Page 4 of Dirty Sweet Daddy

I slam my laptop shut and stride to the adjoining bathroom, turning the shower cold enough to punish. As the icy water hits my skin, I make myself a promise: I will get through this. I will protect Kate—even from myself.

But standing there, cock still hard despite the cold, I know I'm lying to myself. Something's going to break soon. And when it does, I pray to whatever god might be listening that Kate is far away from me when it happens.

Because the things I want to do to her would shock the devil himself.

three

. . .

Kate

I barely cried at my father's funeral. Does that make me a terrible person? He was never there—always working, always gone, chasing some new woman after Mom died. The tears I shed were more for show than anything else. The real tears came years before, when I realized he'd never see me, not really. Not like Lucas does. Lucas has always looked at me like I matter. Even when I was sixteen and just a gangly teenager hanging around when he'd visit Dad, his blue-gray eyes would find mine across the room, and for once, I'd feel real. That's when I fell in love with him. Not that he knows. But today—my nineteenth birthday—I plan to make it impossible for him to ignore anymore.

Because Lucas is really the only thing I want for my birthday.

I stand in front of my bathroom mirror and smooth my hands over the tiny booty shorts I bought online last week. They're criminally short, cupping the bottom curve of my ass. The crop top is just as bad—thin white fabric that clings to my breasts, showing the hard points of my nipples through the material. No bra. I've seen how Lucas looks at me when he thinks I don't notice—the heat in his eyes when I bend over to pick something up, the way his jaw tightens when I walk around in my pajamas.

He wants me. He just won't admit it.

For two weeks, I've been the perfect houseguest. Quiet. Respectful. Playing the grieving daughter while secretly counting down the days until my birthday. Until today. Because I'm done waiting for Lucas to make the first move. I'm done with him treating me like I'm made of glass.

I apply another coat of lip gloss, fluff my honey-blonde waves, and head downstairs. Lucas is in the kitchen, his broad back to me as he stirs something on the stove. He's wearing a gray henley that stretches across his shoulders, worn jeans that hug his ass in a way that makes my mouth water.

"Smells good," I say, leaning against the doorframe.

He turns, and the wooden spoon in his hand freezes mid-air. His eyes widen, then darken as they travel from my face down my body in one slow sweep. His throat works as he swallows.

"What are you wearing?" His voice comes out rough, almost a growl.

I shrug, feigning innocence as I walk into the kitchen. "Just something comfortable for my birthday dinner. Is that pasta?"

I move closer, deliberately brushing against him as I peer into the pot. I feel him tense beside me, his body going rigid. Up close, the scent of him—sandalwood soap and something distinctly male—makes heat pool between my thighs.

"Kate," he says, my name a warning on his lips. "Maybe you should put on something…more."

"More what?" I look up at him through my lashes. "Don't you like my outfit?"

His jaw clenches, a muscle ticking in his cheek. "It's not appropriate."

I play innocent. “Why not?" I reach up to grab plates from the cabinet, knowing full well it makes my crop top ride up, exposing the underside of my breasts. "Besides, it's just us. No one else to see."

Lucas turns abruptly back to the stove, his knuckles white around the spoon. "Dinner's ready. Sit down."

Throughout the meal, I make sure to lean forward, giving him glimpses of my cleavage. I lick sauce from my lips slowly, watching his eyes track the movement. When I drop my napkin and bend to retrieve it, I hear his sharp intake of breath.

"So," I say, twirling pasta around my fork, "I was thinking we could watch a movie after dinner? Just us?"

"Whatever you want," he says, his voice tight. "It's your birthday."

"Whatever I want," I repeat, letting the words hang between us, heavy with meaning.

He clears his throat. "I got you something." He pushes a small wrapped box across the table.

Inside is a delicate silver necklace with a tiny angel pendant. Not flashy or expensive, but thoughtful. My heart melts. “Thank you! It’s perfect. Will you put it on me?" I ask, standing and moving around the table to him.

I turn, lifting my hair, exposing the nape of my neck. I feel him hesitate before his warm fingers brush my skin, sending shivers down my spine. The pendant settles in the hollow of my throat, his knuckles grazing my collarbone.

“I’ll never take it off,” I whisper, turning to face him. We're so close I can feel his breath on my face. "I love it."