Page 2 of Chaining Daisy
My throat closes up as I watch her pop her hip to the side tauntingly and notice how the move makes the pink fabric creep up, nearly revealing the globes of her ass.
“Want to tell me to make my bed and be home by nine too?” she sasses, that shy first impression she gave me fizzling away.
God yes I do. My home. My bed. Except instead of making my bed I want herinit at nine every night.
“How old are you?” I ask, taking a step closer, feeling the air between us sizzle, all my tiredness and hunger forgotten, transformed into this burning curiosity. I resist the urge to touch her soft skin, to put a hand on her shoulder and see if I can feel a bra strap under her shirt. Too soon, I tell myself. “I wouldn’t think anyone over the age of twelve would want pure sugar and chemical crap for breakfast,” I add, trying to tack on a reason for my question that has nothing to do with my hardening dick. God, she better be of age. If not, I’m turning around right this second.
“I’m eighteen—” Her arms cross defensively and that adorable little mouth is still open to insult me further, I’m sure, but I interrupt her, trying not to let my relief that she’s legal turn into a giddy grin.
“Well then, I guess I can let you have a curfew that’s a little later than nine. But if you aren’t home by ten-thirty sharp …” I cut myself off, nearly biting my tongue. I want so badly to say I will take her over my knee and spank her.
But what the fuck is this? We aren’t in some step daddy porn video. No one but a creep says that shit in real life. Right?
Still, it takes everything I have to hold it back because the image pops up so clearly and easily in my mind. I’m sitting on my bed, and she walks in hesitantly, wearing the very thing she has on now. I wave her over, and she shuffles timidly to me, knowing she’s in trouble. Her cute face is repentant, but she doesn’t beg because she knows it won’t do any good. I order her up, and she crawls across the mattress until she’s positioned above my lap on all fours. I press a hand to the small of her back and gently lower her onto my thighs, belly down. Then I carefully slide down her pajama shorts and panties until the round globes of her ass appear before me … fuck my life. I’m a pervert. Where the hell is this kink coming from?
“You gonna ground me, old man?”
Fuck. Does she think I’m old? Disgusting? My boner deflates and so does some other internal part of me, one I’ve never felt before—it makes my chest grow tight. “I’m not old.”
“You’ve got to be, what, like sixty?”
Horror flies through my stomach. I work out four times a week. I might not have a six-pack, but I’m no slouch in any other department. At six foot one, I’m tall and in good shape. I have a little salt and pepper in my brown hair and some crow’s feet around my eyes, but damn. “Have you ever even met anyone over the age of twenty-five? Fuck’s sake, I’m only forty. You just ruined my morning.”
“Not your whole week? Bummer. That’s what I was shooting for.” She gives me a naughty grin and a wink.
“You little brat.” I shake my head in disbelief but that tight feeling in my chest eases and something swoops around inside my stomach. She’s teasing me. This hot woman is teasing me.
She giggles and the sound is so sweet and carefree it nearly knocks me back a step.
“Why are you here in the hallway harassing old men to begin with?” I ask her.
The smile stiffens on her face and turns into something stilted and sad. “It’s my mom.” Her head jerks in the direction of one of the doors down the hall as her lips press together into a thin line. Even though I see that kind of look, that careworn worry, that frayed hope, every single day—even though I’m used to it—I absolutely can’t stand to see that expression on her face.
That’s when I reach out and put a hand on her shoulder. I don’t let myself put it on top to feel for the bra strap because that wouldn’t be right. And even if I am a perv, I’m not a sleazy one. I place my palm on the side, just barely cupping her shirt.
“We’ll do our best to take care of her,” I promise.
Whatever willpower she was using to mask her fear slips and this vulnerable, unguarded expression comes over her. Tears fill her eyes, and she nods, avoiding my gaze, trying to keep from crying because she’s probably got to walk back in there soon, and she doesn’t want her mom to see.
“I’m Doctor Strong.” I drop her shoulder and hold out my hand, cursing myself internally for stiffening up and becoming so formal, but what else am I supposed to do?
“No. No way. That is not your name.” She sheds her sadness for suspicion, eyeing my hand.
“Um … yes, it is.” I’ve never gotten this reaction before. I start to fold in my fingers and retract the hand. Apparently, she’s going to leave me hanging.
She rolls her eyes and wedges her tiny fingers between mine for a split second to shake. Electricity lights me up at her touch even though it only lasts an instant and she’s pulling away a moment later. “Seriously? Strong?”
“Yes. Seriously.”
“If you tell me your first name is Richard or Peter, I’m going to scream.”
I burst into laughter. “Fuck. God. You think my parents would be that awful? Hi, I’m Dick. Dick Strong.”
“Well, my mother named me Daisy when our last name is Deforest.”
I cringe on her behalf, though secretly I think the name is adorable. Daisy Deforest. Come here, Daisy. Daddy needs a goodnight kiss.
Shit.
