Page 4 of Use Me, Daddy

“Very well, Miss Whitaker,” he said, his tone rich with finality. “You’ll begin tomorrow. We have an auction to prepare for, and I expect you to be here early.”

I let out a breath, relief and excitement mixing in my chest. “What time would you like me to arrive?”

“Eight a.m. Sharp,” he replied, his eyes narrowing, as if testing whether I’d hesitate. “We’ll be organizing the last of the catalog entries and finalizing the guest list. And I trust you know that punctuality matters to me.”

I felt a rush of anticipation. “Understood.”

He leaned in, close enough that I could catch the faint, clean scent of his cologne, something smoky, dark, and citrusy with a hint of cinnamon.

“And, Miss Whitaker,” he said quietly, his gaze as intense as ever, “know this: I don’t tolerate mistakes. If you work for me, you will be precise. You will be thorough. And you will deliver.” His voice dropped lower, with a hint of something sharp beneath it. “Can you do that?”

“Absolutely.” My voice came out steady, even though my pulse was racing. I’d worked too hard to get here to let anything faze me now.

“Good.” He pulled back, the momentary closeness vanishing, leaving me almost unsteady in its wake. “And one last thing,” he added, his gaze cool and assessing, “be ready for anything. Working for me isn’t going to be a walk in the park.”

A shadow flickered across his face, a hint of something darker, and I swallowed hard.

“I’ll be ready,” I replied softly.

“I look forward to seeing you tomorrow,” he said, offering his hand. I shook it, feeling the firm, almost possessive grip of his fingers, and I had the strangest sensation that I’d just entered into something I didn’t fully understand.

CHAPTER 2

Aleksei Morozov

Amy Whitaker.

She wasn’t what I expected. Not even in the slightest.

In my experience, job interviews were like quick sketches on a pad of paper—rough, predictable, and lacking any significant detail. But Amy was different. From the very first moment she looked into my eyes, she was like a full painted canvas, intricate, layered, and full of captivating depth. When I asked her a question, she didn’t just give me an answer; she delivered each response like a well-rehearsed line in some verbal fencing match.

Honestly, it was making my cock really fucking hard.

I hadn’t been challenged like this in a long time.

It wasn’t every day that someone like her—a young, freshly polished twenty-two-year-old woman with impressive art-world credentials—met my gaze as if she were my equal.

And I liked that. I liked that a lot.

She wanted this, not just for her résumé or for the break it would give her into the art world, but for the thrill of conquering the job, of working for me.

Of conqueringme.

But I’d been here before, more times than she could ever imagine. And I knew how this played out.

She was already mine; she just didn’t know it yet.

When I led her back through the gallery to the exit, I couldn’t help but watch the way she moved, the way her eyes lingered on each piece on display. I could tell she was fighting the urge to ask questions, to know more about me, about my world, but she held back. Maybe it was self-restraint, but I would bet it was something else.

She thought she was in control.

I smirked, knowing it was going to be fascinating to watch her slowly realize that I was the one making the rules, that I was the one in charge, not her.

I moved closer to her, just close enough to notice how she held her breath for a beat longer than usual. I could practically feel her pulse quicken, that tiny, telling beat that said she was more affected by me than she’d ever admit out loud or probably even to herself. It was subtle, but I’d spent years reading the smallest tells in people, learning exactly how to gain the upper hand without ever needing to raise my voice.

It was what helped lead my family to what we were today.

I was part of one of the most powerful Russian Bratva organizations in Boston. My brothers and I had carved out our place here in this city, building an empire based on respect, fear, and a few strategically chosen alliances with other families, like the Murphys and the Kavanaghs, for example.

---