YES, DADDY, page 11
“Everything ready for Mom and Dad?” I ask.
“Yes. The guesthouse is cleaned, food is stocked...”
“Thank you.” I turn my head up to look into his face. “You’re the best.”
“I know it.” He smiles down, then leans in and kisses me, his warm tongue swiping on my bottom lip and making me shiver at the thought of the magical things that tongue does to me every day.
Mom and Dad are coming for a visit, as they do every month or so when they aren’t traveling. Dad has recovered nearly ninety percent of his mobility thanks to some groundbreaking advances and surgery he had soon after Vito set him up with the amazing doctors in New York.
He and Mom travel a lot now. It was always their dream to fill the map on the kitchen wall at home with pins everywhere they've been, and with Vito’s financial help, their dreams are coming true.
“Come on, baby. It’s time for bed.” Vito spins my office chair around, then pulls me up, lifting me like I’m a feather and wrapping me around the front of him.
“Careful,” I protest, holding my mug of tea out. “We’re both going to be soaking wet if you’re not careful.”
He starts walking toward the office door as my legs grip around his back just above his ass.
“I like you wet. I like when your wetness makes parts of me wet. All in all, I like wet.”
We make our way to the bedroom and Vito puts me down, then strips me and motions for me to get on the bed.
“Head down, ass up, little girl.” His voice thickens, and it immediately has my pussy drenched and ready for what I know is about to come. “I need. Assume the position.”
I do as he says, crawling up onto our massive bed, my ass high in the air, back arched, face turned sideways on the soft bedding. Then I reach around and pull myself apart for him.
“That’s my girl. Showing me all you have to offer me.”
I twist my head and see him drop his boxers, his incredible cock already stiff and standing tall. His hand drifts down to stroke it slowly as he walks to the bed.
I yelp when the first smack hits my ass just under where my hands are, then another and another until the warmth spreads over my skin and I’m panting with my own sort of need.
“Please, Daddy,” I whimper.
“Yes, baby?”
“Please fuck me. Fuck my ass, please.”
“Hmmm. So many wonderful choices. You know I love all your holes.” When his mouth hits my soaking pussy, I cum almost immediately, my legs shaking as I fill the room with the sounds of my pleasure. Vito’s tongue laps at me and sucks my clit until I cum one more time, calling for him and begging for his cock to be inside me somewhere. Anywhere.
“You are a cock-hungry, dirty slut for me, aren’t you, princess?”
I feel the tip sliding up and down through my wetness. “Yes, Daddy. Always for you. Forever for you.”
“Good girl.”
The tip of his cock is at my ass, making me draw a sharp breath as I prepare for its invasion.
“Is this what you need?” Vito asks as the head pushes forward, spreading me.
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Such a naughty girl, tempting Daddy like you do. Wearing your little dresses around without panties. Bending over, knowing you’re making me hard all day. You know I’m going to have to fuck you hard now. Teasing little girls get what’s coming to them.”
My heartbeat speeds and lust engulfs me. The tension between my legs grows as his cock slips inside my tight ring of muscle, making me gasp.
Daddy took time training me to take him like this for months before he thought my body would be ready for his thick length, and even all these years later it takes me a few minutes to adjust. But adjust as I do, there are always those first few minutes of glorious pain.
“It hurts,” I whimper, playing into our fantasy as he rocks back and forth, in and out, giving me an inch at a time.
“I know, princess, but you need to take this for Daddy. Be a good girl.”
Before long he’s deep inside me, and I’m so full my orgasm is already building long before he really begins to slam into me. As his tempo increases, my body explodes, and I cum, drenching the bedding beneath us as Vito’s growls rumble from behind me, telling me he’s close.
“God, it feels so good,” I pant, letting the waves of pleasure ride through me.
“This ass is mine. This pussy is mine. Your mouth is mine. All of you. Is. Mine. You understand that, little girl? You understand who you are?”
“Yes, Daddy. I’m yours. All of me is yours.”
