Page 15 of Cinderella and the Daddy
But she gets to her feet and follows me inside without argument.
My study is all dark wood and leather, designed to intimidate. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the walls. Most people who sit across from my desk leave sweating. Some just leave dead.
Depends on the day. And my mood. And their crime.
Cindy drops into the chair, one leg thrown over the armrest. Her fleabag dog sits on the floor beside her.
Technically, I know it doesn’t have fleas. Before I ever brought that beast into my home, it went to a vet. And then a groomer.
"You like kids?" I ask, settling behind my desk.
She glares at me. "I like Leo. Not sure about you yet."
I can't even be insulted. The honesty is refreshing after years of people telling me what they think I want to hear. She likes my boy. That's all that matters.
Before I can respond, Viktor appears in the doorway. His massive frame fills the entrance as he clears his throat.
"Edgar needs to speak with you," he says in Russian. "Says it's urgent."
I nod, already mentally shifting gears. Edgar handles my legitimate business interests—the ones that look good on paper. If he's calling, something has gone wrong with one of the import deals.
"I'm going for a swim," Cindy announces, standing up and stretching. The movement pulls her tank top tight across her chest. Her breasts are naturally large for her thin body.
My cock twitches at the thought of her in a swimsuit. All that olive skin glistening with water and dripping down that ample cleavage.
Viktor notices my reaction—the bastard's too observant for his own good. He makes a low sound that might be amusement.
"Shut the fuck up," I mutter in Russian.
When she leaves, swaying those hips like she knows exactly what she's doing to me, I close my eyes and lean back in my chair.
"I should’ve taken a finger, not her.”
I say it in Russian. She glances over her shoulder and glares at me before disappearing down the hall.
Viktor just laughs.
Fucker.
He has no idea.
I don't regret choosing her. That's the problem. Something about her draws me in like a moth to a flame. I know I'm going to get burned. But I can't seem to stop myself from wanting more.
I brush the thought away and head upstairs to tuck Leo into bed. It's become our ritual. My attempt to give him normalcy. We always have at least one bedtime story. Sometimes, a song in Russian that my own mother used to sing to me before she died. Simple moments that help chase away his nightmares.
Leo is already in his pajamas when I reach his room.
"Papa," he says, using the name that still catches me off guard sometimes. "Can Cindy come say goodnight, too?"
I hesitate. This isourtime. The quiet moments where I can pretend I'm not completely fucking up this whole parenting thing.
But the hope in his eyes makes it impossible to say no.
"If she wants to," I tell him.
He's already running down the hall before I finish the sentence. I follow at a slower pace, finding them both in her room. She's sitting cross-legged on her bed in those silk pajamas that have been driving me insane each time I glimpse her in them. Mac is sprawled across her bed, his head resting on a pillow.
"Story time!" Leo announces, grabbing her hand and tugging her toward the door.
