Second Chance Daddy: Broken Boss Daddies, page 2
“Please, what?” he asks against my skin.
“I need... I need...”
“Tell me, Cassie. Tell me what you need.”
You. I need you.
“More,” I whisper. “I need more.”
His hands slide down to my jeans, and I lift my hips so he can pull them down my legs along with my panties. The metal of the car hood is cold against my bare skin, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything except the way he’s looking at me.
Like I’m something precious. Something to be worshiped.
“Spread your legs for me,” he says, his voice rough with want.
I should be embarrassed. I should be mortified. I’m naked on the hood of my car in a public parking lot, for crying out loud.
But I’m not. I’m just... alive.
I do as he asks, spreading my legs wide, and the look he gives is so damn hot.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he breathes, and then he’s kneeling between my legs.
Oh, hell. This is really happening.
The first touch of his tongue against my core makes me arch off the hood with a cry. He chuckles against me; the vibration sends shockwaves through my body.
“Quiet, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Don’t want to get arrested.”
Arrested. Right. Because we’re in public. Because anyone could walk by and see us.
I should care about that. I really should.
But when he licks me again, slow and deliberate, all rational thought goes out the window.
He takes his time, building my pleasure with methodical precision. His tongue circles my clit, dips inside me, traces patterns that make my toes curl and my back arch.
“You taste so fucking good,” he groans against me. “Better than I imagined.”
He imagined this, too? God, what does that do to a girl’s ego?
His fingers join his tongue, sliding into me while his mouth works my clit, and I have to bite my lip to keep from screaming.
This is insane. This is absolutely insane.
And I never want it to stop.
“Dante,” I gasp, my hands fisting in his hair. “I’m going to—”
“Come for me,” he commands against my skin. “Come on my tongue.”
And I do. Oh God, I do.
The orgasm hits me like a freight train, waves of pleasure crashing over me until I’m shaking and gasping and probably making too much noise for a public parking lot.
But I don’t care. I can’t care about anything except the way he’s making me feel.
He doesn’t stop until I’m boneless and spent, slumped back against the windshield of my car.
“Holy shit,” I breathe.
He stands up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and the sight of him—hair messed up from my fingers, lips swollen from kissing me, eyes dark with satisfaction—is almost enough to make me come again.
“We’re not done,” he says, his voice rough.
Good. God, please don’t let us be done.
He reaches for his belt, and I watch, mesmerized, as he unbuckles it. The sound of his zipper is loud in the quiet night.
And his cock? My mouth goes dry.
“You good, sweetheart?” He grins.
I somehow nod.
“Words, Cassie.”
“I’m fine,” I breathe. “Just…” I spread my legs, because what else is there to do?
Dante smiles and steps between my legs like he’s about to finish what he started, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance.
“Last chance to change your mind,” he says, his forehead pressed against mine.
Change my mind? Is he insane?
“Shut up and fuck me, Romano.”
He grins—actually grins—and then he’s pushing into me, slow and steady, stretching me in the most delicious way.
Oh God. Oh God, he’s big.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, his hands gripping my hips.
“You’re huge,” I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders.
He stills. “You okay?”
Okay? I’m better than okay. I’m transcendent.
“More,” I demand. “Give me more.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. He pulls back and thrusts forward, burying himself to the hilt, and I see stars.
This is what I’ve been missing. This is what sex is supposed to feel like.
He sets a rhythm—slow at first, then faster, harder. The hood of my car creaks with every thrust, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything except the way he feels inside me.
“God, Cassie,” he pants. “You feel so fucking good.”
He feels good too. He feels perfect.
My legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groans into my neck.
“Harder,” I whisper. “Please, harder.”
He obliges, pounding into me with a force that makes my eyes roll back. The angle is perfect, hitting that spot inside me that makes me see fireworks.
“You like that?” he growls against my ear.
“Yes,” I gasp. “God, yes.”
His hand slides between us, fingers finding my clit, and I nearly scream.
Too much. It’s too much.
But also not enough. Never enough.
“Come for me again,” he commands, his voice rough with exertion. “Come on my cock.”
And I do. Again. Harder than before.
This orgasm is different—deeper, more intense. It starts in my core and radiates outward until my whole body is shaking with it.
“Fuck, Cassie,” he snarls, his rhythm faltering. “You’re going to make me—”
He thrusts and buries deep, chest heaving against my spine. He lets out a guttural moan as he spills inside me.
And, holy hell, I feel all of it.
The heat. The weight. The slickness of his cum. The ache that lingers in my bones and the softness of his breath against my neck, still panting.
Holy shit. Holy actual shit.
We stay like that for a moment, both breathing hard, his forehead pressed against mine.
What the hell just happened?
And why do I already want it to happen again?
He pulls out slowly, and I suddenly feel very naked and very exposed.
Reality is creeping back in.
I just had sex with Dante Romano on the hood of my car in a public parking lot.
What the hell is wrong with me?
He helps me down from the car, his hands gentle as he hands me my clothes.
