Page 69 of Submitting to Daddy
His hands guide my hips, helping me find the pace he wants until I’m taking him faster.
“Look at you,” he breathes. “Bouncing on Daddy’s cock, like you were made for this.” His words go straight to my core, tingling my pussy and fueling my need. “You are, aren’t you?” he growls. “Made to take me. Made topleaseme.”
“Yes! Daddy!” I cry out, as pleasure crashes through me.
His hands dig into my hips, and he works me roughly over his length, water sloshing over the tub with every push and pull. Moans and whimpers spew from me uncontrollably as he fucks me so good.
“Are you going to come again?” he whispers. “Be a good girl and come so hard that I spill inside you.”
Another wave of euphoria overtakes me, loud and unstoppable. My body trembles as I quiver around him. He holds me tight, his hips jerking for a few more deep thrusts before he groans against my neck and comes inside me with a deep, raw sound.
Then his arms wrap around me, pulling me to his chest as he leans against the back of the tub. “You okay?” he asks, still buried inside me.
I nod and exhale, “More than okay, Daddy.”
TWO WEEKS LATER
The smell of burned espresso and cheap aftershave clings to the air. The café is just off a narrow alleyway in Williamsburg, not too upscale, not too grimy, exactly the kind of middle-ground place where you can talk about illegal weapons while pretending to argue over the merits of fair-trade and tariffs.
Nik sits across from me, looking bored and inattentive as usual, tapping a sugar packet against the edge of the table. I’m keeping my eye on the café while Enzo finalizes the terms for this deal with the men sitting at the table to our left. South American cartel. Smug, sun-leathered bastards with loud designer shirts and dead eyes. The older one—Luis, I think—chuckles at something the youngerone says.
But I’m not listening. This is the last leg of the deal. It’s quiet, clean, and almost quite boring.
And it’s all Madison.
She’s the one who convinced us to start splitting the brokering process.
Her pitch was sharp, logical, calculated, and just dangerous enough to be genius. Handle the business away from the club. Keep records analog. No more piles of cash passed under glowing pink lights or guns stashed behind the bar. Let the clients show up toKing’s Temptationlike they’re just another group of high-rollers. Let them get drunk. Loud. Flash their money and show off. Let them request private cars to drive them home, and then those cars just happen to contain a discreet package of guns or product in the trunk.
Under the radar. No paper trail. The club’s security footage will show drunk assholes stumbling out with bottle girls and barely any memory of the night. And if the Feds get curious? All they’ll see is a booming nightlife business and the King brothers staying the hell off the floor and far away from anything illegal. It was brilliant, and exactly what I’d expect from my firecracker.
The cartel men sign-off on the final detail of the shipment—eight crates, three calibers, no serials. We all nod like it’s a brunch reservation. Nik finishes his cappuccino in one last bitter gulp and mutters, “Let’s get the fuck out of this hipster café before I start looking for an apartment in Bushwick. I’m already growing an affection for avocado toast.”
We’re standing from our seats when my phone vibrates in my jacket pocket. I pull it out and swipe my thumb over the screen.
UNKNOWN
Tomorrow. King’s penthouse. 7pm. Don’t be late.
My stomach tightens, and I lock the screen without responding.
“Everything all right?” Enzo asks beside me. His voice is low and casual, but his eyes say he saw something change in mine.
I shake my head with a practiced eye roll and sigh. “Women.”
Nik barks a laugh and plays into my lie. “Ugh, sounds like Her Highness is in one of her moods again.”
I force a dry laugh. “Tell me about it.”
Our South American friends buy it. Or at least pretend to.
We go our separate ways, us out the front, and our cartel friends exit through the side alley. The pickups will happen at the club later tonight when everyone is at home with alibis. They’ll act drunk. Tip the girls big. And stumble out like they just had the time of their lives. Clean. Just like Madison said.
We slide into Nik’s Range Rover, and the silence stretches for about two blocks before I finally speak. “I got another message.”
Nik’s knuckles tighten slightly on the wheel. “Same number?”
I nod. “Same tone.”
