rounds to my front and squats before me so our faces are level. He cups my face. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. How traumatic. Who does that to a child?”

  I chuckle, the sound menacing. “That was a good day,” I tell him before I can stop myself.

  In less than a second, he’s pulled me into his arms. I’m hauled to my feet as I’m smashed against his chest. His hands are in my hair, running up and down my back. His face is against the top of my head. He doesn’t say he’s sorry again, though, and I’m grateful.

  When he finally lets go and holds my face out a few inches from his, his eyes are watery. “I’m going to have to make fresh pancakes,” he tells me.

  I smile, trying to lighten the mood, wishing I hadn’t revealed as much as I just did. It’s too late now. Might as well keep up the shitshow that is my life. “Trust me, that foster mom never once made me pancakes for breakfast. No foster mom ever did. Cold pancakes would be a treat I haven’t had in years.”

  He swallows and then shakes his head. “Well you’re having hot ones, so don’t argue.” He kisses my forehead, releases my face, and takes my hand.

  I practically jog to keep up with him on the way to the kitchen, and then his hands are on my hips and he’s swinging me up to set me on the counter a few feet from the stove.

  He smooths my skirt down my thighs and gives me a coy half-smile while I’m still spinning from being swung through the air. “Oops. Told you. Habit.”

  “I don’t mind,” I tell him once again in a soft voice. I don’t. If Davis wants to set his hands on my waist and swing me into the air, I’m never going to stop him.

  His hand comes to my knee, gives a squeeze, and then releases me. When he dumps the plate of pancakes in the trash, I cringe. A squeak comes out of my mouth too.

  He glances at me. “They’re just pancakes.” He grabs the mix and pours some into the bowl, starting over.

  I swallow, stiffening.

  He looks in my direction again and stops stirring. “Shit. That was rude. Forgive me.”

  I jerk my gaze to his. “I’m just not… I would never put food in the trash.”

  He comes to me again, hands landing on the counter on both sides of my thighs. His eyes meet mine. “I wasn’t thinking. I won’t do it again. Promise.”

  I nod.

  “Forgive me.” He’s serious. He’s really sorry.

  I reach out and touch his f
ace. “Why are you so kind?”

  He reaches out and touches my cheek on the other side. “Why have you had such shitty luck in life that no one has ever been kind to you?”

  I draw in a breath and shrug. “It’s just life. We deal with what we’re dealt.”

  He shakes his head. “It doesn’t have to be like that.”

  “Well, it is,” I point out. I can’t stay here forever. Eventually, I have to go back to my pitiful life of loneliness, scraping by to make ends meet. I can’t even picture how I’m going to be able to figure things out now that I’ve lost my income.

  Davis closes his eyes and sighs before stepping back to the pancake mix. He stirs again, glancing at me every few moments. “You look nice,” he finally says. “The dress, I mean. It was the only one I found in your…closet.”

  It’s odd how he hesitated to say closet, but I don’t dwell on that. “I’ve never worn it.”

  His eyes widen for a moment. “Oh. You don’t like dresses?” His attention goes back to the batter, but he’s stiffer as if this concept bothers him.

  I shrug as I look down at myself. “It’s not that exactly. I actually think this feels kind of nice today. I’m just not in the habit of wearing them. I don’t like to uh…draw attention to myself.”

  He sets the bowl down and turns the burner on under the skillet before coming back to stand in front of me again. So damn close. His hands are on my knees this time. He squeezes them. “Unwanted attention, you mean.”

  He’s perceptive. “Yes.”

  “Because men look at you.”

  “Yes.” I hold his gaze.

  “You’re stunningly gorgeous. You know that.”

  I nod, feeling a flush crawl up my face. He’s just stating facts. Facts I’ve been told. “So they say.”

  His hand comes to my hair and lifts it. He drops the locks and then cups my face, stroking his thumb on my cheek.

  Goosebumps rise up my body in response. I sit up straighter as I find myself reacting to him in another way too. There’s a flutter in my belly and my breasts feel tight.

  “Your eyes are a gorgeous shade of blue that’s rare. Your skin is flawless. Your round face and button nose… I get it. I can see why it would get old and annoying.”

  I nod. He understands. “I know it sounds weird. Who doesn’t want to be pretty? But it hasn’t served me well.”

  “How long were you in foster care?”

  I lick my lips, hoping he’ll keep touching me like he is, stroking my cheek. “Always. Until I ran away at sixteen, I mean.”

  He stiffens for a second. His eyes close and then slowly reopen. His lips part, and I hold up a hand. “New rule.”

  He smirks and lifts a brow before dropping his hand back to my knee. “You’re making rules?”

  I nod. “Yep. If I can’t say thank you every time you do something nice for me, then you can’t say sorry every time you find out something new about me.”

  He holds my gaze for a moment and then clears his throat. “Okay, I’ll agree to that rule as long as I get to introduce another rule of my own.”

  “Agreed. Whatever you want.”

  “I make all the rules from now on.”

  My eyes widen, but he doesn’t see this because he has shoved away from me and is now pouring batter into the hot skillet. My tongue is tied. I can’t even come up with a retort. What does he mean?

  While he flips pancakes, he changes the subject, nodding at my dress. “So, you don’t mind the dress?”

  He has an odd fascination with my clothing choices. “No. I guess not.” I wiggle my butt on the counter, realizing that I kind of like it actually. It feels less restrictive or something.

  His attention is back on the pancakes as he lifts them out and pours more batter. “Your clothes aren’t in very good condition. Will you let me buy you some new things?”

  I suck in a breath. “I don’t want you to spend money on me.” I’m uncomfortable with this idea.

