Page 80 of More, Daddy
I slap her hand away from my cock and spin in a circle, swiping my sweaty palms over my thighs because I don’t know what else to do. She makes me so fucking angry, and she won’t leave! Goddamnit, this gorgeous, sexy little liar is under my skin.
I don’t know what I’m doing, or why, or what the fuck I’m even thinking, but before I know it, I’ve spun Briar around and shoved her down over the training table. Driving mygroin into her from behind, she braces herself against the torn leather as I press my lips to the back of her ear, each of my hands on the waistband of those godforsaken shorts.
“Don’t fucking bait me, Briar. You know exactly what you did. You are a filthy fucking liar.” Her shorts are down now, bare ass exposed as my eyes drift there, to the creamy cheeks and the tiny, itty bitty pink thong sandwiched between.
Hands splayed along the torn, aged leather, her baby pink polish is an innocent contrast to the surroundings and how angry I’m feeling. Her knuckles lose color as she claws at the table, and I realize she’s trying to hang on because–
“You lying fucking slut,” I chide, my pained words becoming lyrics to the music of her thong ripping in half. “How could you fucking lie to me like that?” I growl, reaching up and around, shoving those tiny panties into her mouth. Just in time, she moans, letting the sticky, torn fabric absorb her garbled pleas. And fuck does she plea.
“Please, Daddy, punish me. Punish me for my lie, I can take it,” she moans, her words muffled, garbled, but still painfully audible and clear.
Daddy.
The word snaps me out of whatever angry, pain-infused trance that had taken over. I look down at myself, holding her hips, white shorts shoved to her thighs, sweet bare ass pressed against my denim covered hard-on. My raging fucking hard-on.
It would be so easy to slide my hands around to the globes of her ass, to use my thumbs to spread her open and take inventory of her blinking little asshole and her sticky, slutty cunt.
I could do it.
She’d let me.
The way she whines and shimmies against me, she wantsme to do it. She wants me to unzip my pants and shove my cock inside of her. She wants her pussy to do the apologizing, she wants to become my babygirl.
“Don’t stop now,Daddy,” she breathes through the torn fabric, but it’s too late.
Whatever spell I was under—whatever spell we were under—her use ofDaddyshatters it. I step back and adjust my cock, tucking the head beneath my belt to best hide my erection. Turning, I focus my vision on the old, plastic wrapped Dell desktop as I pull her white shorts back up, letting the waistband snap at the top.
Despite the sweltering heat, I put my sports coat back on and open the training room door. I don’t look her in the eyes.
“That was a mistake.” I clear my throat and peer out into the parking lot, spotting my white truck. Adjacent, in the bike rack, is the bike I saw her riding last night. “Look, if you throw your bike into my truck, I’ll give you a ride home.”
If anyone saw her come into the training office, it makes the most sense that she’d be asking for a ride, so giving her one now is more for covering my tracks than making sure she’s safe or okay.
She lied to me.
She tricked me.
Six years ago I said I’d never let a partner make me feel so stupid, so low, so disturbed. I keep that fact in mind as she tries to talk to me a million times.
When I’m carrying her bike— “West, you seriously cannot act like the last three months didn’t happen.”
When I’m turning on the AC— “I’ve always had that kink, you know. The daddy daughter thing. It could be because I have real life daddy issues, but I know how to separate the two.”
When I’m turning out of the parking lot— “I know youthink I’m awful for lying to you, but I think if you see it from my perspective, you’ll see that lying was my only chance.”
And when I pull up in front of her empty-looking house— “Age is meaningless if our souls and hearts are connected.”
Throwing the truck into park, I twist my head to look at her, making sure my body is still aligned with the steering wheel. I can’t turn in my seat and give her my full attention—she’s already had too much access to me.
“You called me a fucking slut,” she repeats quietly, blinking up at me through thick lashes, sweat glittering on her bare belly.
I rest my hands atop my thighs, and watch the oak tree sway with a hot fall breeze. I don’t care if she’s got her hair in a damn ponytail the way I like, or if her soft voice is starting to become addicting—she lied.
“A fuckinglyingslut,” I correct, venom running hot and poisonous in my veins. “Get out.”
I don’t look her way. The door opens, and slams shut. Pain and anger radiate from my head to my chest. The tailgate opens, and there’s the screech of pedals on metal as she drags her bike out. The tailgate closes. In my periphery, when the front door opens, I shift the truck into gear and drive home.
What she did is completely fucked up.
