Page 17 of Bossh*le Daddy
"That's it," he encouraged against my lips, voice wrecked. "Take what you need, little one. Show Daddy how good you can be."
The title in his voice, the permission, the praise—it all combined into perfect storm that had me shaking in his arms. I was making sounds I'd never made before, desperate little mewls and pleas that he captured with his mouth like prizes. The world had narrowed to this—his mouth on mine, his hands holding me steady, his thigh pressing exactly where I needed it.
When he finally pulled back, I could barely stand. My lips felt swollen, thoroughly used. My carefully pinned hair had come partially undone, strands sticking to my lipstick. I knew I looked wrecked, claimed, thoroughly debauched by a kiss alone.
He looked barely better. His bow tie hung crooked, jacket bearing the wrinkles of my desperate grip. His hair stood in wild directions from my fingers—when had I put them there?—and his eyes were nearly black with desire. But it was the satisfaction in his expression that undid me. Like he'd been waiting for this moment since I'd first stuttered through my interview.
His thumb traced my lower lip, now swollen from his attention, and his eyes tracked the movement with possessive satisfaction. "Beautiful," he murmured, voice still rough. "My perfect little one, all flushed and needy. Is this what you've been hiding under all that propriety? This desperate need to be claimed?"
I couldn't form words, could barely form thoughts. Everything had shifted, rearranged, reformed around this new reality where I called him Daddy and he kissed me like he owned me and I wanted nothing more than to let him.
"Answer me," he commanded softly, thumb still painting patterns on my sensitized lip.
"Yes," I breathed, past pretense and performance and into pure truth. "Yes, Daddy."
His eyes flashed with that savage satisfaction again, and he made a low, pleased sound that vibrated through me. "Good girl. My good, honest girl." He straightened my hair with gentle fingers, a tender contrast to the violence of our kiss. "Remember that feeling. Remember what it's like to stop pretending and just be mine."
Mine. The word should have scared me. Should have sent me running back to my careful, small life where I controlled the boundaries and protected my heart. Instead, it settled into my bones like coming home.
Because I was his. Had been since that first "little one," maybe since that first impossible coffee order. The kiss had just been confirmation of what my body already knew—I belonged to Damian Stone in ways that had nothing to do with employment contracts and everything to do with the darkest, most honest parts of my soul.
“Now,” he said, “shall we head back in?”
*
We returned to the gala for exactly thirteen minutes. Long enough to make our excuses, to weather a few more knowing looks, to maintain the facade that we were just another couple leaving early because we couldn't keep our hands off each other. The truth of it made my face burn as Damian guided me through goodbyes with his hand possessively on my lower back, his thumb tracing maddening circles through silk.
The car ride back to my apartment stretched endless and silent. We sat on opposite sides of the back seat, the middle space between us feeling like an ocean. But I was hyperaware of him—the way his hands clenched and unclenched on his thighs, the way his jaw stayed tight with some internal struggle, the way his eyes kept finding me in the darkness before darting away.
I pressed my fingers to my lips, still feeling the phantom pressure of his mouth, still tasting him under the mint the driver had wordlessly offered. My hair remained partially undone, and I could feel his gaze tracking the loose strands against my neck. The silence was loaded, heavy with everything we'd done and everything we hadn't said.
When the car pulled up outside my building, my heart started racing again. Would he follow me up? Would he kiss me again? Would he push me against my apartment door and finish what we'd started on that balcony?
Chapter 4
Ishouldhavethankedhimfor the evening. Got out of the car. Said goodnight like a professional, like someone who hadn't just called him Daddy on a balcony.
But my mouth had other plans.
"Would you . . ." The words came out breathy, desperate. I cleared my throat, tried again. "Would you like to come up? For a minute? I mean, just . . ."
Just what? Just to continue what we'd started? Just to push me against my apartment door and finish destroying every boundary I'd built? Just to make me call him Daddy again in the privacy of my shabby studio where no one could witness my complete surrender?
He cocked his head slightly, a predator considering prey that had just offered itself up on a silver platter. His lips curved—not quite a smile, more like satisfaction at a chess piece moving exactly where he'd predicted.
"For a minute?" The question held weight, challenge, promise.
I swallowed hard, looking away from those knowing eyes. My cheeks burned hot enough to light the poorly maintainedstreetlamp flickering overhead. "Just—I should . . . thank you. For tonight. And I . . . have tea."
"Tea." He repeated it deadpan, but I heard the amusement underneath. Like I was a child offering to share my toys, adorable in my transparency.
"You don't have to," I rushed out, humiliation creeping up my neck. What was I doing? Inviting my boss—my Daddy, that traitorous voice whispered—up to my disaster of an apartment for tea like this was some Jane Austen novel instead of whatever dark, twisted fairy tale we'd stumbled into. "I just—"
He moved then, shifting closer to me so that the driver wouldn’t hear. This close, I could smell him again—cologne and champagne and that deep, dark, musky smell. His voice dropped to that register that bypassed my brain entirely, speaking directly to parts of me that had been dormant until he'd awakened them with a title and a kiss.
"Little one, you don't invite me up if you don't mean it." His eyes searched mine, and I felt laid bare under that gray gaze. "Are you sure?"
The question hung between us, heavy with meaning. Was I sure I wanted him in my space? Was I sure I could handle him seeing how I really lived, away from designer dresses and champagne bubbles? Was I sure I was ready for whatever came next, for wherever this thing between us was heading?
