Page 29 of Big Daddy

“What the fuck?” I breathe, reaching for the row of deadbolts. Six twists and one chain unlock later, and I’m face to face with a very angry Big Daddy.

My cheeks flame with anger, and a touch of excitement, too. But because I told him I did not want him to know where I live and he’s now pushing inside my apartment, I focus on the anger. He looks around the messy living space, where blankets and pillows are strewn about two futons and an old love seat.

“Are you alone?” he asks, having the audacity to stare at me, his eyes frothy with seething rage.

I grip my hips and pinch my gaze. “I told you not to come here. I said I didn’t want you to know where I live.”

He steps closer, nostrils flaring, his heady scent of fading cologne and this morning’s aftershave making my nipples perk up beneath my oversized hoodie. “Are. You. Alone?” He asks, parsing out each word as if I barely understand language.

Just then, Dante appears. Apparently, the commotion prevented him from sleeping, but also got him up, reminding him that he wanted to undress. Because as he treads toward me, concern etched into his features, he’s shirtless. And pant-less.

Big Daddy’s eyes rake over Dante, then dart to mine. He’s livid, and though I’ve never seen him livid, I know this is it. I think there’s a vein pulsing in the center of his forehead, too.

But fuck that. I told him not to come here. He has no right to be mad.

He steps between me and Dante, giving me the wall of his broad back to face.

“Who the fuck are you? You some fucking foot creep? Hmm? Can’t find a woman to meet your fetish needs in real life so you rope her into it? Is that it?” Big Daddy seethes, towering over Dante, who is actually not short. The soft coif of his unstyled but still extremely sexy hair adds an inch, or maybe it’s just his powerful anger that makes it seem like Big Daddy is dwarfing him? Either way, he hovers like the heel in a movie, casting a shadow over Dante’s face.

“What the fuck?” Dante bumbles, clearly confused on multiple fronts. “Who the fuck are you, man?” Dante questions, unphased by Big Daddy’s aggression. We’re city dwellers. People being assholes, using the public street as their toilet and wearing trash as clothing doesn’t faze us.

“Shh,” I hush, reaching up to cup my hand over Big Daddy’s mouth to get him to shut the fuck up. I don’t really want to explain myself to Dante, but considering Quincey came in with guns blazing, I realize, now I will have to. Fucking Big Daddy. So dramatic.

Just then, Big Daddy reaches out, slapping his palm in a vice grip on the back of Dante’s neck, yanking him until they’re nose to nose.

“Let go!” I shout, reaching up to grab Big Daddy’s forearm, tugging at his grip. “Stop,” I command, shooting him the death glare until his eyes leave Dante’s and slide over to mine. Reluctantly, he releases Dante, who reaches for his neck, soothing the sore muscle.

“I thought your dad was dead,” he says to me under his breath, still rubbing his neck.

I shove a hand into Big Daddy’s chest, leading him back to the door. “He’s not my dad,” I say to Dante. “And we’re okay—thank you. I’m just gonna step out into the hall for a minute.”

Dante nods, then looks past me to Quincey, glaring at him. Damn, I’ve never seen Dante glare, and he’s never been putto the test as a real friend. I always considered him just a roommate. It’s nice to know he had my back. “Thank you for defending me, though. That means a lot,” I tell him with a warm, heartfelt smile. Then I turn to Big Daddy and scorch his soul with the most heated glare I can muster. “Get in the hall, assjacket,” I hiss, pushing him out the open apartment door into the hall. I slide my feet into a pair of my slippers near the door, and pull the door closed behind me.

Big Daddy shoves his hands through the side of his hair, turning half circles before coming to face me, exhaling slowly. He drops his hands for a second before shoving them in his pockets. His sweatpants pockets.

Holy shit. Big Daddy looks hot as fuck in sweats. With sneakers, sweats and a hoodie on, Big Daddy, now that I’m not glaring at him with murderous intent, can really pull this look off. I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s handsome as fuck. God help my soul for saying it, but holy hell.

I do my very best not to eye the thick bulge protruding from his meaty thighs, keeping my face screwed up with anger, despite the fact I feel the rage draining each moment I’m stuck in this hall with him, his stupid good smell and the outline of his thick monster cock.

“I told you not to come here.”

“You said you’d stopFeetFans.” He licks his lips, and in a split second, I see turbulence in his irises. The kind of storm that comes only from care. “You promised.”

My pulse hammers in the back of my throat. Heat pricks up along my spine, and I find myself nearly breathless as I calibrate what this moment actually means.

“I did stop,” I tell him, because I’m suddenly quite interested in Big Daddy knowing I’m telling the truth. Knowing that I kept my promise. I take a step toward him, stuffing my hands in his pockets, finding his. He waffles our fingers together inthe privacy of the fleece, and my heart throbs behind my ribs, sending rushes of heated desire through every fiber of my being.

Holding hands is intimate. Big Daddy and I are practically strangers. But it doesn’t feel wrong. And we don’tfeellike strangers. Not at all.

“I looked. I looked at your account. Your icon was green,” he breathes, his voice losing steam with each spoken word. “You were active,” he says in barely a whisper.

His hands tighten around mine, and the action unleashes something wild and cathartic in my belly. I rock to my toes and press my lips to his mouth, the tenseness in his shoulders melting away as I sweep my tongue against his. “I had to break it off with Howard. That required logging in, and sending his money back to him.”

I clench my grip on him right back, my tummy dropping at the feel of a man gripping my hands so firmly. It’s been so long since I’ve held hands. “I kept my promise, Big Daddy.”

He stares down into my eyes, full lips parted, a day of growth blanketing his strong jaw. “Who is the naked man?” He asks, but before he lets me respond he uses our joined hands to drag my body flush against his. He’s hard, pressing his cock into my belly as he adds, “I don’t like that.”

I smirk, stifling the sharp moan lodged in my throat at the feel of him against me. He’s not just hard but painfully hard, like he’s got a fucking steel pipe in those sweats. My insides clench again. I want to know what he looks like completely naked. I want to see his hard cock again. I want to know—does he have a filthy mouth when he’s fucking? Does he utter filth when he’s on the verge of unloading? Would he let me lead?

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