Page 91 of Vegas Daddies

Inside,inside too.

They were deep.

Especially Brander.

At one point, it felt as though his dick was rearranging my intestines.

I bang my head against the bathroom wall as if it’s gonna magically wash away the sickness. Déjà fucking vu. I’m back in the Venetian again with a headache, alcohol in my bloodstream and a four-carat diamond wedding ring on my finger.

Iwishit was a Venetian bed I was waking up in.

Not Brander’s spare one.

Considering everything that’s happened these past few weeks, it’s no shocker that I woke up with the sudden urge to vomit. My dreams last nightwerepretty wild, involving a pink knife being slashed across Daddy’s neck. He was bleeding out this black sludge-like liquid that somehow transferred onto my hands. It was awful and gooey, and then I woke up seconds before the first round of bile shot out of my mouth.

Bizarre.

But that explains all.

I glimpse myself in the mirror, no longer feeling the urge to retch, and dip my hands under the cold water to buff some color into my cheeks. Even snow doesn’t look as white as the current color of my skin.

I open the door to Brander’s very concerned-looking face.

“I’m okay,” I assure him, and I am this time. “I just had a bad dream.”

“Tell me next time, yeah? You can come and sleep with me.”

Maybe I’ll lie about the nightmares next time so I can crawl into his bed.

Ever since I’ve been staying here, he’s been adamant on me remaining in the spare bedroom. “You need your own space,” is the explanation he keeps on giving me, but something tells me it’s more than that.

I see how he looks at me.

He tenses his jaw and tightens his lips every time I bring up sex. He wants to fuck me. The proof is in his pants—leather only conceals so much.

We had a conversation the other night about him admitting his love for me. The timing was strange, given that he was about to shove a plug up my ass and call me a good girl, but it was true what he said. He meant every word.

I’m the love of his life.

At the time, I responded with a hug, but looking back I realize I should’ve said something more. Times are uncertain at the moment. Sometimes, it feels like my life is hanging on by a thread, so I should’ve said something back in case I don’t get the chance.

But it scares me. Love isn’t a word that should be tossed around lightly. It was with Levi all the time. I would sign off each text message with a little“Luv U,”and I think being so outward about it is what turned things sour. I gave him the ick.

The last thing I wanna do with these three gorgeous specimens is put them off.

So I simply hugged him, said, “Awwww, that’s really sweet,” and moved on.

I want to avert my eyes from Brander but I can’t help it. Something about them makes it so easy to get lost. To forget where you are and what day it is. The world stands still when I look into any of their eyes, but mother nature herself stops breathing when Brander looks at me.

Living in close proximity with him, I’ve noticed a few slips in his character. He’s more vulnerable than he lets on. The night we first met, his eyes were sharp and the dark color of them shone more of a black. These days, they’re softer. A warm, welcoming kind of brown. He reminds me of a grizzly bear.

To a stranger, he might look terrifying, to be honest. The broad build and cold, calculating eyes make you second-guess him, but his reputation precedes him. He hugs me tight and kisses me respectfully on the temple when I go in for his lips. Every night before bed, he tells me, “Goodnight, sleep tight,” and wishes me good morning with hot lemon tea in bed. Apparently Brander used to detest that flavor before I walked into his life.

“Once, that Pepsi can didn’t used to be crushed,” he said to me that first night after the shower when the other two left. We were sitting in the living room, and he caught me staring at it. That’s when he opened up to me about his childhood. Moving in and out of different foster homes became a dance he knew better than the back of his hand, apparently.

At eighteen years old, after a month and a half of living on the streets, he got caught shoplifting. One can of Pepsi was all he managed to successfully smuggle. He cracked it open a couple blocks away and was about to take a sip. That’s when some shop assistant whipped it from his hands, flattened it under his shoe. It dripped down the curb, and Brander lapped up what was left.

Orphaned and homeless, it’s no wonder the guy looks like a bully when you first meet him. To be honest, my problems felt insignificant after he told that story. They still do. Daddy might’ve dipped his finger in the wrong company ink, but he’s still my father. Still family. He still tries to protect me.

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