Page 21 of Big Daddy

Sure, it’s the middle of a work day but still. If I’d have done things differently, I would be someone she’d always want to talk to, someone she literally couldn’t hang up on.

But another glance at my wall of security camera feeds reminds me that Brielle wouldn’t be in her sixth year of Ivy League schooling if I hadn’t been a nose to the grindstone father.

“Mr. Parker,” chirps a voice through the home intercom, jarring me from my internal self-deprecating dialogue.

From memory, I press the button on the wall, waiting for the town car to come into view as I answer.

“Yes?”

A momentary pause then—“I’m less than one minute away, sir.”

Punching the button, I watch as the gates sail open, and a moment later, the town car drives right through. Polishing off the glass of scotch, I make my way through the house, to the front door, where the drive loops.

Two steps onto the porch and my eyes collide with the open door on the town car. The noise around me slows as two bare feet hit the concrete, blue toenails wiggling against the ground.

“Damn, Big Daddy,” Winnie exclaims, stepping out from behind the car door as the driver moves to close it.

“She refused to put shoes on,” he says to me as an aside, despite being in front of Winnie. I nod, and thank him, and find myself traipsing down the remaining stairs to stand directly in front of her.

The town car pulls away.

“Where are your shoes?”

Her eyes move over the ornate stone work beneath the eaves, then over to the generously sized black lacquer front door before sliding to meet mine. “I’m kidnapped,” she says, smiling. “Kidnapped women don’t have time to put shoes on. Duh.”

I frown. “I did not kidnap you. I had you brought here so we could speak.”

Her eyebrows lift as a soft curl slides over her forehead. She pushes it back, and I notice her nails are painted the same bright blue as her toes. Blue is my favorite color. “This place is fucking huge,” she gawks, her gaze dragging over ever inch of my home. “Damn, Brielle is more of a brat than I realized.”

The hair on the back of my neck lifts at her choice of words. I think of Winnie as a brat, not my daughter, and though the only reason I even fucking know Winnie is because of Brielle, I do not want to be reminded of that right now.

Or ever, for that matter.

“She wasn’t raised here.” I glance back at the mansion. “I bought this when she went to college.”

“How sweet of you,” she deadpans, then surprises me by reaching up, looping one arm around my neck. “Carry me.” Before I can protest, she leaps and I find myself catching her, curling my arms to bring her nearer to my chest. “Can’t let mymoneymakers get dirty, you know,” she says, earning a glare from me. I head toward the house.

“That’s exactly why you’re here,” I remind her, growing itchy from her comment. I don’t want her selling feet photos to strangers, for Christ’s sake. The idea of it causes me great distress. Almost to the front door, Winnie sighs, her fruity breath flanking my nose as she says, “You’re strong, Big Daddy.” My cock grows plump as loose curls tickle my cheek and neck.

I keep my eyes ahead, at the door growing nearer. I don’t want to set her down, but if I keep holding her, it’s going to be awkward when I finally do put her down. The sooner the better.

“Yes, I am,” I agree, then add, “but carrying you is no test of my strength. You’re light.”

Inside, I lower her to the ground and make my way to the kitchen, her feet slapping the tile behind me. A smirk curves my lips at the way she trails after me without words.

Once in the kitchen, I refill my scotch before getting another glass from the cupboard. Finally, I let myself look at her, while silently offering her a drink by lifting the glass.

God she’s gorgeous. And I hate that my pulse skips at the way her toes curl into the ground, blue nails tempting me, coaxing and urging me to ask for things I’ve never wanted. Not until now.

Her nose wrinkles, and for whatever reason, I envision slapping my hard cock against her nose and lips before filling my fist with those curls and slamming myself into her throat.

“Got anything that isn’t brown?”

My tongue sweeps my bottom lip as I force myself to envision the liquor cabinet. I think I have an old bottle of gin, and maybe even some vodka. “You have a preference?” I question, reaching for my phone on the counter. If I don’t have it, I’ll get it.

She shakes her head. “I just don’t do the brown booze. Anything else.”

“Do you drink wine?”

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