Page 11 of Big Daddy

“I’m not on my period, for what it’s worth,” she finally says, slamming herself back against the chair, folding her arms over her chest.

“Are you through with your tantrum?” I ask, bringing my glass to my lips to mask my smirk. I said it to get under her skin, because I apparently enjoy a good brat.

If her glare materialized into something tangible, it would be a knife, and my throat would be slit.

“Thank you for the appointment,” she says through clenched teeth.

I look back to the stack of bills, and see some hundreds along with some twenties, and other small bills. “How did you know what the appointment cost?”

“I asked,” she says simply.

As much as I love getting on her nerves, which I somehow do without words, I set my glass down and clasp my hands together over my stomach. “Winnie, I know you’re tight,” I say, my mind flashing to a conjured-up image of Winnie on my bed, her legs spread, tiny white panties covering her apex, her curls strewn about. I’m tight, beware, she murmurs as my eyes snap to my desk shamefully. I clear my throat. “You don’t have to pay me back. I don’t want my daughter’s best friend pawning things to pay for a therapy appointment.”

Daughter's best friend. I threw that in there as a reminder to myself that this is Brielle’s best goddamn friend. In the entire world. Her safe person. The one she runs to when I’m a fucking asshole.

Not to mention, she’s Brielle’s age.

I do not need to be envisioning her telling me how tight she is.

Winnie leans forward, the swell of her cupid’s bow making my balls ache as she runs her tongue over it, wetting her lips. “I didn’t have to pawn anything, Big Daddy. Iearnedthat money.”

She leans back again, and the way she saidearnedhas my heart fucking racing, my blood spiking through my veins, leaving me uneasy and… jealous? I’m not fucking jealous.

I’m… “Earned it?”

Her grin makes my chest clench with anger, rage floods my head and my temples pound. “Wanna see how?” she asks, nodding toward my computer.

I say nothing, but she gets to her feet and rounds my desk, standing behind me. Reaching over, her breasts graze a stack of legal briefs as her long fingers splay out against the keyboard. She smells like vanilla and incense, and a drop of arousal slips from my cock onto my thigh, likely leaving a wet spot. I fight the urge to tip my head back and drag the tip of my nose along the curve of her velvety throat.

Instead, I sip my scotch, internally panicked and confused at why my body is acting a fool. Getting hard and leaking under my desk at one in the afternoon from over the knee boots and some lip licking? Who the fuck am I?

At forty-eight, there aren’t many surprise erections anymore. Not often at least. And I don’t fuck twenty-somethings. Ever.

A moment passes and a page loads. I slam my empty glass onto the desk, making the entire office rattle. “What the fuck?” I question as I stare at a profile onFeetFans.

She points her blue fingernail at the screen, specifically at a photo of feet in lucite heels, the kind worn by strippers all over. “They're my feet.”

I’m not into feet, but my pulse skips and my dick argues, and so apparently, I’m intoherfeet. Add this discovery to the list of things that anger me.

“What is this?” I breathe, drawing the question out slowly to maintain my composure. If this is what I think it is…

“I sell videos and pictures of my feet for money. Thereallygood, livable money comes from live feet shows. I had a client for over a year that paid me so well, I quit my job at the coffee shop. But recently, he got into a relationship and doesn’t need me anymore.” She nudges me, smirking. “His partner has her own feet.”

I don’t smile and hers fades quickly when she sees I’m not impressed.

“Anyway, I get some interesting requests for pictures from time to time but it usually isn’t worth it because they don’t stick around. I opt for long term video clients, like my last guy. But I needed quick cash to repay you.” She glances at the stack of money, then back to me, a flush in her cheeks. “For the appointment you made me, I mean. So I took some photos with my toes in mashed potatoes for an old customer and voila!”

“No.” It’s all I can get out, considering my jaw is clenched so tightly I’m about to chip my goddamn teeth.

“No?” she asks, blinking, leaning back, taking me in. “What do you mean no?”

“No,” I say again, somehow louder than before, more infused with anger than before.

“You can’t tell me no,” she says, clicking the X on the tab, the entireFeetFansaccount disappearing. On screen is my email with a thousand and six unread messages. Still, I see her feet in those heels a moment longer.

“I don’t want men jerking off to your feet,” I tell her, reaching for my drawer, grabbing for the bottle. I never have more than one at work, but today I need the second. Thankfully she returns to the chair across from me.

Those fucking boots.

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