Nurturing Britney (Surrender Book 7) by Becca Jameson (inspirational novels .TXT) 📕

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