Another sharp smack on my ass blinds me for a moment as he buries his cock as far as he can, his balls slapping low onto my hot pussy and clit, making me cum again immediately.
“You cum for me. You fuck for me. You suck my cock when I tell you to. God, I love you. I love all of you, baby.” His voice is tight, and he takes a few more deep strokes before we are both going off together, his hot seed spurting deep into me as his hands come to my shoulders, pulling my body back as tight as possible against his impaling dick.
When we both come down, Vito slips out of me and takes my hand as we make our way to the bathroom, where he turns on the shower.
Cocooned in the steam and warm water, he lathers my hair, and I soap his body. We lovingly clean each other before drying off and slipping into the cool sheets of the bed with my head on Vito’s chest and his arm wrapped around me, pulling me in tight.
“Sleep now, my princess. Know Daddy will watch over you.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Good girl.”
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WHAT IF
Chapter 1
Jessie
“IT DOESN’T MATTER ANYMORE.”
A gust of wind whips my hair into my face as I look down the street and hold the phone to my ear.
My damp hair sticks to my cheeks and lips, and I pinch my skin as I try to right the strands that on my best day barely qualify as unruly. Springtime in Michigan isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
“Yes, it does matter.” Heather sounds so hopeful and motherly, making me feel more pathetic. “What if this one is the one? You write about it in every one of your books. Finding ‘the one.’ What if this is it?”
The sad thing is, this isn’t the first time Heather’s given me this pep talk. She’s my best friend and greatest cheerleader, but at times she could stand to rein in her unrealistic optimism when it comes to my unusual number of blind dates.
As the mist in the air slicks the sidewalk and makes my hair look like a mop of miniature blonde corkscrews, I think about all the blind dates through which I’ve suffered.
It’s sad, but after ten or so, I thought maybe I was going for some sort of record, so I started counting. “This is number twenty-eight! Twenty-eight, Heather. That’s a record for the most blind dates for anyone, ever, in the history of blind dates.” I lean forward, sticking my arm straight out into the street as a flash of yellow turns the corner.
The checkered cab comes to a stop at the curb. I moved to mid-town Detroit about a year ago from the suburbs, thinking a change of scenery would help shock me out of the rut I’d fallen into. My apartment is nice—nothing special, but suitable. My life has been less than suitable before, so suitable works for me.
Heather’s voice only makes me feel more like the last kid picked for dodgeball in gym class. “Maybe twenty-eight is a lucky number? You’re young, blonde, you’ve got great tits, you’re financially stable, low-drama, funny, and you sure know how to write dirty. A pretty good package in my opinion.” She pauses, and I open the door to the cab, tossing my purse on the seat and sliding in as I listen to her go on. “At least you're trying. Helga’s trying to help, too, and, hey, I haven’t even had a proper date in almost two years.”
“Heather. First of all, nice that you took note of my tits,” I snap as I settle into the back of the cab, hold the phone away from my head for a second and give the driver the address that Derek Melrose—a.k.a. number twenty-eight—texted me a half-hour ago. When he nods and pulls from the curb, I bring the phone back and finish. “Second of all, you’re married.”
I sigh in exasperation as the cab rolls down the street, and I settle back, thinking for a moment about her description of me.
It wasn’t so many years ago that I was broke, nothing felt funny, and I was lying in a hospital room in a lockdown wing. Low-drama was certainly not how I would describe that period of my life.
Derek Melrose. Respectable sounding. If there’s potential in a name, he’s got potential.
The bar where we’ll meet is called Lucky Charlie’s. It’s downtown, in an area I’m fairly sure isn’t the safest, but in Detroit things are changing all over, so it could be that it’s a little corner that’s on the upswing.
Derek was a set up by none other than Helga Klemkowsky, the owner of the Looney Baker, where I get a donut almost every morning and work part-time since I moved to this part of town.
Helga gave me almost no information on number twenty-eight, and in my professional opinion—because truth is, I think I’m a professional at blind dates by now—less information is better. I’ve grown to look forward to the surprise; besides, then there are zero expectations.
