Page 7 of Dirty Sweet Daddy

But even as I make these vows, I know I'm lying to myself. Because tomorrow she'll come downstairs in those sleep shorts that barely cover her ass, or bend over to get something from the fridge, or brush against me in the hallway, and I'll be right back here—hard and aching and hating myself for wanting what I can't have.

What I shouldn't have.

I throw an arm over my eyes, trying to block out the images that keep flooding my brain. Kate on her knees. Kate spread out on my bed. Kate calling me "Daddy" as she comes around my cock.

It's not the last time. I know it isn't. And that terrifies me almost as much as how badly I want her.

five

. . .

Kate

Three days since my birthday, and Lucas is avoiding me like I'm contagious. He leaves for the office before I wake up. Comes home late. Grunts one-word answers when I try to talk to him. I catch him looking sometimes—his eyes dark and hungry when he thinks I'm not paying attention—but the moment I meet his gaze, he turns away. I'm done with this game. Done being treated like I'm made of glass, like I'm some innocent little girl who doesn't know what she wants. And what I want is him. All of him. The way his massive body tenses when I walk into a room. The way his voice drops to that gravelly rumble that makes my thighs clench. Today, I'm going to make him see me—really see me—even if I have to break all his carefully constructed walls to do it.

I've spent three days planning my approach, testing boundaries with increasingly revealing outfits, casual touches that linger just a second too long, stretches that expose my midriff when he walks by. I've watched him struggle—jaw clenching, fingers curling into fists at his sides, eyes darting away but always coming back to me. There's a hunger in those blue-gray depths that sends shivers down my spine.

He wants me. I know it. But for some reason, he's fighting it with everything he has.

Not anymore.

It's just past eight in the evening when I hear him come home, the front door closing with a soft click. His footsteps move toward his office—his sanctuary where he hides from me. I wait five minutes, giving him time to settle, before I make my move.

I'm wearing sleep shorts—tiny, pale pink things that barely cover my ass—and a thin tank top with no bra. My nipples are hard points against the fabric, visible and obvious. My hair falls loose around my shoulders, still damp from my shower. I look young, innocent…but not too innocent. A perfect contradiction.

I don't knock. I just turn the handle and walk in.

Lucas sits behind his massive desk, tie loosened, top button undone, sleeves rolled up to expose powerful forearms corded with muscle and scattered with scars. His head jerks up at my entrance, eyes widening briefly before narrowing.

"Kate. I'm working." His voice is clipped, dismissive.

I ignore him, closing the door behind me with a soft click. "We need to talk."

"Can it wait until morning?" He doesn't look up from his laptop, fingers tapping at the keys with forced concentration.

I move closer, until I'm standing directly across the desk from him. "Why won't you look at me?"

His typing stops. A muscle in his jaw ticks.

"I'm looking at you right now," he says, finally raising his eyes to mine. But there's something guarded in his gaze, a wall I'm determined to break through.

"No, you're not. Not really." I circle the desk slowly, watching his body tense with each step I take. "You haven't really looked at me in three days. Not since my birthday."

He swivels his chair slightly, angling away from me. "I've been busy. Work⁠—"

"Bullshit." The curse falls from my lips, sharp and unexpected. Lucas's eyes widen. I never swear. "You're avoiding me."

"Kate—"

"Is it because of how I dressed? The movie? Because I sat close to you?" I stop beside his chair, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. "Or is it because you liked it too much?"

His throat works as he swallows, hands gripping the armrests of his chair. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" I lean closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "I felt you, you know. Under that pillow. How hard you were."

Color floods his face—not embarrassment, but something darker, more primal. His eyes flash with heat before he shutters the expression.

"Because I can't," he rasps, the words sounding like they're torn from somewhere deep inside him.