Page 8 of Dirty Sweet Daddy

Something clicks into place. The word I used at the funeral, innocently. The way his body tensed when I said it. The power it seemed to have over him.

I take a calculated risk.

"Because you can't what, Daddy?" I say it softly, deliberately—not innocent this time. Loaded with meaning.

Lucas makes a sound like he's been punched, his entire body going rigid. His eyes darken, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of blue-gray remains. For a moment—just a heartbeat—naked hunger flashes across his face, so intense it steals my breath.

"Don't," he growls, the single word vibrating with restraint. "Don't call me that."

But I hear the lie in his voice. See the way his cock twitches beneath his dress pants.

"Why not?" I move closer, emboldened. "You like it. I can tell."

Before he can stop me, I climb into his lap, my thighs straddling his, my ass settling directly over the hard ridge of his erection. The thin material of my sleep shorts does nothing to hide how wet I am, how ready for him.

"Kate!" His hands fly to my hips, but he doesn't push me away. His fingers dig into my flesh, caught between pulling me closer and shoving me off. "What are you⁠—"

"I've wanted you forever," I whisper, shifting slightly so his cock presses against my core. Even through our clothes, the pressure makes me gasp. "I know you want me too.”

I can feel him trembling beneath me, his massive body coiled with tension. His cock is huge and rock-hard against me, throbbing even through the layers of fabric. Proof that all his denial is bullshit. Proof that he wants me as badly as I want him.

"Please," I whisper, rolling my hips experimentally. “I’ve been saving myself all for you, Daddy.”

For one glorious second, his grip tightens, pulling me harder against him. His eyes blaze with heat, with need, with surrender. I think he's going to kiss me, going to take what we both want.

Then something snaps. He stands abruptly, lifting me and setting me on my feet in one fluid motion. I stumble backward, shocked by the sudden movement.

"This can't happen," he says, voice ragged. "You're—Jesus Christ, Kate. You're my responsibility. Your father trusted me."

"I'm an adult," I argue, reaching for him. "I know what I want."

"No." He steps back, putting the desk between us. His face is flushed, his breathing uneven. The bulge in his pants is impossible to miss. "You don't know what you're asking for."

"Then show me," I challenge, taking a step forward.

Lucas bolts like I'm fire. Like I'm the devil incarnate. He's out the door before I can say another word, his footsteps heavy on the stairs.

But he doesn't fool me. Not anymore. I felt how hard he was. Saw the desire in his eyes when I called him Daddy. Felt his hands grip me like he never wanted to let go.

He wants me. He's just too stubborn, too honorable to admit it.

But now I have hope—not just suspicion, but physical proof pressed hot and hard against me. The memory of his thickness makes me clench with need.

It's only a matter of time before he breaks. And when he does, I'll be right there waiting—ready to be his good girl.

six

. . .

Lucas

I've been avoiding the house like it's full of land mines. Ever since Kate climbed onto my lap in my office three days ago, feeling my hard cock beneath her and calling me "Daddy" in that breathy little voice, I've been sleeping at the office, coming home only to shower and change clothes when I know she's in class. It's pathetic. I'm a grown man hiding from a slip of a girl. But Christ, the way she felt against me—warm and soft and so fucking wet I could feel it through her shorts—nearly broke me. I almost took her right there on my desk. The memory of her scent, her weight on my lap, the way she rolled those perfect hips against my cock…I've jerked off to it every night since, hating myself more with each release.

Today, I had no choice but to come home early. A client canceled, and I ran out of excuses to stay away. I find Kate in the kitchen, wearing leggings that might as well be painted on and another one of those crop tops that make my mouth water. She's stirring something on the stove, her honey-blonde hair pulled up in a messy bun, exposing the delicate nape of her neck. I want to press my lips there, feel her pulse against my tongue.

"You're home early," she says without turning around, like she sensed my presence.

"Client canceled." I move to the fridge, needing distance, needing something to do with my hands that isn't touching her. "What are you making?"