Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
I called Beau Mr. Shaw when I was immensely nervous.
And maybe it turned me on.
Just a little.
My life of always having to take care of myself, no one looking out for me, meant I had a little bit of a kink about power plays. About being the one ordered around. Taken care of.
My fantasies involved me calling Beau Mr. Shaw and him ordering me to do various things.
Naked.
I thought Beau hadn’t liked it because it made him feel old, overly formal. Or just because Beau was a prickly asshole who didn’t like anything I said or did.
Could it be that it turned Beau on?
I toyed with the spine of my book.
No. Certainly not.
It pissed him off.
It was that simple.
I pissed him off because he didn’t like me. That was the truth. No more imagining. No more fantasies. Do my job then leave. Ten more months of this. I could do it.
Even if it simultaneously felt like an eternity and a moment.
BEAU
It took a cold shower to get my shit together. It took me jacking off in that shower just to release the pressure I felt in my fucking balls from her calling me “Mr. Shaw.”
Even after the cold shower and a shot of whisky, I couldn’t shake the shy smile. The scent of vanilla. Her soft voice. Her dry joke. Her playing with my daughter’s hair at the breakfast bar, looking at her like she was sunshine. Everything about her.
It infuriated me.
For the thousandth fucking time, I told myself I would fire her. Tomorrow. And then I thought of Clara. The way she snuggled up to Hannah when they were reading on the sofa. The way she sat patiently while Hannah braided her hair in elaborate styles I’d never be able to reproduce. I thought about the fairy garden. Next-door fucking nanas.
I thought of the marked improvement in my daughter’s already chipper disposition since Hannah moved in. Thought of how the house felt lighter, smelled better. It even looked better. Fucking flowers. Pillows that Clara insisted she pick out.
Hannah made my life fucking miserable.
Hannah made Clara’s life brighter.
Therefore, she’d stay.
So instead of watching some brain-dead show to get my mind off her or taking another drink before forcing myself to sleep, I opened the Kindle that I’d bought the day I’d spotted Hannah reading a book.
She was a voracious reader. She read almost a book a week, sometimes more. Her tastes were varied and impressive, from war biographies to books on trauma and psychology to sprawling fantasies. I’d read each one I’d seen her with.
I noticed that the books she read bore stickers from the local library. Who went to a library anymore? How was Hannah even old enough to know how to check shit out? Didn’t everyone in her generation read on devices? Not her. I barely saw her on her phone unless she was snapping photos of Clara, which I’d told her she’d never be able to post. She then informed me that she didn’t have social media, only wanting to send them to me and have them for herself. Yet another way she surprised me, intrigued me, impressed me. Even though I wasn’t supposed to be learning things about her. She wanted photos of Clara for herself. Because she thought my daughter was precious. Because she thought every new hairstyle, new item of clothing, or new activity Clara did was worthy of celebration and immortalization.
I typed the title of the book into my Kindle, bought it, then began reading.
An hour later, I was breathing heavily, my cock hard as a rock as I stared at my bedroom door, my vision tinged red.
None of the books she’d read so far had been romantic. Not in the slightest. Until this. This book had graphic sex scenes where the heroine called the man fucking her “Daddy.” Where he took her hard and fast and rough.
None of that should’ve turned me on. I was a fucking father, for fuck’s sake. That title, in that situation, should’ve been abhorrent. Then I thought of Hannah. Ass presented to me, flushed with need, impaled by my cock, calling me Mr. Shaw.
That was when I hurled my Kindle across the room. When it hit my dresser with a loud bang, I was grateful to know it wouldn’t wake Clara.
But it would wake Hannah. If she was sleeping. Or if she was in bed, in that hot little sleep set, reading about being fucked by a “Daddy” in my fucking house.
I fisted the sheets. My brain, my instincts, every cell in my body was telling me to get out of bed and go to her room, rip the book from her hands, and show her what it was like to get fucked well.
I held steady, grinding my teeth to dust.
I stayed where I was.
Eventually, I went to sleep. And I dreamed of Hannah.