Page 12 of Surprise Baby for the Don

“Fuck, you’re so hot, Ginny,” he whispers desperately in my ear, and I moan in response, bucking my hips to show him how much I need him. He chuckles, his breath fanning against the side of my face and I moan again.

In the darkness of my room, I have to force my hand against my mouth to keep from making any sound. My father is a light sleeper, and I definitely don’t want him to hear me, or even worse, to come check on me. But as I think of Mateo’s fingers running up my skirt, my own fingers circle my clit through my panties, causing a glorious friction that makes my hips buck off the bed.

The imaginary Mateo drags my panties to the floor, his eyes lustfully meeting mine as he moves down my body and helps me out of them. He stuffs the panties into his back pocket, a souvenir for later, and I feel my juices drip down my leg at the thought of what he might do with them.

He stands back up, pulling my skirt up with him, leaving my bottom half completely exposed, my legs shaking and weak in anticipation. With a quick movement, he reaches behind me, clearing his desk off and backing me up against it until my bareass hits the solid wood.

“Turn around,” he whispers, and I do willingly, my eyes rolling back into my head as my nipples tighten and I wait for him to do his worst.

The thought is so hot, I can’t help but turn over in bed, get on all fours and brace myself against my headboard as my fingers plunge into my depths.

He enters me from behind in a swift motion that takes my breath away. There’s no pretense, he’s rough and quick as he thrusts into me, the motion pushing me into the desk, making it hard for me to breathe. I love the sensation, love how rough and dirty this is.

I cry out in pleasure as one arm snakes around my waist, his fingers easily finding my clit and rubbing it hard, making me almost collapse.

“Come for me, Ginny,” he commands, his voice hoarse and rough. “I want to hear you scream out my name.”

I ride my own fingers, pressing my mouth into my shoulder to muffle my cries of pleasure. I collapse onto my bed, satisfied and spent, my whole body flushing in pleasure and embarrassment. I absolutely cannot ever masturbate to my new boss ever again.

A loud knock at the door jolts me awake. I blink, disoriented, the sunlight streaming in through the window blinding me for a second. Sitting up, I glance at the clock on the nightstand. It’s way too early for anyone to be knocking unless it’s something important.

I throw on a robe, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I stumble to the door. When I open it, I’m greeted by the familiar, broad-shouldered forms of Red and Bats, standing in the hallway like sentinels. Red gives me a curt nod, his expression serious and unreadable, while Bats just grins, his baseball bat resting casually against his shoulder.

“Morning, Miss St. Croix,” Red says, his voice a low rumble. “Mr. Rossi’s asked us to bring you to his house for an introductory meeting with the staff.”

I swallow, trying to shake off the last remnants of sleep. “Oh, right,” I stammer, too surprised by their appearance to think of much else. Then I look down and realize I’m wearing only my robe. “I just need a minute to get dressed.”

“Of course,” Red replies, stepping back to give me some space.

I close the door, rushing to throw on something appropriate. My mind’s still fuzzy, still replaying fragments of last night’s dream, and I feel a blush rise on my cheeks as I pull on a blouse and skirt. Then I look around the closet forlornly, thinking about all the things I haven’t had time to pack yet. Hopefully Mr. Rossi will let me come back to collect my belongings.

When I’m decent, I open the door, forcing a calm smile as I step out into the hallway. Red and Bats fall in on either side of me, a silent but imposing escort as we make our way down the hall.

“I could have driven myself, you know,” I say, glancing at them. “I don’t need an escort.”

Bats just chuckles, his grin widening, but he doesn’t speak.

“Mr. Rossi’s orders,” Red answers, as if he’s the mouthpiece for both of them.

As we exit my apartment building, I catch a glimpse of the parking lot, where a sleek black car waits, its windows tinted.Red opens the door for me, and I hesitate for a split second. The interior is luxurious, but the vehicle sends up red flags.

“Seriously,” I say, taking a step back and eyeing them warily. “I don’t mind driving myself. I should have my car in case I need to make runs to the store or something.”

“That isn’t the protocol,” Red says simply, ushering me into the car.

I stand helplessly staring at the door. It doesn’t seem like I’m going to have much choice, so I slip inside the vehicle, already assessing the situation. If it comes to it, if I have to fight my way out for some reason, I want to have a plan.

Red slides in next to me, while Bats takes the front passenger seat. The car pulls away smoothly, and I settle back, trying to calm my racing thoughts as we head toward Mateo’s house. The silence stretches on, broken only by the quiet hum of the engine, and I find myself mentally preparing for whatever awaits me.

When we finally arrive, the car glides to a stop, and Bats hops out, opening my door with a casual grin.

Red and Bats lead me up the steps to the grand entrance, where two more men in suits are stationed by the doors, their gazes fixed straight ahead. They nod as we pass, barely acknowledging my presence.

Inside, the house is even more impressive than I remember. The hallways are lined with marble, the ceilings high and vaulted, and the place is so quiet that our footsteps echo with every step. Red and Bats lead me through a series of rooms until we reach a large, sunlit space at the back of the house. A group of people are gathered there, most of them wearing variations of a dark uniform, their expressions serious as they murmur amongthemselves.

A matronly woman steps forward, a kind smile on her face. “You must be the interior designer,” she says with a nod, quickly assessing my outfit. It makes me feel entirely out of place. “Mr. Rossi has instructed me to give you a tour of the residence.”

“You can call me Ginny,” I tell her, extending my hand in a professional courtesy.

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