Page 3 of Sugar Daddies

I cut off that train of thought before it reaches some inappropriate place.

“Are you?” Mr. Stephan growls, the dark details of his steel eyes cause my breath to hitch.

“I-I’m a good girl,” I murmur softly, and he purrs through the lucidity of my apprehension.

I don’t understand how this man knows what Daddy is thinking because no one can read the grouchy expression, but Mr. Stephan is able to know that Daddy calls me his good girl when I do something that pleases him.

Did Daddy indirectly ask me through this man that I need to be a good girl for Mr. Stephan?

No, Daddy wouldn’t do that. He’s too possessive of me to even share my attention with the television. There is no way, not in a million of light years, he would ever allow something like this to happen.

He’d die if he lets someone equally attractive and domineering take a part of me.

I promised Daddy that I’m all his and in return, he is all mine. I don’t plan on sharing him, and he shouldn’t have to share me either, no matter how hard my heart sings for Mr. Stephan.

This could be the side effect of drugs that someone poisoned me with; it’s the only explanation that I can come up with as my body continues to be weird.

“He was right,” he says, setting his hand back onto my butt while the other draws small circles on my thigh.

The action is small and almost inconspicuous if I wasn’t too in tuned with Daddy’s touch. Everything else that touches me is uncomfortable, but Mr. Stephan makes me feel safe and guarded.

His arms are an unyielding cage that should be suffocating, and I should be clawing my way out, but all I want to do is turn my head and sink into his warmth while I cuddle with his massive body weight crushing me to the bed.

That’s a bad idea.

Again, I’m not supposed to think of another man like that. My butt is still sensitive from the day before. That spanking is still throbbing dully on my cheeks as if it had taken permanent residence.

The soreness is constantly there because Daddy spanks me at least twice a week, if not more frequently depending on how much of a spoiled brat I am at the time.

Mr. Stephan’s voice is close to my ear, and a round of goosebumps exploded on my arms. I just realize that I’m very underdressed.

“You think too much, little girl,” he takes my wrist and thumbs at the faint pulse under my skin.

I keep my eyes on the tattoo peeking out of his sleeve, and it’s a good distraction before his hot breath fans over my wrist. His lips touch the skin briefly, and I swear my lungs are screaming at me to let my heart get the oxygen it requires to bruise itself on my ribs.

“Y-you can’t do that!” I squeak lightly. I’m unable to raise my voice.

I have no idea what this man is capable of, and from the way his energy rolls off his massive frame, I’d hazard a guess that his angry side can rival Daddy’s.

“Do what?” He keeps his lips firmly on my wrist.

“That!” I wriggle my wrist, and his fingers squeeze so hard that I can feel my muscles grinding down on my bone.

Daddy’s going to kill me if I don’t get away right now.

Just as the man is about to say something, he drops my hand, and I sigh a breath of relief. That is too short-lived because the hand that’s on my butt moves for a millisecond. It comes back with a vengeance; the sting on my butt jolts me forward, and I accidentally moaned.

Yes, accidental. I refuse to admit that the sting feels good.

“Do not raise your voice at me, little girl,” Mr. Stephan smacks my butt again.

I open my mouth in instinctive practice, “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

Mortification eats me alive as my body freezes, the blood curling in coldness as dread settles heavily in my belly and my hands clam up on my lap. Panic coursed through my system as I’m momentarily rendered into a stupor at my stupidity and inability to think of myself without having Daddy’s influence over me.

“Max trained you well,” he nods in approval and the acknowledgment gives me a sense of sick pleasure.

I’m so dead; it’s only a matter of time when Daddy puts his hands on me.

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