Forbidden Gem

by Cara Dee

  I agree. I’d also say that the characters have every reason to scream out profanities, what with their lives being in danger and all. Gemma has no reason to say fuck. All. The. Time.

  With my hand on her knee, I give her a gentle squeeze. It was either that or tugging on one of her pigtails that I may or may not be playing with behind her back.

  “Language,” I remind her.

  “Sorry,” she says quickly. We watch as the youngest child in the movie ends up on the roof because the ghost child lured her up there. Gemma tenses up. “Shit, I could kill that motherfucking ghost!”

  “Hey.” I gently grip her chin, coaxing her to face me. Pointed look. “What did I tell you?”

  Her pupils dilate, and her breaths come out in quick puffs that I feel on my cheek. She smells of the apple pie we ate earlier, and my mouth waters as I think of apple pie mixed with…her. From there, I spiral. My gaze flicks to her mouth, and before I register it, I brush the pad of my thumb over her bottom lip. So soft. I groan internally as my cock thickens. I force myself to look her in the eye again.

  “Behave,” I whisper huskily.

  Her breathing stutters. “Or what?”

  Crossing lines. Crossing lines.

  “I don’t think you want to know.” The warning is clear.

  She swallows hard. “Maybe I do.”

  There’s no way she does. What I want to do is spank her, fuck her in every opening, and make her scream. I want to release her hair, only to fist it in my hand as I pound into her from behind. I want her to suckle my cock as if it were a pacifier, and I want her to beg for Daddy to fill her up.

  I laugh under my breath, the sound husky and low.

  “You’re blushing, little Gem.” A spark of confidence has empowered me. I kiss her cheek softly, lingering. “Don’t play games with me.”

  Is there the slightest possibility an ounce of the attraction is mutual? Maybe. It’s incomprehensible, but that maybe is enough for me to regain control. I back off and face the screen, because on the off chance she does harbor some interest, she has absolutely no clue what she’s getting herself into. Regardless of what she’s read online.

  Chapter 6

  When the movie is over, it’s still quite early in the evening. We haven’t had dinner yet, so I excuse myself to put something together.

  To my surprise, Gemma follows.

  For a long while, she sits quietly on the counter, watching me while I prepare a stir-fry with rice and leftover beef.

  A sneaky hand appears near the cutting board as I’m chopping broccoli, and I give her a teasing slap across the knuckles. She splutters a laugh and deftly steals a piece of the vegetable, then pops it into her mouth.

  “I remember you cooked sometimes when I was little.”

  “Mm.” I nod slowly, pouring everything into the pan. “You were a picky eater.”

  “You were strict about vegetables. I had to eat them all, or I couldn’t watch cartoons after dinner.”

  I don’t remember that, though it draws a smile from me. I like being strict. I thrive on structure, and it’s a crying shame I have so little of it in my life. Perhaps it’s one of the reasons I work so much. There, I’m in charge. One hundred percent.

  “Tina never really cared, did she?”

  I glance at her, finding her swinging her legs absently off the edge and staring at the floor with a pensive expression on her face.

  “In what capacity?” I ask carefully. Are we on the subject of vegetables, or is she speaking in general terms now?

  Gemma shrugs vaguely. “About me. I mean, I know she wanted to. In the beginning, anyway.” She bites her lip. “Is it weird that I kinda understand her?”

  “Yes,” I reply instinctively. That was foolish of me. I clear my throat. “Well, I suppose it depends. I can’t grasp how it’s even possible for her not to care.”

  She smiles faintly and plays with the drawstrings of her little shorts. “The way I see it, she wanted to want me, so she didn’t go through with an abortion. And then she tried for years—till I was, like, eight or nine—to be a good mom.”

  Yes, and then the problems went from troubling to catastrophic.

  “I’m listening.” I don’t want to butt in too much. Having never gotten Gemma’s side of everything that happened, I’m more than happy to shut up.

  “Then she got depressed, right?”

