Page 21 of My Big Fat Daddy Issues

He watches me, his expression unreadable as he says, “You’ll behave, or Daddy will make sure you learn how.”

The wordDaddylands low and heavy. My stomach folds around it, butterflies fluttering against it. My fingers curl against my palms. Everything in my brain warns me to retreat. Everything in me in my heart and lungs wants to move forward.

I step inside.

Behind me, he closes the door. The lock clicks with a finality that tells me I’ve sealed my fate.

Something deep inside me answers it. I realize all at once that I’ve been waiting years for that sound.

He’s at my back in an instant, a solid wall of heat. He’s still, a presence that’s both comforting and thrilling. There’s a gravitational pull in the inches that separate us, and I’m helpless to fight it.

I lean back, scooting my heels backward until his body engulfs mine.

“That’s the answer I needed,” he growls into my hair. “I opened the door, and you stepped inside. Now, who am I?”

“Jackson,” I whisper as the weight of his arm loops around my chest, tugging upward until his thick forearm is under my chin, against my throat, trapping me as his hips shift forward.

If it weren’t for his support, I would crumble to the floor.

He’s hard. God, he’s not just hard, he’s massively hard. I swallow, but there’s no saliva. I feel like I’m going to burst into flames as he grinds himself into my ass.

“Not that name,” he says darkly. “Who is going to make you safe, Hallie? What do you call the man of the house that takes care of you and shields you from the world? That makes you—” His voice trails off as the thickness against my back presses even harder.

“Daddy.” I hiss, my breathing coming out in stuttered pants.

He doesn’t move, just stands there, letting me feel it. It’s like his entire being heats when I say it again.

“Daddy.”

“Fuck,” he groans, his mouth against my ear as I curl my fingers on the hard muscles of his arm latched around my neck. “You’re gonna find out just how Daddy this is all gonna get little girl.”

Chapter 2

Jackson

Ifind her in the kitchen a while later after giving her some space and trying to talk myself out of stuffing her full of every thick inch of my cock that is hell-bent on getting in her tight little snatch.

She curls her cute as fuck little yellow painted toes on the tile floor, leaning against the counter by the sink, her hair wrecked from God knows what. She’s circling a chipped mug with one fingertip and even that simple little movement has my dick seeping cum down my fucking leg.

She feels me before she looks. Her body stills, her shoulders lift. Still focused on that cup, she inhales stubbornly.

Then she turns with her chin up and defiance etched into the shine of her eyes.

“You move like a ghost,” she whispers. I watch her throat work. She swallows, holds, then swallows again, harder.

“I move like a man who owns the ground he’s standing on,” I say, letting her know that I’m not going to stand for her battiness.

The desire to fight flashes across her face. Then, with snarkiness I haven’t heard since she was living under my roof last time, she says, “Stop looking at me like I’m in trouble. I’m an adult that doesn’t work on me anymore.”

“An adult, huh? You are,” I start as I cross the floor to get to her. I’m in no hurry, and I don’t stop until she backs into the counter. “Under my roof, age is irrelevant and you don’t test me before breakfast. Or after.”

She laughs. It’s brittle and pretty. “You don’t get to tell me—”

“Hallie,” I say sharply, letting her name be a warning. “Watch your tone.”

“Or what?”

Her pulse jumps where the light hits her throat. I track it with an insatiable hunger. She’s challenging me, wants me to say it and mean it. She wants to find out if I do what I say.