Page 18 of Big Daddy

I open the internet and navigate toFeetFans, typing in her handle.

54035forYOU

Staring at the numeric keypad on my keyboard, waiting for the results to load, I can’t help but smirk. 54035forYOU. Shoes for you. Cute. I see what she did there.

I don’t expect to see anything. She quit. Her main client left her. I guess I’m just hungry for some trace of Winnie, because even though I know it’s ridiculous and wrong, looking at her site feels like the only way of hiding my shame while getting a little fix.

Except I’m sitting upright with anger swarming my veins the moment her page loads.

There’s a green bubble next to her name. The green bubble that displays activity status, indicating she’s online.

Why the fuck is Winnie on herFeetFansaccount? Just yesterday she told me she quit. She got the money, she went to her appointment, everything was fine.

My hands curl into fists and I’m slamming them against my desk before I can stop myself. My paperweight rattles, and the photo of myself and Brielle topples, crashing onto the carpeted floor.

Why is she back onFeetFans?

Her crossed legs in those tall boots flit through my mind. The day I was at Brielle’s, Winnie’s hair was in a messy bun but for one tendril continually falling over her eyes. I think of that tendril, of wrapping it around my finger while her full lips dust the head of my straining cock.

I’ve got my cell to my ear in a matter of seconds, dialing what I now know is her phone number. Because she called me, and yes, I saved that number. I put it in my phone. She’s my daughter’s best friend—it would be stupid not to have her number programmed into my phone.

She answers, groggy, soft, like maybe I woke her up. “Hello?”

Something about the idea of her sleeping midday makes me frown.

“You said no moreFeetFans,” I hiss, keeping my mouth as closed as possible, not wanting the wordsFeetFansto echo through my place of fucking work. There would be zero risk of that if she’d obeyed me.

“Oh. Hi Big Daddy,” she drawls, her tone turning playful. That should bring some ease to my discomfort, but instead, I grow angrier.

My desk rattles again as I slam just one fist down against it. “You said no more,” I growl, an actual chasm of jealousy and anger opening up somewhere deep inside me, using a tone I haven’t used in years. Possessive and feral, neither of which I am entitled to when it comes to Winnie Collins.

Yet they are two emotions I undeniably feel.

“I did say no more. You’re right. And then, guess what I did with my female brain?”

Why is my dick pressed against my fly like a prisoner waiting to fucking escape?

“What?” I growl, playing into her little game. I know it’s a game, because she’s a brat, and brats love to play.

“I changed my mind.”

“That wasn’t our agreement,” I manage to get out, a dull ache blooming in my jaw from how hard I’m clenching.

“Did we have an agreement? I don’t remember that,” she says.

“Where are you?” I ask, everything laid out in my mind for the rest of the work day completely gone.

Winnie.

That’s all I see when my eyes flutter closed and I suck in a deep, long breath through my nose. Winnie. That fucking messy, adorable curly hair, that smart goddamn mouth rimmed with the plumpest lips, her wide eyes, those freckles, that ass…

“Where are you?” I hear myself asking again, when I am not the man that needs to ask things twice.

She’s not here, yet I’m strangely and acutely aware of the way she holds me firmly by the balls.

“At my shitty apartment, if you must know,” she says, her confidence swallowed by a whisper.

“Where?”

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