  I incline my head. Depressed is actually an understatement. To this day, I feel for Tina. She was so damn young. Ending up pregnant in her teens, long before she knew what she wanted to do with her life, couldn’t have been easy, and she was practically alone. From her parents, she received more pressure than support. No amount of money could make up for the lack of guidance.

  When she’d reached her limit, panic and anxiety became part of her everyday life. I recall the helplessness. She wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. She started crying every time she looked at Gemma, eventually resulting in my calling her parents and Lily and Alec. The latter two offered their assistance, and Gemma moved to Georgia over the summer before she was to start third grade. It was supposed to be temporary.

  “I don’t blame her for that, Mr. G,” Gemma says quietly. “She wasn’t ready to be a parent.”

  Adding a handful of green beans to the pan, I choose my words carefully. “It speaks volumes of your maturity that you have understanding. To be perfectly honest, I don’t hold that against her, either.” I pause. “I want to be very clear about this, though. Just because she was in a helpless situation doesn’t mean you deserved your treatment.”

  “No, I know.” She bobs her head slowly, gaze remaining fixed on the floor. Aside from when she sends me a quick, hesitant smile. “You always spoke up for me.”

  I didn’t do enough, in retrospect. I’m relieved she knows I’m on her side, because in a way, it wouldn’t surprise me if she didn’t. I’ve failed to put my money where my mouth was on several occasions. Occasions I’ve misjudged as more severe for Tina than they were. She had me wrapped around her pinkie for a long time after her depressive episodes lessened, and it took me years before I stopped buying her woe-is-me tales.

  Putting Tina first during that time also meant I suppressed my own feelings about Gemma being gone. I didn’t speak up when one summer in Georgia turned into a school year. Everything revolved around Tina’s recovery. I was there when she signed herself into a treatment center where she stayed for three months. I was by her side when she eventually gave up her parental rights, and I kept my mouth shut when Tina excluded me from making decisions involving Gemma. Because when I tried to voice my frustrations and concerns, all Tina had to do was make a dramatic exit and spend a week with her sisters. In the end, I caved for two reasons. One, Tina was my last link to Gemma. And two, I was a foolish bastard who believed he could change her mind.

  “Are you really not marrying her?” Gemma wonders.

  I shake my head, surer than ever. In my travels, I often spend long stretches of time away from LA, so it’s not the getting away part that’s cleared my head. It’s the week of having this new temptation around me. A week of not having the slightest urge to check in with anyone. A week of reconnecting with Gemma. The combination of these things has solidified what I’ve felt deep down for years.

  “No, I’m not.” I lower the heat for the stir-fry and check on the rice. “I’d rather enforce rules to make sure you eat your vegetables.” I flash a smirk at the truth of that statement.

  She grins and looks away, her legs swinging a little faster.

  Hmm. Now I regret changing the topic. I would’ve loved to hear her go on and on until I have the whole story. Instead, it seems we’ve moved on. The tension is broken, and she’s in higher spirits.

  Soon, I vow. I’m done avoiding and ignoring. I’ll get to the bottom of every issue so I can make myself useful and be of help.

  “I guess your rules aren’t too bad,” she admits.

  That’s cute. She thinks she has rules already. “I’ve barel
y started, missy.”

  She squeaks. “Dude. What’s with the language reminders and obsessive cleaning?”

  Obsessive? I let out a warm laugh and set aside the food. Now we’re only waiting for the rice. “I’d hardly call keeping things tidy obsessive, dear.” Walking over to her, I open the fridge and grab a beer for myself. “Can you grab the opener behind you?”

  She turns around and takes it off a hook under the cupboards. “Pretend I’m eight again. What rules would you enforce?”

  I’d really rather not pretend she’s eight. “Thank you.” I accept the opener and pop the cap. “Rules aren’t only for children, you know.”

  “True…” She eyes me cautiously as I take a swig from the beer. “Okay, so say I gave you the chance to add some rules. What would you go with?”

  God, the possibilities. She might as well dangle the key to my darkest desires in front of me and say, “Catch me if you can,” then take off.

  I hum, setting down the bottle behind her by the coffeemaker. “No more smoking.” I place my hands on the counter on either side of her, bringing me closer to her level, not to mention closer to her. “No heavy makeup.”

