Page 2 of Storm

Before the mother could fix him with another scathing look, Storm straightened and strode away, leaving the duo behind. He’d done his good deed for the day. Giving away the stuffed bears always left him with a quiet sense of satisfaction. For allhis gruffness, he liked seeing people smile, especially Littles and kids.

As he pushed open the door to the real estate office, a soft chime sounded. He stepped inside just as a woman behind the desk lifted her head; a sticky note stuck squarely to her forehead. She blinked groggily, swiping at it clumsily until it fluttered to the desk.

Had she been napping?

“H-hi, sorry,” she stammered, her voice soft and sweet. It sent an unexpected jolt through him, a feeling he hadn’t experienced in ages.

Jesus, when’s the last time my cock reacted to a voice?

“I thought I’d locked the door,” she added.

“Are you closed?” he snapped, his tone sharper than he intended.

Whoa. Okay. Dial it back. Don’t be a dick just because she’s got you rattled.

Her wide-set eyes roamed up his body, taking him in from his boots to his leather jacket, pausing at his chest before finally meeting his gaze. She nibbled on her bottom lip, her expression caught somewhere between nervous and flustered. When their eyes locked, her mouth fell open slightly, and the tension in the room crackled with static electricity.

“No,” she managed barely above a whisper. “I mean, sort of. It’s my lunch break, and no one else is in the office right now, so I usually lock the door during that time.”

He tilted his head, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. “There’s no lunch on your desk.”

Her cheeks flushed a rosy pink, the color creeping down her neck as she brought her hands—delicate and painted a soft blush—to cover her face. And just like that, his mind derailed. All he could think about was those tiny hands wrapped around his cock.

Jesus Christ. What the fuck is wrong with me?

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to focus.

Get it together, asshole.

“A short nap seemed more appealing.” She giggled, her soft laughter a quiet ripple that seemed to hang in the air. “What can I help you with?”

Storm frowned, watching her closely. The dark circles under her eyes stood out against her otherwise smooth, porcelain skin.

Why is she so tired?The thought nagged at him.Is she skipping lunch, too?Fuck,why do I care?

“I’m supposed to meet Charlie here to work up an offer on a house,” he said, his voice was still harsher than he meant.

She nodded, and as her chestnut-brown hair swished, a glint of something sparkly caught his eye—a pink barrette nestled in her waves. It was such a small, whimsical detail, yet it felt oddly significant. She clearly liked pink. His mind flicked to the Littles at the Guardians’ compound. The barrette and her demeanor reminded him of them.

His brow arched slightly as the thought crossed his mind. Could she be Little? Lots of grown women liked pink without it meaning anything more.

It doesn’t matter anyway.

If he wanted to play Daddy, he’d go to a club. No strings. No emotions. Just a night to be slightly less grumpy. That’s all he was good for. Women didn’t like men like him long term; they never would. His personality wasn’t exactly going to win him any popularity contests.

“Oh, well, if you’d like to sit and wait, I’m sure he’ll be here shortly,” she chirped, gesturing toward a small cluster of furniture a few feet away from her desk.

Her polite cheer made irritation prickle at the back of his neck. He hated waiting, but Charlie knew he was coming, so surely, he’d show up soon. Storm let out a heavy sigh and sankonto one of the chairs, his broad frame dwarfing the sleek, modern furniture. From his seat, he watched as the receptionist shuffled papers, tapping at her computer like she was trying to look busy.

A minute passed. Then another.

“Why are you so tired?” he asked abruptly, the question slipping out before he could stop it.

She startled, her head snapping up as her cheeks flushed a somehow deeper shade. “Late night,” she replied with a small shrug, her tone nonchalant.

Late doing what? Partying, probably. She looked to be in her twenties, the prime age for wild nights and crowded clubs. Storm wouldn’t know. Partying had never been his thing. Too many people, too much noise.

Before he could ask anything else, the door opened, and Charlie strode in. “Storm, sorry to make you wait. I got caught in traffic. Come on back to my office.”

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