“You okay?” he asks.
Am I okay? I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.
“Yeah,” I lie, pulling on my shirt. “I’m fine.”
I’m not fine. I’m the opposite of fine.
I’m in trouble.
We get dressed in silence, and when I’m finally clothed again, I don’t know what to say.
Thank you? That was great? See you around?
None of it seems adequate for what just happened.
“Cassie,” he starts, but I cut him off.
“This was...” I trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence.
“A mistake?” he suggests, and there’s something in his voice that makes my chest tight.
Was it a mistake? It felt pretty damn perfect to me.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I don’t know anything anymore.”
He steps closer, his hand cupping my cheek. “Hey. Look at me.”
I look at him, and those damn eyes are going to be the death of me.
“This wasn’t a mistake,” he says firmly. “Whatever this was, it wasn’t a mistake.”
God, I want to believe him.
But I’ve made so many mistakes already.
“I should go,” I whisper.
He nods, stepping back. “Drive safe.”
That’s it? Drive safe?
What did I expect? A declaration of love?
I get in my car, my hands shaking as I start the engine. Through the windshield, I can see him standing there, hands in his pockets, watching me.
Drive away, Cassie. Just drive away and pretend this never happened.
But I can’t. I can’t pretend that what just happened didn’t change everything.
I roll down the window. “Dante?”
“Yeah?”
“This stays between us, right?”
Something flickers across his face. “If that’s what you want.”
It’s not what I want. But it’s what I need.
“It is.”
He nods. “Drive safe, Cassie.”
And then I’m driving away, leaving him standing in that parking lot, and I already know I’m going to regret this.
All of it.
But especially the part where I drove away.
3
CASSIE
Three years later
“No, Aria. We do not lick the display case.”
Sunlight spills through my bakery’s window. I have frosting on my jeans, flour on my cheek, and a tiny tyrant trying to steal a cupcake.
My daughter pauses—one hand already smudged with lemon filling, her face pressed against the glass like a puppy drooling over a treat.
She turns those big storm-blue eyes on me and smiles like the picture of innocence. “I didn’t lick. I breathed.”
“Through your tongue?”
She nods and levels me a glare that screams Mommy doesn’t know a thing in toddler-speak.
I sigh, crouching to wipe the glass. “Okay, Your Majesty. Go wash your hands, and then you can steal one mini cupcake. One.”
“Two,” she negotiates, already skipping toward the back.
“One,” I bellow and shake my head, smiling at her retreating form. She’s three years old and the light of my life. There’s not a single moment of boredom when the little nugget is around.
With no customers in at the moment, I stand behind the counter and get started on kneading the dough for some bread. Aria bounds back with her cute little palms all clean and held up for me to see.
“Mommy. Cupcake.”
“Okay, sweetie.” I sigh and open the display cabinet, picking out her favorite flavor. Chocolate. While I plate it, I see her darting from the corner of my eye for the still-open display.
“Aria Louise Russo,” I call out, without turning. “If you touch that vanilla bean swirl, I swear on your bedtime—”
Plop. Too late. She took it and dropped it. One more mess for me to clean up. Not that I mind. For her? I’d clean the whole world.
I turn, and she flashes me a toothy grin that’s all baby teeth and mischief. I flash her the mom glare. The one that says: I’ve seen things, kid. Don’t test me before coffee.
She suddenly wipes the smile off her face. God, how I want to laugh. Poor thing. She looks terrified, but someone’s got to play bad cop. It’s just us.
Some days I wonder if I made the right choice. Most days, I know I had no choice at all.
“Come on now,” I tell her. “You’re going to sit at your little chair and table. Eat the one cupcake I give you and then help Mommy like I taught you, okay?”
“Okay,” she stands straighter, always up for helping.
The bell above the bakery door jingles just as I put Aria into her tiny apron and set her up in the corner with her cupcake and “important mixing job,” which currently involves dry oats and serious concentration.
“Good morning, Ruthie,” I call out as my favorite neighborhood gossip breezes in.
Ruthie Patterson, eighty-four and blessed without a filter, totters to the front counter in oversized sunglasses.
“You will not believe what that awful Trudy’s granddaughter did,” she huffs, slamming a folded newspaper down. “Posted photos on the internet. In a bikini. With one of those football boys. And that’s not all!” she declares with a huff, eyeing the treats on sale for the day.
When I say nothing, she looks up at me, gravely offended. “Don’t you want to know what else?”
“What else, Ruthie?” I flash her my best partner-in-crime smile, leaning in like we’re co-conspirators, because I know she won’t rest till she has it out of her system. Honestly? If Oprah called her on live TV, she’d still talk about Trudie.
“She also got a tattoo. On her rear end. Of the devil’s pitchfork. I swear her poor old sweet grandpa’s turnin’ over in his grave.”
I bite back a smile, hand her the usual—one blueberry scone, warmed, and a hot cappuccino. “Scandalous. I’ll alert the church board.”
