Page 63 of Daddies Dark Desires (Forbidden Fantasies)
“Beg me to let you come. Convince me you deserve it.”
“Please. Please, Daddy. Let me come. Your cock feels so good. Daddy, please. Please.”
White noise fills the back of my mind as my own release draws close. I give her ass another smack with my free hand.
“I want to come, Daddy. Please.”
The raw sincerity in her voice fucking breaks me. I reach around to press on her clit, working her from all angles until she shutters, fluttering around me, going boneless as I pump her full of my cum.
And like a good little girl, she takes it.
23
HARPER
Cold air nips at my skin, even though it’s still late summer. Nights don’t get this cold. They never have. The eerie atmosphere closes in, making my body tight with warning.
Something is not right, and I search the dark rooftop I’m standing on for some kind of sign. Some clue of what’s going on here.
Footsteps rustle on the gravely concrete behind me. Spinning to look, I nearly smack myself against a silver air vent—the kind I’ve seen criminals crawl into in the movies.
Creeping around it slowly makes too much noise, although there’s no reason for my movements to be so loud. When I peek around it, I freeze in place. Ice infiltrates my veins, making my body sluggish but my mind sharp.
Two figures move in the other corner of the roof, sparse light highlighting the side of their faces. One I don’t recognize, but the other…
“Dad?” My voice barely makes any noise, and terror grips me harder. I lurch forward a step. “Dad?”
This time, I’m loud enough to hear, and Dad’s face whips my way. “No, sweetheart. You can’t be here.”
I want to reach for him. I try. But the other man lifts a gun toward Dad’s chest.
“Run.” The terror in that one word is followed by an echoing boom.
I give my everything to try to run. Toward him. To help him, but I make no progress. I have to watch him fall, arm reaching toward me, to watch the light fade from his eyes. Gunpowder and blood burn my nose.
I’m scrambling?—
I shoot upright in my bed, sheets tangled around my legs, nails tearing holes where I grip them too hard.
My breath comes hard. I can’t get my lungs to stop pulling in air too fast. Panic grips my chest and makes everything hurt as I look around the room.
Dad’s not here. He can’t be. He really is dead.
Hot tears surround my vision, drop and skip down my cheeks.
I turn my face to Oliver, his features stoic except for a tiny crease between his brows.
My panic won’t subside, even with his strong, silent presence. My skin prickles, heat and cold flutter through me.
His hands smooth across the sheets beside me as I hiccup and try to breathe.
Our gazes lock, and it’s a strong anchor, settling me in increments, but the panic has too strong a grip.
The scent of gunpowder lingers in my nostrils, sending more tears down my face and into my mouth. I can taste the salt.
It’s not enough to pull me out of it.
“Daddy…” A hiccupping cuts off my words. It’s a soft plea, slipping out. Not sexual. Just raw, unfiltered need. My world is spinning out of my control.