  That one surprises her. “Why?”

  I tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. “You don’t need it. You might be the last person I’d ever cover up with makeup.”

  There’s a hitch in her breath that tells me I’ve taken things too far already.

  Run away from me, girl.

  “What else?” Yet, she stays; she fucking pushes me. With a nervous tremor in her fingers, she fidgets absently with the hem of my T-shirt. “What other rules?”

  I swallow hard, peering down between us, and step between her legs. “Obedience.” I lift my gaze to meet hers. “Asking for permission when you’re not certain I’d approve.”

  “Oh.” She exhales shakily and breaks eye contact. I try to will myself to stop—try and fail. I only need a little bit more. Fuck. I have to stop— “Defiance gets punished?”

  I groan internally and gnash my teeth together. Inching forward some more, I can hide the lust in my eyes when we’re temple to temple. “Definitely.”

  She twists my shirt anxiously between her fingers, her breaths coming out rapid and shallow. “I guess that’s a big difference from when I was little and you told me I couldn’t have ice cream if I didn’t do my homework.”

  Goddamn. “Very different.” Although the same principle applies. I’d be as generous with rewards as I would be with chastisement.

  “This is…” She swallows, a small noise escaping her throat as I accidentally brush my lips to the shell of her ear. I’m too far gone. She’s trapped me, the little witch. “This is almost…dirtier.”

  Not almost. Lost in the thick tension, I grip her hips. “Filthy,” I agree in a husky murmur. At that, she whimpers softly and fists my shirt, and I’m already done for. I nuzzle her soft jaw, my cock pressed against the counter, growing thicker and longer by the second. “You tempting little girl, what’re you doing to me?”

  “What are you doing to me?” Her voice comes out in a breathless little whine, and when she tilts her head, I’m there. I cup her cheek and cover her mouth with mine, the final surrender causing an explosion of hunger inside me. I kiss her. I kiss her hard and deep and pour all my yearning into it.

  Her fingers end up in my hair, her needy sounds spurring me on. The kiss sets me on fire. It’s the most seductive push and pull I’ve ever experienced. I taste the faint traces of apple pie on her as she slides the tip of her tongue sensually along mine.

  The moment sinks in, causing a brick of wariness to hit me squarely in the chest. I’m kissing her. My hands are caressing her thighs. I’m tasting her. I’m taking advantage. I let her set the pace for fear she’s going to freak out and run away from me.

  Gemma deepens the kiss and pulls me closer. It allows me to relax, if only a little, and hope seeps into me. Foolish hope. She can’t know. She’s so young. So damn young. And delectable and perfect and—

  “Wait,” she pants, planting a hand on my chest. “Before we continue, I have to say something.”

  Before we continue.

  I stifle a groan and drop my forehead to her shoulder.

  Does she have second thoughts already? No, she said before we continue.

  “There’s nothing wrong with me,” she goes on, breathing heavily. “W-what I m-mean is…I’m tired. I’m sick of making the wrong choices. Hell, I’m sick of making the right choices! I just…I want to relax. I want to let go.”

  While listening to her rambling, I collect myself enough to pay better attention, and I ease off a little.

  “I don’t know, Dean—maybe my upbringing has caused whatever I’m feeling right now, but I still feel them, and I like them—the feelings.” She goes off on another adorable tirade. “I realize I never had a dad and that you and I were kind of, um, you know, at one point when I lived with you, but—gah. What I’m saying is, I don’t have father issues.”

  I jerk away at that and stare at her, bewildered. No, why on earth would she have father issues? Or perhaps that’s the wrong question. Why on earth would she bring that up? Because I certainly haven’t suspected she has father issues.

  “What are you telling me, Gemma?”

  She huffs a breath, looking pretty damn cute when she blows a piece of hair away from her face. “I’m talking about what I want.”

  I quirk an eyebrow. “Which is?”

