Page 23 of Big Daddy

“Hmm,” she hums thoughtfully, her seductive gaze following my every movement. “And what if using my body to make myself happy means I am a playground for men?” she questions, paraphrasing my words, leaving the sentiment behind, carrying only the crass bottom line.

I ignore her bratty retort. “Secondly,” I tell her, my balls thrumming at her attitude. Loosening, then removing the silk tie at my throat, I toss it onto the counter and work on the top two buttons of my pressed dress shirt. “Don’t you want to give a man a child one day? Children? Don’t you dream of falling head over heels for a man, not being satiated completely until you let him use your body as a vessel to create his family?” Boldly, I reach out and dust my fingers along her belly for a moment. “When you’re done bearing his fruit, he will worship you as the queen that gifted him his entire life. He will spend the rest of his days feasting on you, his temple, his goddess.” My heart is racing. “But if you sell yourself short before that?—”

“That’s your dream, not mine,” she protests, but it falls flat. Because thatiswhat she wants. Desire danced in her eyes as I spoke. I saw it. I’ve seen the look many times in clients’ eyes—when they want something so badly they’re actually afraid to admit it.

I say nothing, giving her a moment, but she twists her lips together, glaring, silently stewing.

“All I’m trying to impart is that your whole life is ahead of you. A career, and a husband and family, if you decide you want that. Don’t let temporary difficulties lead you down a path unerasable from your story.” My head grows woozy, and I realize this is what I should have said to Brielle when she took the apprenticeship at Crave. These are the fatherly words that should have been spoken instead of reminders of how much I’ve paid and yelling. There is always so much yelling.

Winnie’s expression softens. I swear she understands me in ways no one else has, which I realize is some tarot card, crystal ball bullshit. I’m a man of the law. I believe in rules, repercussions and reason.

Even so.

I shove a hand through my hair. “Selling parts of yourself can ruin your future.”

She blinks, her mouth parting wordlessly as we lock eyes. My words linger between us, and I picture every single thing I said. I envision shoving her legs back, seeing her knees near her face as I thrust deep, giving her every hard inch, every hot drop. I see us on Sunday morning, lazy and tired, on our sides, my cock feeding her pleasure one inch at a time. I see her belly swollen, tits full, a baby on one hip, another at her feet. Then I don’t just see her, but instead, us. Our life. My hair has more silver. Her crow’s feet are soft. Time has carried us forward, age has found us, and I spend my days and nights eating my favorite meal, losing myself in my perfect, still young wife.

It's a powerful, heady fantasy, my statements bold, the sentiment overwhelming. My thoughts swim from Brielle, and how I need to right things with her, to Winnie, and how I want everything from her.

Yet neither are within my grasp, despite one of them being just one foot away.

Winnie rolls her lips together and says, “That’s incredibly sexist.”

Despite what she’s said, her neck is flush, and her nipples are hard. I sip my wine, my head flighty from the amount of booze I’ve had in such a short time period. “It’s not. The fact it’s true is sexist, but the fact that a woman would be judged on foot pictures by a future partner whereas a man would be forgiven for the same thing,” I tell her, searching her eyes, “that’s real. And I only want the best for you.”

“Why?” she asks, her tone deflated, her confidence replaced with hushed hesitancy.

“I find myself in the unusual position of caring about you. To ridiculous lengths.”

She finishes off her second glass of wine, and I take our empties and put them in the sink. “But why?”

“I’ve been asking myself what’s different about you,” I admit, standing in front of her, moving the barstool out of the way with my foot. “You aren’t afraid to stand up to me. To call me on my shit. You’re strong, beautiful, and intelligent.”

“I am all those things,” she smirks, chin tipped up. “But tell me the real reason why you care about me using my feet to get men off. And don’t lie, Quincey.”

The urgency with which I feed her the truth is alarming.

“I want you to be my playground, Winnie. And I don’t want you taking those fucking photos for other men.” I lean in, dusting my lips against hers, knowing I shouldn’t, knowing it’s fucked up, fully aware that this is a terrible fucking idea.

But she kisses me back.

She loops her arms around my neck and before I know it, her legs are around my waist, my tongue lodged down her throat as her silky moans flood my mouth.

I can’t stop myself, and she doesn’t stop me when I slide my palms up her back, beneath her shirt. She’s in shorts today, gym shorts of some kind, and an oversized t-shirt which has somehow hung just perfectly to show off her hardened nipples for the last ten minutes.

My palms skate up her back, my cock weeping at the forbidden sizzle of her body writhing against mine. Her skin is so soft, like something that’s just come out of the dryer, warm and satiny. Winnie breaks the kiss, her eyes hazy and distant as she pulls back, breathless and gorgeous.

“Big Daddy,” she breathes, placing one of her hands between my pecs, the other clinging to my neck, the tips of her fingers playing with the ends of my hair.

I don’t say anything; I stare at her as she gently writhes against me, the feel of her feet hooked at my tailbone making my groin ache.

I’m not just hard now. It’s beyond that. I’m hard andstrainingto stand upright against the fabric of my slacks. She grinds her covered, wet pussy against the length of my cock, drawing out her own gasps, her hooded eyes opening wide.

“We shouldn’t,” she breathes, glancing down between us to catch an eyeful of my cock jutting up through my slacks, pressed into her.

“You brought me here to talk, right?” She nibbles on her lower lips, eyes searching mine. “So talk.”

chapter nine

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