Page 55 of Gunnar

She stares at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she sighs, a soft exhale that carries acceptance rather than resignation. “Do you need a list of every guy I’ve ever dated?” she sasses.

“No,” I answer flatly. “We’ve already looked into all of them.”

“What?”

“Right down to Tommy Figueroa.”

“From junior high?”

“We were diligent. And truth be told, I don’t really like him, either.”

She shakes her head, fighting a smile as her fingers lace through mine, resting on her thigh. “You do hear yourself when you say things like that, don’t you?”

I give myself one last look in the full-length mirror, turning slightly to catch the way the light hits the fabric, the way the silhouette shifts with my movement. The dress is everything I hoped it would be—strapless crimson silk that hugs my torso, the neckline dipping just low enough to suggest, without revealing, and the slit high on my left thigh so that every step will flash a hint of skin. The matching heels add four inches to my height, making my legs appear endless. My hair falls in loose waves around my shoulders, the kind of carefully constructed “effortlessness” that took my stylist forty-five minutes to achieve. My makeup is dramatic, with smoky eyes and red lips that match the dress. I look like a movie star. I think. I look like the woman the world expects me to be.

I take a steadying breath, feeling the familiar flutter of pre-event nerves in my stomach, and I head downstairs. The heels click against the stairs, a staccato rhythm that announces my arrival before I reach the foyer.

Gunnar stands by the front door, checking his watch with an impatience that vanishes the moment he looks up at me. His tuxedo fits him like it was painted on, his broad shoulders emphasized by the jacket’s perfect cut, and his toned thighs are accentuated by the satin stripe down his trousers. The bow tie that he fought so hard against sits perfectly straight at his throat, and the mother-of-pearl studs catch the light with subtle elegance.

But it’s not the clothes that make me stop mid-step or that make my breath catch and pulse stutter. It’s the man wearing them. He looks both devastating and dangerous.

“You look fucking gorgeous,” he breathes as his gaze travels down my body with a thoroughness that leaves me feeling simultaneously exposed and adored.

I force my feet to move again, closing the distance between us, and I let my own eyes roam over him with equal appreciation. “You clean up pretty nice yourself, Daddy.” I pitch my voice low enough that only he can hear the honorific.

His throat bobs as he swallows, the word clearly having affected him. “Only on the outside, baby girl,” he whispers gravelly, stepping close enough that I can smell his cologne. “Because the things I’m thinking about doing to you right now are fucking filthy.”

Every syllable over his lips sends heat pooling between my thighs, and I have to press my legs together to relieve some of the pressure. “Don’t you even think about ruining this hair or makeup,” I warn as we step out into the cool evening air, the limo waiting in the driveway, its engine running.

Dressed in his own dark suit, Damon stands beside the rear door, his expression professional, but his eyes sharp. To the public, he’ll look like my bodyguard, the hired muscle every celebrity needs. Gunnar, by contrast, will simply look like my date. The distinction matters for the narrative and the photos that will circulate tomorrow.

Damon opens the door for us, and I slide into the back of the limo, finding the leather cool against my skin. Gunnar follows, settling in beside me with a casualness that doesn’t fool me for a second. I see the way he’s looking at me, the predatory glint in his eye that promises retribution for my teasing.

“I do believe you’ve misbehaved, thinking you get to tell Daddy what he can and cannot do with his pussy.” His voice is loud enough to carry to the front seat. The limo driver’s head snaps around, his professional composure cracking for just a moment. Damon sits beside him, trying to hold back a chuckle, his shoulders shaking with the effort.

Gunnar notices the driver’s reaction, and his expression hardens. He reaches for the control panel on the door, his finger quickly finding the button to raise the privacy partition. The glass slides up with a soft mechanical whir, sealing us into our own world, cutting off the view from the front. He shifts in his seat, angling his body toward mine as the air grows thick and charged. “I think you are forgetting which of us is in charge here,” Gunnar says, his deep tone making my stomach flip.

Before I can respond, his hand finds the slit in my dress, his fingers sliding beneath the silk. I gasp at the contact of his rough, warm palm against my skin as it runs up my thigh with devastating slowness. His fingertips dust against the thin fabric of my panties. “And I think you need a reminder,” he continues, his eyes locked on mine.

He slides off the seat, moving with a grace that belies his size, and kneels before me on the limo floor. His hands slide up my outer thighs, his touch firm and possessive. He hooks his fingers around the thin straps of my panties on my hips.

“Gunnar—” I start, but he cuts me off with a look.

“Quiet,” he commands. “Unless you’re using that pretty little mouth to beg.”

He pulls the lace down my legs, the fabric dragging against my sensitive skin, and I lift my feet slightly so he can guide them over my heels. He drops the scrap of lace and silk onto the black leather seat next to me.

“Open,” he orders, his hands pressing against my inner thighs.

I obey, spreading my legs for him, my dress riding up to expose me completely. The air of the limo is cool against my heated flesh. He urges my thighs wider, settling himself between them as he sucks his fingers into his mouth. He coats them with saliva in a gesture that’s so crude and deliberate, there’s a rush of wetness between my legs.

He runs two fingers around the entrance of my pussy, teasing me with the promise of penetration, circling the sensitive flesh until I’m whimpering and my hips are bucking toward him, seeking more. Without warning, he slips them inside me.

“Fuck,” I gasp, my head falling back against the seat as I fist the edge of the leather.

“This sweet little pussy belongs to Daddy, doesn’t it?” he asks, his fingers curling inside me, finding that spot that makes my vision blur.

“Yes,” I manage, my voice breathless and high.