“She’s nineteen, Cassie. And his arms were huge.”
“Maybe he’s a trainer? That’s good, right? He takes care of himself.”
“She was sitting on him like a saddle.”
I nod. “Well, maybe she’s into horses.”
Ruthie narrows her eyes, and I reach across the counter to squeeze her hand.
“Ruthie, honey. If gossip were a drug, you’d be due for an intervention.”
She humphs, but the corners of her mouth twitch. “You always take the high road.”
“Someone’s gotta.”
Ruthie eyes me over her coffee rim. “You’re too soft, Cassie. That’s why everyone likes you.” Her wrinkled hand pats mine. “But I suppose that’s not a bad thing to be.”
Aria waves from her oat station, that sweet little child and her manners. Ruthie waves back, a little smile breaking her crusty expression before she shuffles to her usual corner table by the window, and the morning falls into its familiar rhythm.
Regulars come and go.
I pipe frosting onto cupcakes for a birthday order.
The sunlight crawls across the floor of the beautiful place I’ve built—a cozy little bakery-café with regular customers and a toddler who loves them all. In this quiet world of mine, I wake up without a hammering heart.
Not having to look over my shoulder or flinch at slamming doors feels like a gift I never want to give back. Some days, the peace feels too good to be true. Like something’s bound to shatter it.
But I have to live with the secret that eats at me every single day.
The door swings open again, and it’s Tina—head-to-toe linen, big-ass sunglasses, blown-out hair, dripping rich girl summer vibes like we’re in the Hamptons. Meanwhile, I’ve got flour in my bra and frosting on my butt, because that’s my glamorous life now.
She dumps herself across the counter like a cat in a sunbeam. “Tell me you have a cherry danish or I’ll collapse in protest.”
“You say that every week, and you’ve never collapsed once.”
“Today might be the day.”
I hand her one without a word. She takes a bite and groans like she’s in a commercial.
“So,” she says, crumbs on her lip, “you coming to the lake house for the annual start of the summer barbeque or what? Aria can build sandcastles, and I can finally make you wear a bikini without hiding behind a towel.”
“Tempting,” I say, pouring her coffee. “But we’ve got a lot going on. Cupcake season.”
“It’s not a harvest, Cass.”
“Easy for you to say. Some of us can’t just drop everything for a party.”
“Oh please, it’s one day. What’s the worst that could happen?”
My hand pauses on the coffee pot. You’d be surprised what can happen in one day.
“I just like keeping things predictable these days.”
“Since when are you Miss Predictable? You used to be up for anything before you married that asshole.”
The mention of Gino makes my stomach clench. “That’s exactly why I like predictable now.”
“I still can’t believe what he put you through. Thank God you got out when you did.”
I focus on wiping down the counter, anywhere but meeting her eyes. “Yeah, well. Some lessons you only need to learn once.”
“Has he tried to contact you since the divorce was finalized?”
“A few times.” More than a few. “But his family told him to cut ties clean. They’re done with the drama, too.”
“Good. Aria doesn’t need that kind of toxicity in her life.”
If only Tina knew the whole truth about Aria’s life.
“Come on, Cass. It’s just one day. Don’t be a party pooper.”
For a split second, I’m tempted. Wouldn’t it be wicked fun? Barbecue, champagne, pretending my life’s not one giant game of survival? Just for a day. Damn Tina and her rich-girl nonsense—where every weekend’s an adventure and I’m over here calculating grocery budgets like it’s the damn Olympics.
“I’m not being a party pooper. I’ve got work!” I fire back, remembering I’m not Tina. I can’t just whisk off on a weekday to welcome in summer.
“So, hire someone,” she tosses back, flippant as hell. Like, payroll’s a suggestion and not something I stress about every damn month.
“Tina—” I start, but she’s already leaning over the counter, planting a kiss on Aria’s head.
“Aria, baby, wanna see a lake sometime?”
“Lake, lake, lake!” Aria claps her hands like she just got offered Disneyland and a puppy.
Tina shoots me a smug look as she slides back onto her stool, cocking an eyebrow like she’s already won.
“Let the kid have some fun.”
I groan, rolling my eyes. “Fine. It might be good for Aria…”
“Amazing!” Tina grins—bright, smug, and way too pretty for my willpower. That grin? Full Gigi Hadid with audacity baked right in.
My phone buzzes on the counter. Unknown number. I glance at it and let it go to voicemail.
“Aren’t you going to answer that?” Tina asks, Danish halfway to her mouth.
“Probably spam.”
“What if it’s important? Could be a customer.”
“Important calls come from numbers I recognize.” I turn the phone face down. “Trust me on this one.”
“You’re so paranoid about phone calls now. Remember when you used to answer everything thinking it might be an adventure?”
“That was before I learned some adventures aren’t worth having.” Before I learned that unknown numbers usually meant Gino’s slurred threats at 2 AM.
“I get it. After what you went through with him...”
“Let’s not talk about him, okay?” The subject of Gino always makes me anxious. “Some things are better left buried.”
