Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 28083 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 94(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28083 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 94(@300wpm)
The truth is, I stood outside debating whether to go in just to hear her breathing in the dark.
I didn't.
Instead, I went back to my office on the opposite end of the compound and stared at the plaque on my desk, willing the words to make sense like they used to.
By 3 AM, I'd given my head of security, Marcus, explicit instructions: check on her every thirty minutes and report back.
Lucky for him, he didn't ask why I was suddenly micromanaging a routine intake.
I’m not a man who’s ever been distracted by lust. I’ve indulged in the comfort and release of females from time to time, but it’s never been a compulsion.
But this girl.
As much as I fight the realization, I’m a man who does not believe there is benefit in masking the truth.
The first sight of her laying in that bed had my balls in a vice. If she’d reached out to touch me last night, I’m not sure I could have resisted. The urge to stuff her pretty little cherry cunt full of me nearly broke me.
I forced myself into bed, feeling her electricity surrounding me. For the first time since I came here after being forced out of the city for following my father’s orders, the bitterness I’ve carried like a tightening knot between my shoulder blades disappeared.
Every time I closed my eyes, those deep blue ones were looking back at me, that flush spreading across her cheeks, the soft "Yes, Daddy" that went straight to my cock.
I fought the erection all fucking night, and the two times I tried to take care of it, I couldn’t.
The practiced movements of my hand that usually elicit a climax easily within thirty to sixty seconds felt…flat. Disconnected.
Wrong.
So here I am, in my bedroom, looking out through floor-to-ceiling windows that frame a view of the infinity pool, the manicured gardens, and the lapping waves of the Mediterranean beyond.
I pour my fourth cup of coffee, battling back the hyperawareness my dick seems to have that she's awake somewhere in this compound.
That I told the staff to set her free, but not to allow her out of the house.
My room is clean. Controlled. Everything in its place.
Unlike my head right now.
During the night, I woke up the maintenance staff and ordered them to paint the largest and best of the other bedrooms in her perfect yellow.
I told them to figure out how to make the color the same as Belle’s dress in Beauty and the Beast, then hung up.
I told myself it was about establishing authority, showing her I keep my promises, demonstrating that obedience gets rewarded. That I’m to be trusted.
The truth is, I wanted to see her face when she saw it. Wanted to watch those eyes light up. Wanted to be the one who gave her something joyful, even if it’s in the midst of a nightmare.
But what I wanted most was to hear her call me Daddy again.
I drain the half mug of still scalding black coffee, welcoming the burn as punishment for allowing emotions to surface that will only complicate things.
Routine and order must be maintained, so I make my way down the hall, descend the main curved stairs, my footsteps echoing in the arched plastered ceiling as the air around me seems to buzz.
When I reach the grand foyer, I’m surprised to hear Maria's voice echoing in the hallway. It’s definitely her. Having a conversation with someone and sounding…downright chipper.
I rub the sharp bite of pain in my jaw as I walk. I popped a gold crown from one of my molars last night, clenching my fucking teeth so hard.
I make a mental note to call in a favor from the dentist on the mainland to re-secure the evidence of my growing mania.
Things are upended here for others, clearly, because in all the fifteen years she’s been in my employ and the hundred or so wards we’ve had here, I’ve never heard Maria…chat.
Yet here she is, jabbering like a drunk on a barstool at 2 AM.
"Your mother, she doesn't cook for you?" Maria sounds horrified.
"My mother doesn't do anything for me," Larissa responds, and her voice does things to me I hate. "She does things to me and for her. There's a difference."
“That is not right,” Maria snaps back as I close the last four strides to the entryway to the kitchen and swallow, then I freeze as though some curse has stolen my power of movement, because she’s right there, sitting at the kitchen table.
Like the universe is announcing to me that I’m royally screwed, a skewer of Mediterranean light cuts straight across her upper body, illuminating her perky teenage tits, and I want to pop her fucking cherry right here in front of Maria and the cucumber she’s slicing.
I should announce myself, but I’m stuck, my dick at half-mast already.