Because expectations can be the worst part of dates.
Worst part of life, for that matter.
Plus, writing can be a lonely endeavor day in and day out, so working at the bakery has saved my sanity more than once. Well, that and my therapist, Barbara—and two prescriptions I take every day to keep the train on the tracks, so to speak.
Helga has to be close to eighty, and ever since I told her I didn’t have a boyfriend, she’s made it her mission in life to get me married. Which is ironic since she has never taken the leap herself and about ten times a day laments the horrors of all things male. But she honestly wants the best for me, so enter number twenty-eight, a customer she said is perfect for a girl like me.
A girl like me. Not sure what that means. This is my third set-up from Helga, and although the other two weren’t horrible, I’m not sure her picker is completely on target.
Through the phone I hear Heather’s giggle and realize I’ve not been listening. “I know I’m married. See? You think it’s all happily-ever-afters? Not so much, sweetie.”
Heather and her husband have been on a roller coaster for their entire marriage, and I’ve taken to the opinion that some people enjoy that push-pull.
Break up. Make up. Break up. Make up. Heather has said on more than one occasion that it’s as exhausting as it is exciting.
Her husband, Mitchell, is a criminal defense attorney and works a lot, and quite frankly, Heather is a little needy and could use a hobby. She’s a stay-at-home wife with a black Amex and too much time on her hands.
But that kind of up-and-down relationship is not for me. I don’t like to fight. I want the fairy tale with all the trimmings. I’m a hopeless romantic; not only do I believe in love at first sight and happily ever after, it’s what I live and breathe every day.
Well, not live it, exactly...I write it. I’m a romance writer. I’m all growly alpha males, mad sex, and rides off into the sunset. Easy peasy, right?
Wrong.
I’ve always had the rule, never more than a kiss on a first date. And never, ever have sex on a first date.
The irony is, on only a handful of occasions has the kiss thing ever been an issue.
I watch out the window as the moisture in the atmosphere covers the glass and the cab takes a corner, pulling out into traffic on Mack Avenue, heading toward Lucky Charlie’s.
In the window, I can see my reflection looking back, and I don’t think I’m bad-looking. I’m sort of the girl next door from the shoulders up and Mae West from the neck down. When I hit puberty, my body looked like it had blown up a couple balloons above and below my waist.
“You know that phrase about teachers?” I ask Heather.
“Which one?”
“You know, ‘those that can’t do teach’? I’m beginning to think that’s me. I can write about love and lust and sex and romance, I just can’t do it.”
“Come on. It’s not like you’re a spinster. You’re only twenty-three.”
“Twenty-three going on seventy-two. I started knitting, Heather. Knitting.”
“Oh, come on. Knitting is like the new clubbing. Okay, look, don’t take this the wrong way...but do you think, deep down, you might be worried about the other things? Like, if you get close to someone, you’ll have to tell them?” The seriousness in her voice shifts the tone of the conversation, and I know exactly what she’s talking about.
“No,” I lie, pulling at the hem of my jacket and shifting around in the vinyl seat as the driver talks to someone on his phone about owing him money.
“Because if someone loves you, they’ll understand. Everyone has a past.”
“Not one that includes a felony. And a...” I check myself. I don’t even like to say the word. “A less-than-positive self-image and outlook on the future at one particularly dark time in my past.”
“You screwed up. Made some bad choices. But that’s not you anymore, Jessie. Don’t carry around baggage that doesn’t matter anymore. You’ve come so far. It was a bad time. A very bad time. I get that.”
“It could matter. You get involved with someone, they care about you, you care about them. Feelings start and then BAM. You’re in too deep to get out alive.” My choice of words takes me back, and I blow out a long breath as the cab driver tells whoever he’s talking to he has two days in this Marlon Brando voice, and I wonder what exactly he’s going to do if he doesn’t get the money.
