Page 92 of Off-Limits Daddy
They cared that I noticed their work. That I listened.
So I stayed. And I kept learning. And somehow it started to feel less like a role and more like a calling.
I rinsed the last brush, nudged the easel back into place, and let my eyes wander toward the windows. Golden light slanted across the parking lot—the kind of soft glow that only showed up this time of year, when afternoons tipped toward evening before you were ready. Winter in Briar Creek meant cool mornings, crisp air, and barely a whisper of snow. But it still felt like magic. Especially when I got to go home to Daddy.
Being with Daddy—reallybeing with him—felt like stepping into color after years of sketching in charcoal. Like my whole life had been grayscale, and suddenly someone handed me a brush and said,go ahead—paint it vividly, boldly.
We didn’t keep our love quiet anymore. He held my hand as we walked the beachfront barefoot, the tide lapping at our ankles. Picking me up after work, he’d lean in and kiss my temple with a smile that said he wasn’t going anywhere. Called me baby while handing me a cup of cider at the Halloween festival, not caring that Sage and half the firehouse crew were standing right there.
At the Thanksgiving football game against a rival town, he pulled me onto his lap, arms wrapped around me. When someone teased him for it, he just shrugged and said, “What? I like having him here.”
He loved me out loud.
And behind closed doors?
We danced in the kitchen without music. Shared kisses between making lesson plans and grading papers. Sometimes I’dsit between his knees while he stroked my hair, like touching me was the only thing anchoring him.
Most nights, I stayed. Most mornings, I woke in his bed, tangled up in warmth and love and the quiet miracle of being with him.
He was mine in all the ways that mattered. Sweet when I needed softness. Touched me like I was a priceless painting—meant to be handled with reverence—with slow hands, reverent kisses, quiet praise that sank under my skin and stayed there.
But he was firm when I pushed, because Ialwayspushed. He’d grip my hips, lips brushing my ear as he said,“You just can’t help yourself, can you?”
He’d take his time putting me back in my place—with his hands, his mouth, his dick, his everything.
And when I was pliant and breathless and entirely his, he’d press a kiss to my temple and whisper,“My good boy,”and hold me like I was everything he’d ever wanted.
He saidI love youin every way he knew how. In the way he looked at me. In the way he made room—for my things, my art,me.
It still caught me off guard sometimes. The fact that I had this. That I had him.
Not in secret. Not in pieces.
But whole.
I still wasn’t used to it.
Probably never would be.
My phone buzzed on the table beside the drying rack. I grabbed it, assuming it was Daddy, then frowned as I glanced toward the window. There wasn’t any sign of his truck out front. No message. No missed calls either.
Weird. He was supposed to pick me up today.
I slung my bag over my shoulder and stepped outside. The lot was mostly empty now, teachers already halfway to wine nightor wrapping presents or whatever counted as Friday freedom. My eyes scanned the rows of cars out of habit. Still no sign of the black pickup.
Fingers curled around my phone, halfway to texting.
“You weren’t thinking I forgot you, were you?”
The voice hit like warm syrup poured over pancakes.
I turned.
Daddy leaned against the side of a different truck, hands in his pockets, one brow raised like he knew I’d been ready to call him out. His turnout jacket wasn’t anywhere in sight. Just jeans, a long-sleeve thermal, and a grin that probably should’ve been illegal on school property.
“You’re late,” I said, walking over.
He pushed off the truck. “Had to run an errand.”
