Page 12 of Daddy's Naughty Realtor

We spend the next hour reviewing the plans spread across his dining table. I focus with determined professionalism, making notes and suggestions, ignoring the way he stands too close, the way his hand occasionally brushes the small of my back as he leans over to point out a detail.

By the time we finish, it's past ten, and I'm exhausted from the constant tension of wanting to lean into his touch while forcing myself to maintain distance.

"I should go," I say, gathering my notes. "Early showing tomorrow."

"I'll drive you."

"I can call a car." I know I’ve had too much wine to get behind the wheel.

"I'm driving you home, kitten," he repeats, more firmly this time. Not a request.

I should argue. Should insist on my independence, my ability to get myself home without his assistance.

"Fine," I say instead, because apparently my resolve weakens exponentially with proximity to Jeremy Ford.

The drive to my condo is quiet, charged with all the things we're not saying. When he pulls up outside my building, I expect him to try something– a kiss, an invitation upstairs, some escalation of the tension that's been building all evening.

Instead, he simply squeezes my hand once before letting it go. "Goodnight, kitten. Sweet dreams."

The restraint is more arousing than an aggressive move would have been. He's letting me come to him, letting me make the choice, even as he makes it abundantly clear what he wants.

"Goodnight, Jeremy," I manage, before escaping to the safety of my home.

Inside, I kick off my heels and collapse onto the couch, heart still racing. My phone buzzes with a text from

Elizabeth: Well??? Updates please!!!

I'd forgotten I'd mentioned the dinner to the Naughty Girls. Now they want a full report, details they can dissect and analyze and compare to our favorite fictional scenarios.

Me: Nothing happened, just business.

Christine: Bullshit. That man wants you. Spill.

I hesitate, then find myself typing out a full account of the evening. I tell them about the dress, the dinner, the subtle touches, the loaded conversation. As I read it back before hitting send, I'm struck by how much it resembles the build-up chapters in our favorite books. The dominant hero pursuing the reluctant heroine, testing her limits, making his interest clear while respecting her boundaries.

Melissa replies first.

Oh. My. GOD. He's full-on Daddy Dom courting you! The dress request! The hand on your back! The KITTEN!!!

Karen chimes in.

Slow burn, He's playing the long game. I am HERE for it.

Elizabeth notes.

Two weeks until the project ends, Anyone want to bet she doesn't make it that long?

Their enthusiasm is contagious, breaking through my carefully constructed professionalism. For the first time, I let myself fully acknowledge the truth: I want Jeremy Ford. Have wanted him since he walked back into my life. Maybe never stopped wanting him in the thirty years we were apart. I want him above me, slamming his hard, thick cock into my aching vagina. He was the best sex of my life. But, do I want more? Do I wanthim? A relationship?Us? Will a one night fuck session be enough to fill this ache inside of me? I can’t argue how much I want Jeremy… at least sexually.

And he's making it abundantly clear that he wants me too.

My phone buzzes with another text.

Jeremy: You looked beautiful tonight, kitten. Green is your color. Thank you for having dinner with me. Sweet dreams.

I stare at the message, heart pounding, heat spreading through me at the simple endearment that's becoming his signature.

Before I can overthink it, I type back:

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