Heather interrupts my thoughts about broken kneecaps and waterboarding. “You need to stop. You were taken advantage of at a rough time...” Her voice trails off.
“I know,” I agree, trying to wrap up the subject. It’s a trip down memory lane I could do without.
That time in my life is done with. The dodgy boyfriend, the cocaine in my purse...I do not want to even think about it, but every time it’s brought up it’s like I’m right back there. I made bad choices, I’ll own up to that, but the consequences of those choices were disproportionate to the stupidity on my part.
I fought the charges with the help of funds from my mother and stepfather, but it still ended up with a plea deal and a felony possession with intent to distribute on my record.
Not exactly something you bring up on the first date.
And then, of course, there’s the blow to my already fragile mental state at the time. I did something else to myself I’d rather forget and never have to recount to anyone.
I’d been battling anxiety and depression since my early teens. You add to my usual struggle the humiliation of what happened with the arrest, and let’s just say looking back I’m incredibly grateful I wasn’t successful at my attempt to make it all disappear.
I shift in the seat, reminded that I need to cut back on the donuts as the waistband of my skirt digs into my tummy. The brown velvet blazer I’ve paired with a white tank top is pulling over my triple-D boobs and straining the single button that threatens to pop open at any moment.
It took me a half-hour to find an outfit that still fit me and looked decent but not desperate. Being a writer, I do a lot of sitting, and you combine that with my other side job of working in a bakery, it’s a sure recipe for an ever-expanding rear end.
“Listen,” I start as I catch a glimpse of myself in the cab’s rearview and take my free hand to my hair, trying to smooth it back. My hair is full of these whacky little curls. When people ask me how I get my hair to ‘do that,’ I answer with, ‘I wash it and hope for the best.’
I finish my request to Heather, “Just call me in, like, forty-five minutes, okay? I need an out just in case. I can’t endure an entire evening of blind date hell again. I just can’t. I feel like if one thing goes wrong, I’m going to lose it.”
“Fine,” Heather answers with a sigh. “Just try to keep an open mind. You never know when Prince Charming will arrive. Your whole ‘What If’ series is based on that very idea. When you least expect him, expect him. Isn’t that your tagline?”
Anxiety knots my belly and has a throb starting in my temples. “Unfortunately, fiction isn’t real life.”
I wrap up the call with Heather and do some deep breathing as the cab winds its way through a rough-looking neighborhood to finally slow and stop outside a seedy street-front bar that looks like it’s seen better days.
“Eight-fifty.” The driver addresses me with a look into the rear view as I wonder how deeply Helga interviewed this new potential suitor. Because if the location of our first date is any indication, he’s not raising my expectations.
As I fumble in my purse for my wallet, a voice inside my head says to tell the driver to keep driving. Instead of heeding what is probably very good advice, I pay the fare and with a deep breath make my way through the wind and mist toward the bar.
As I cross the sidewalk, I look down at my black patent-leather Doc Martens. I have fourteen pair of the signature boots, and I wonder if maybe my footwear is part of the problem. Could it be that men simply cannot make peace with a girl who enjoys a good edgy boot? If I traded my rubber-soled, lace-up habit for some Jimmy Choos, would my life be different?
“What if. What if...” I mumble as I tug open the door plastered with a selection of beer logo bumper stickers, forcing a slight smile onto my face and shaking my hair back, hoping for the best.
Inside the dark bar, it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, but immediately my nose is in heaven. Instead of an assault of stale beer and cheap perfume, it smells like coming home. Only unlike my home—where reservations were my mother’s claim to fame—this is like stepping into the kind of home where the mom spends the day cooking everything that smells like comfort.
I do a quick room scan, and there’s an invisible rope that pulls my gaze to a table where a dark-haired, beast-size guy sits. My eyes lock onto him, and I swallow hard, and my stomach does this little flip as a rush of instant heat envelopes me. There’s a steaming cup of coffee in front of him, as well as an empty plate with silverware and a rumpled paper napkin on top.
