Bossy Daddy

By: Mia Madison
A Steamy Billionaire Older Man Office Romance

Chapter One


I'm determined to get this job. I will have it. Not that it's my lifelong dream to be an intern at a shipping company but I'm also determined to prove them both wrong.

My parents. Who've been married more times than I have fingers and still keep getting it wrong. At least they taught me that love is hopeless, love is hard. Why couldn't they have simply stayed married to each other and not keep trading up to a richer-slash-younger new model? Every partner's the same, right? Each guy I've dated has been interchangeable with the previous and the next. I could have just stayed with any one of them, although I didn't. And that only makes Mom and Dad come down on me more.

“You need to start planning for the future,” Daddy tells me. “You know I love you, Baby Girl, but you can't hang around the house all day once Amanda moves in.”

Soon-to-be wife number six.

“Why not?” I pout.

Yeah I know I'm too old to pout and it's not that I wanna be a brat, but it sometimes seems like it's expected. Does that make sense? You put on a role at some point in your life and then it stays wrapped around you like a heavy winter coat in springtime. You want nothing more than to shake it off, but you've got nowhere to stash it.

“Because you need to focus on your future. You can't sit around fixing your nails and drinking frappuccinos.”

“Lattes. And what's Amanda gonna be doing all day?”

“Don't sass me. She's going to be my wife. You need to think about a job.”

And then from the other side -

“Make yourself look nice. No man's going to want you with your hair in a scraggly mess. Get a blow out.”

That's Mom. A job to her means securing a rich husband so she can sit home all day drinking lattes.

Last year she married her fourth husband. Better than the third but absolutely no comparison to the second, Smith Kennedy -Yum. That man was the hottest thing walking. I was only sixteen when they got together and most of the time I lived at my dad's house rather than with my mom.

But when I was with her, even I could see he was a dreamboat. His stunning face, his muscles all carved out and bulging. After he moved in, he put a home gym into the basement so he could work out after hours. He always came home very late from his office and, damn, if I didn't get out of bed and sneak downstairs to take a peep at him flexing all that power.

With every tug on the weight load, his muscles would tense and bulge out hard. Like he was in a personal battle with the machine. And Smith was determined to win. He was a very determined man in a lot of things, mostly about getting what he wanted. I'd hear him on the phone giving orders to an employee at one of his various businesses and it gave me goosebumps.

“This is what I need you to do.” The commanding tone of his voice as he instructed someone in no uncertain terms was thrilling.

But there was never a more tingling sensation in my skin as when I watched him on the weight machines. He wore loose gym shorts, slung low on his narrow hips. I had a full view of his thick thighs with the ropes of entwined muscle bristling beneath the skin. His tee was loose too, cutaway at the shoulder to enhance and expose the amazing strength in his swelling biceps and pectorals.

And after a while of me standing hidden at the edge of the door, watching and making every attempt not to drool, sweat would prick up across Smith's smooth skin. The room began to fill with the heady aroma of masculinity. The tee marked with stripes of dampness and a glistening sheen covered his bulging tendons. And suddenly I had some serious throbbing starting up between my thighs.

For my Mother's freaking husband.


First time that happened, I dashed back up to my room and put Smith right out of my mind. With no little effort too. In the morning, he grabbed coffee to head out like always.

“Good morning, Carly,” was all he ever said.

That morning, after the night before, my cheeks flushed with red hot burning. He looked at me strangely, with a dimpling at his cheeks as he tried not to smile, but politely ignored my silly humiliation. I trailed my stare up from beneath my lowered lashes, to check out how those muscles fit inside his smooth white cotton shirt. It was made to measure, obviously, and the cut hugged close to his carved ridges so that I had to swallow a gasp of admiration.

Every night after that I lay awake, listening for Smith's return home. The only one that waited for him, because my mother would go to bed like she could care less whether he came back or not. I lay breathlessly in wait, desperate to see him. Hoping for another smile, and so much more. I tip-toed downstairs and watched his workout with my clit flexing in time with every jerk of his ferociously stacked muscle. It was beyond embarrassing to be crushing all over my mom's husband, barely a couple of years younger than my Dad. But it was also addictive.

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