Page 19 of Rough Daddy
My fists curl. I’m too damn close to crossing this line and yanking out that silicone, replacing it with something real.
"Beau—"
"Daddy."
"D-Daddy..." Her voice cracks, and I drag the toy from her soaking opening. I want to be that toy, but I’ll take this instead.
I step around her legs, easing the toy to her lips, holding it there while her eyes snap wide.
"Look at me," I demand. She does, pupils blown until there’s no brown left. "You’re perfect. You’re mine. Now lick it."
There’s a beat of hesitation. "Now." I smirk on a satisfied snort when her tongue darts out, licking her nectar from the toy. "That’s just lesson one."
But I have no real idea who’s teaching who.
She has no idea who I really am. No idea I've been studying her for months, memorizing every expression, every laugh, every moment of vulnerability she shared with that camera.
But right now, in my kitchen, she's performing just for me.
And I'm never letting her go.
Seven
Tessa
"That's enough."
Beau's voice sounds like he's been hit by a truck. He drags the toy from my lips, reaching over and laying it on a towel next to the sink, then backing away like he’s in pain. His back is pressed against the refrigerator, chest rising and falling like he’s just run a marathon.
The man looks ready to collapse.
I'm still perched spread-eagle, legs shaking, the halter top and denim skirt I chose for this seduction twisted and bunched up like I’ve just been put through the wringer. My brain feels like cotton candy, thoughts fuzzy and slow.
Wine. Wine and orgasms make you stupid.
Get it together, Tessa.
"Are you...? God, are you okay?" I ask, watching him drag his hand down his face.
His answer is a shake of his head then, "Water. You need water."
"I'm fine."
"You'renotfine." He pushes off the fridge, moving around me to reach the cabinet. He grabs a glass and fills it from the tap. “Can you sit up?”
“We’ll see.” I ease my slack legs over the edge of the counter, the tendons in my hips protesting for a second as I consciously straighten my spine. When he hands the glass to me, our fingers still don't touch.
Sipping the water, I watch him over the rim. He won't look at me directly. Just stares at the counter beside my hip, jaw tight, hands balled at his sides like he's fighting some internal war.
"Beau."
"Yeah."
"You can touch me now."
His eyes flick to mine, and I get the feeling a storm is coming. "No, I can't."
The alcohol and the manic blood flow through my body are making everything soft around the edges, but I can see his struggle. This man who just watched me curse and come and squirt, who talked me through every second of it, won't let himself have even the smallest contact. Not even a brush of fingers.