  “Something I don’t need. I want it—I want it badly—but I don’t need it. Okay, I can even say that I crave it. But I don’t—”

  “Need it. I got that.” I smirk uncertainly. “I still don’t know what it is you want. And crave. But don’t need. But want. Badly.”

  At last, she smiles, probably from my teasing, and this time, her smile doesn’t waver. It does, however, turn shy.

  Curious.

  “It’s embarrassing,” she whispers.

  What could be so embarrassing? A couple minutes ago, we were kissing. Surely, she can tell me what she wants.

  “Talk to me.” I turn off the stove, quick to return to her. “I will do whatever I can to make it better.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  Resting her forehead on my sternum, she goes back to fidgeting with my tee. Her fingers sneak underneath the fabric and play along the waistband of my sweat pants, which isn’t smart if she wants me to stay clearheaded.

  “Do you think I’m pretty, Mr. G?”

  I blink, wondering if I heard her correctly. “Ah…aren’t we a little past pretty, sweetheart?” When she doesn’t respond and won’t look up at me, I lift her chin. “No. I don’t,” I answer quietly. “I think you’re beautiful. I think you’re sweet and sinfully sexy.”

  She flushes, and I trace her cheek with my thumb, feeling my mouth watering at the lovely sight.

  “I’ve read some things,” she confesses in a rush. “Things that… Things that turn me on.”

  Heat rises within me, and I can practically sense my stare growing increasingly fixed, more intense. I know she’s “read some things.” I’ve been painfully aware for days.

  “I don’t have father issues.”

  “I want it—I want it badly.”

  “Fuck,” I whisper.

  “You already know. You have to know.” There’s a pleading note in her soft voice, and she’s right. There’s no need for her to clarify. But things just got even more complicated. It’s one thing to wish, to dream, to fantasize. It’s a whole other matter to look your desire in the eye and be able to watch her walk away.

  What is this to her? Something to explore, have fun with, and then move on from? A curiosity, a quick itch? So she’s read up on my fetish the past few days. This is something that’s grown rock solid in me slowly over the course of several months.

  “Gemma…” I groan under my breath, wanting, fighting, craving, struggling, needing. She cannot do this to me. Yet, I want it. Need it. Too dangerous. I�
�ll always want more, won’t I? Will I ever stop?

  She wants me for some unknown reason, and it’s tearing me apart…in every way possible. The good and the bad. Will she want this tomorrow? Next week? Permanently? Is she teasing me? That could break me.

  “P-Please—Daddy?”

  I suck in a breath, completely stunned and rendered speechless.

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  To actually hear it—to hear her say that…

  I curse internally, unable to look away from her apprehensive gaze, and it all comes crashing down on me. I’m a damn idiot for thinking I could ever stop this. Control is nothing but an illusion. Right now, I don’t have an ounce of it. I kiss her again, controlling the moment I have no control over.

  With a total disregard for what’s right and wrong and what we’re supposed to do—what we’re supposed to talk about—I take from her. I push my tongue into her mouth and yank her closer to my body, wanting her legs wrapped around me.

  “Daddy’s here, baby girl,” I whisper into the kiss.

  She gasps and locks her arms around my neck.

  I kiss her like I own her. She surrenders willingly, so quickly, in my arms. I don’t know the extent of her knowledge, but I can’t bring myself to ask right now. I don’t want to. I want this. I want to let go, like she said she did, too. I moan against her soft lips and then again when she clings to me, like she’s desperate—another thing I want. I want her to need me, depend on me, ache for me. I want her to beg.

  Slipping my hands under her sweet ass, I lift her up and tell her to hold on. Then I carry her into the living room where I collapse on top of her on the couch.

  “Daddy,” she mewls, and I groan in return. So much is let go. The relief is palpable.

  “Christ…” I growl when she grinds herself against my hard cock. Kneading her thigh, I pull her impossibly closer. Roughly. I take. “I can feel how warm you are.” I dip down and kiss her neck. Openmouthed kisses to taste her skin, to suck on it, to mark her.

  She moans and cries out. “Please. I…I…I want more.”

  Me too, little Gem.

  “Let me see you.” I barely recognize my voice anymore.