The DILF (18+ Only) [COMPLETED]

4: In Which She Gets a Response

If I were being really honest – ridiculously candid – he didn't ruin anything. I did. It was so much easier to shift the blame; to pretend that I was seduced when I very well knew who'd practically done the chasing. It brought a blush to my face when I remembered how I'd behaved like such a desperate, unthinking slag that night.

"You're incredibly stupid," I told my reflection once more, unbuttoning the topmost buttons of my suddenly stifling blouse. The buttons were exactly under my chin. "As if dressing like a nun will make you one, you senseless whore."

"I don't think you look like a whore," a sleepy voice said from the doorway. "I think you look pretty."

Jumping, I spun around. In her pink-and-black knee-length nightie, Ophelia rubbed her eyes as she marched over to the toilet.

"You know far too many words," I said disapprovingly, folding my arms across my chest. "I don't want you using that word again."

"What word? Pretty?" was her mischievous query.

I rolled my eyes. "You're going to have a bath, eat breakfast, and then I'm going to take you out for a haircut."

"A haircut?" She made a face as she sat on the toilet seat. "I don't want one."

"It's just a trim, sweetheart."

"I don't care."

"Please?"

"No."

"What about for a double-chocolate fudge ice-cream?" I asked, knowing that she couldn't resist.

Her chocolate eyes sparkled. "Deal." She jumped to her feet. "Okay, you can go now."

For someone raised in the lap of luxury and at such a young age, Ophelia Shaw was extraordinarily independent and refused to have her bath run for her, or even to have her clothes set out for her. I had no idea if this was normal behaviour, or if children of the twenty-first century were taught to be so self-sufficient, but with Ophelia, I got the distinct feeling that that was her way of controlling the little things in her life, since she couldn't control the big ones. It was tragic.

After being unceremoniously thrown out of my bathroom, I got to work tidying the bedroom. Who knew doing something so simple would be almost impossible in a floor-length skirt? I wrenched it off in frustration and pulled on a pair of black jeans. It was while fighting to get the blouse – which, in hindsight, was several sizes smaller than me – off that my door was pushed open.

"Where's Caroline?"

Of course, it just had to be Devin.

I haven't seen the man since our roll-about in the living room and he just has to walk in when I've got my head stuck in a shirt. Go figure.

"Ever heard of knocking?" I gasped out, the décolletage of the blouse stuck somewhere under my chin. "Oh, fuck," I said under my breath. Why did the thing only have two damn buttons?

I was only glad that I couldn't see him. What grown person still gets their head stuck in things?

"There's no Caroline in this house," I choked out, giving up and now trying to pull my top back down, the opposite direction. "You know very well that it's Josie Bates. You must get some kind of kick out of giving her a different name every day."

"Here. Let me."

"No, thanks," I sputtered, backing away from the general direction of his voice.

But I felt his hands on my chest and before I could further protest, he'd ripped my blouse open with his bare hands.