Page 18 of Daddy's Rules

“Yes, Daddy,” I say on a gasp.

“That’s better, baby.” But his hand brands me again. It’s hard and burns enough to make me hiss, especially since he’s already spanked me twice, but then his tongue is teasing the divots at the top of my ass and I can no longer feel the searing spank.

“God, Owen, God!” I shout as his tongue slides gently down the crack of my ass. He reaches up and grabs a handful of hair and tugs.

“Baby,” he warns, deep and husky but no less dominant.

“Daddy! Daddy, sorry! Mm, God, Daddy.”

His palm on my ass shoves it higher and his tongue finds my center. I call out nonsensically and he swats my right cheek hard. I bury my cries in my arm and enjoy the sensations his tongue creates. A flick, a lap, and a deep suckle has my head spinning, my clit aching for release and tears of pure pleasure leaking from my eyes.

“Please! I need your cock, please!” I beg and he stops long enough to give me a dozen spanks across my ass that are more punishing than pleasure. I kick out and we both stiffen as a crash and the tinkle of broken glass sound out.

“Oh, shit! I’m sorry!” I say and he releases me suddenly. I think whatever broke must be important since that’d be the only reason I’d stop what was happening between us. I look over and see a photo frame lying shattered on the hardwood floor. I jump up, yanking my panties up and my skirt down. I look at him, my eyes wide and he stares back, tortured.

The picture is of Owen and my dad standing in front of a glider. My hand, trembling, goes to my mouth and my lids pool with tears.

“What the hell are we doing, Jordy?” Owen’s words hit me like a tsunami and I stumble back. I don’t want to hear him end this, and yet, I know exactly how he feels.

“We can’t...” Owen murmurs and his hand shovels through his sex-tousled hair. I hold my breath, hold my hope.

“Platonic, we’ll keep things platonic,” he adds.

I release the breath I’m holding.

“I’ll take care of you without the...”

“Sex,” I answer numbly.

“Right, baby.”

“Okay, Owen,” I mumble. He doesn’t correct me to call him Daddy and my heart stutters inside me. But knowing his words are the best of the two things he could have said I give him a small smile. I grab my purse, reach inside to find my phone, and murmur that I’ll call a cab.

“I’ll drive you,” he says and my head shoots up. His jaw clenches. We both know what’ll happen if he drives me. “I’ll get you a cab.” He picks up his phone and makes the call while I find my heels. When he hangs up the phone, I’m already at the door.

“Thanks,” I say and don’t look at him. I’m afraid to. What if I see the end in his eyes? What if the awkwardness we’re feeling right now gets worse in the light of day? What if he never wants to talk to me again? “I’ll email you with my report next week like I promised,” I say, referring to his disciplinarian rules.

“Jordy,” he says sympathetically and I hear him walking toward me. I shake my head. “Cab’s probably waiting.” And I bolt out the door. It’s the second time I’ve left him like this in one day, but this time I know he won’t chase me.

When I arrive at my condo building with tears streaming down my face, I see the head of my condo board and Kari-Anne Bowing shaking hands in the lobby. I wipe my face and step out. What the hell is she doing there?

I can’t deal with any of this right now, so I head to my apartment.

* * *

I’ve been holed upin my condo for two days. It’s been pajamas, binge-watching Netflix, and sabotaging my body image with fast food deliveries and Häagen-Dazs. I’ve taken every photo of my father and shoved it in a drawer. I hate him more than ever. Still my mind can’t stop reeling. I’ve screwed up everything with Owen.

When I hear a knock on my door, the spoon with mostly melted chocolate salted caramel freezes halfway to my mouth. I look down and curse at the drip of chocolate that lands on my cute lamb pajama tank. My heart hammers in my chest at the harsher knock that lands on my door. Then I snort. Who could it be, the Hollywood Bad Body Patrol?

I don’t plan on answering it, but the sound of rustling makes me turn to see a yellow envelope slide under my door. It has the official condo name on the top left corner.

I swear. Drop the spoon with a splatter into the ice cream container and rise. I wince at my image in the hall mirror. My hair is in a messy topknot and in need of a wash. I still have mascara smudges on my face from the other night. In short, I look like hell.

I scoop up the envelope and pause just as I’m about to tear it open. I scratch my temple and go to the fridge. I pull out of a bottle of Bailey’s and arch my brow at the clock. Eleven a.m. I bite my lip and unscrew the cap, taking a swig as I head back to the couch. As they say, it’s five o’clock somewhere.

I pour the Bailey’s into the ice cream container and set the bottle down to open the letter. I let the papers flutter to the floor after reading the first paragraph, deciding I need to finish my drunken ice cream before reading further, but I already know what it says.

I’ve been evicted by the condo board. Somehow I’ve managed to break more rules than I knew existed. What had Kari-Anne Bowing told Mr. Curtis to convince him to evict me?

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