  “And I don’t want you wearing threadbare jeans and shirts when I’m perfectly capable of buying you some new clothes.” He removes the last of the pancakes from the skillet and sets the platter on the island between the plates and silverware he’s already arranged there.

  A second later, his hands are on my hips again, and I’m flying through the air. My butt lands on the stool. My dress isn’t tucked under me though, and heat rises once again on my face as I squirm to smooth the cotton skirt over my panties against the stool.

  He doesn’t say anything as he takes a seat and pushes the butter and syrup toward me.

  I’m starving, but I need to address his last statement as I prepare my pancakes. “Davis…”

  He sets a hand on top of mine and squeezes. “It’s already done.”

  I lift my gaze. “What is?”

  “I ordered some new clothes for you this morning while you were still sleeping. They’ll be delivered later today.”

  “Oh.” I swallow. My hands are shaking.

  “Please, just accept my help and don’t let it bother you.”

  I nod, tears coming to my eyes.

  He wipes them away gently with the pad of his thumb and smiles at me. “I kinda hope you like dresses more than your wardrobe suggested because I bought you some.”

  I offer him a smile. “Okay.”

  “If you’re not comfortable going out of the house in them, you can wear jeans and T-shirts and sweaters. I get it. But maybe when you’re in the house, you could find a way to let yourself feel as pretty as you are?”

  More tears fall. He’s so astute. Before I can think to stop myself, I murmur, “Thank you.”

  He lifts both brows.

  And then I say, “Sorry.”

  He laughs. “I’m going to have to come up with creative consequences for every time you say thank you unnecessarily.”

  I shiver. Consequences? Hmmm. “Like a swear jar?” I joke.

  He turns to face me and cups my chin. “Sweetie, you don’t even want to know what might happen if I hear you swearing. Saying thank you will seem like a walk in the park.”

  My eyes go wide, my mouth open.

  His eyes go wide too and he drops my chin, jerking his attention back to his plate. He grabs his knife and starts slathering butter on his pancakes. Finally, he looks at me and offers me an odd smile. “Sorry?”

  I swallow and return the strange smile. “Habit?”

  We hold each other’s gazes for a long time before he responds. “Yeah.”

  He must have had an odd relationship with his former girlfriend if he didn’t let her swear.

  We both switch our attention to our plates and eat in silence for a while. The pancakes are amazing, and I’m pretty sure I moan around every bite. I also eat way too many of them. “Tell me about her,” I finally say.

  “Who?”

  “Your girlfriend. The one who wasn’t allowed to swear or…climb onto her own stool.”

  He picks up our plates and takes them to the sink. I spin around and watch him rinse and load the dishwasher, thinking maybe I’ve gone too far. Maybe it still hurts that she left him, or wouldn’t move here with him, rather.

  Finally, he turns around and leans his butt against the counter, facing me. “Collette liked me to take care of her. We were together for a year. It’s what I’m used to.”

  “I see. You loved her.”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know if I loved her or not. We had a lot in common, so we had an agreement, I guess you could say. A mutual understanding. We filled each other’s needs. Scratched an itch.”

  I watch his mannerisms as he speaks of her. I’m not following. He describes his relationship so oddly. “Why didn’t she move to Seattle with you?”

  “We were growing apart. We probably never should have been together in the first place. We had differences.”

  He just told me they had similarities, so I’m confused, but I don’t press him further. He doesn’t look distressed about her though. Not sad, exactly. More matter of fact
about it. For some reason, I like knowing this. He’s not hung up on her.

  I set my hand on the edge of the counter, thinking to push to standing, but instead, I realize I’ve got syrup all over my palm. I lift it and glance around for a napkin.

  “Hang on.” Davis turns around, opens a drawer, and pulls out a washcloth. He runs it under the water and then shuffles over to me. He takes my hand and wipes it clean before lifting his gaze to my face and then dabbing at a spot at the corner of my mouth.

  He sets the cloth on the table next and lifts me to the floor. His hands are still on my waist, and he’s staring at me again. I can’t read his expression. He seems kind of…sad…or I’m not sure, but I step closer and wrap my arms around him, saying thank you without words.

  He leans down and buries his face in my hair, inhaling slowly. “Mmm. You smell good,” he whispers.

  When he releases me, I step back. “Did, uh, Collette like those particular bath products?”

  He scrunches up his face. “Yeah. Does that bother you?”

  I shake my head. “No. Just curious.” If he likes the scent of powder, I’m happy to oblige. It does smell fresh and clean. Maybe it’s a little hidden secret more people should consider.

  “We need to talk,” he announces. “I have questions.”

  I chuckle. “When have we not been talking?”

  “Touché.” He pats my butt on the way by and points at the living room.

  I follow him, beyond aware of the feel of his hand on my ass. I almost giggle when I think that word. What would happen if I cussed out loud? My curiosity is piqued. But I’m not going there now.

  Chapter 10

  Master Davis

  I watch Britney as she climbs into the corner of the couch and carefully tucks her dress under her bottom. I don’t even get a glimpse of her panties. I wonder how she’s going to feel about the clothes I’ve ordered for her and if I’ve made a colossal mistake. I’m moving too fast. I’m tempting her with my preferred lifestyle and she doesn’t even know it.

  But she’s so damn cute and every time I add something new and shocking to the mix, she takes it in stride. It’s both killing me and making me fucking happy at the same time. I must slow the fuck down though. She still has no clue about my relationship preferences, and I shouldn’t be luring her in as if she knows anything about being a little. She doesn’t. She’s just humoring me.