Bossy Daddy(9)

By: Mia Madison


“Yes, fuck me,” I murmured, as I pushed one finger inside my tight, untouched channel.

A poor substitute for the cock I already knew was massive. I certainly never forgot the sight of Smith's huge erection prodding straight up in his loose gym shorts.

“Oh god, yes, fuck me harder.”

I rubbed my hard little point faster, needing to be taken by a man's rough touch. Wishing I was being filled and stretched to my limit. I wanted to tear at my own clothes, pull my breasts out of their cups and imagine Smith, my stepfather, tugging on the agonized points.

It was insane, but it was so good. If I couldn't have the man himself, then the wild imaginings of his heavy hands all over my tender points were doing the trick. Breaths were coming in short panting bursts as my orgasm pooled and pressed tingles through my core.

“Yes,” I whimpered to the city at my feet. “Yes, more, harder.”

So close, I strummed my clit and tried to hook into my g-spot at the same time. I was so close. About to go over the edge. When the sudden flash of an object before me and the violent rumblings of noise outside the window threw me out of my pleasure. I yanked my hand out of my pussy and slammed my legs together, the violent color rushing to my cheeks.

My eyes stretched round as the helicopter rose directly up before me, as though it was climbing up the side of the building rather than flying on a horizontal plane. And the black windscreen was facing directly at me like yet another glassy set of spying eyes.

“What the fuck was that?”

I scooted my expensive chair back to my desk and smoothed down my skirt.

Holy shit. Had the pilot seen me? Sitting on the edge of my seat with my pussy stretched wide open, my fingers buried inside me, framed by the huge window. Like some hooker for sale in those store windows in Amsterdam.

I sat rigid in my chair until my fear began to uncoil. No harm done. He probably didn't see a thing. He'd be too busy concentrating on that cray flight maneuver – who did he think he was, Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible?

A very short while after, the voice summoning me came across the – whatever mechanism – certainly not an intercom. I smooth myself down and head in to greet my boss.

The door slides shut but the desk, even bigger than my own, sits in the center of an office that spans the entire side of the building and is just as devoid of furnishings. It's also empty.

I turn around to leave, thinking I must be in the wrong place after all and my knees just about buckle up under me.

“Smith,” I squeak, my voice sounding like a little girl's.

“Hello, Carly,” Smith says, leaning with his back against the glass beside the door panel.

His husky voice saying my name makes a prickle of goosebumps rise along my arms and a shiver fly down my spine. His huge arms are crossed over a chest even more solid than my memory still frequently recalls. One leg is casually thrown over the other, the thick thighs pressing at the classy wool of his pants. And below the black belt, an unmissable and delectable bulge pressing at the seam.

Oh god, help me.





Chapter SEVEN


Smith

“Smith.” She mewls my name in a tiny voice as her eyes bat to the door.

It clicks to locked without my lifting a finger and her gaze stretches wider. With a hint of fear. It isn't my intention to frighten her at all, although I can't help but savor the tremor of vulnerability in her as she snaps back to search my face. And I have to smile, now that I finally get a proper view of her. A perfect eyefuck over her entire body.

Man, what a body, what a set of curves she's grown. I could stand here and drink her up all day.

“What are you doing here, Smith?” she whispers.

I note how her eyes trail down over my flexed abs, the ridges more pronounced, with the way I'm leaning concave against the wall. She takes in the bulge of my bastard wood, hammering in my pants to be let loose. Then she realizes how she's virtually licking her lips with hunger and her eyes fly back to my face. But not before a ravishing shade of pink colors her pretty cheeks. A shade she's soon going to be wearing on her other, even prettier cheeks, before she leaves my office for the day.

“Do you work here?” she whimpers. Her legs are shaking and I could invite her to sit down at my desk. Or on top of it. But I don't. Not yet.

Why?

Because I'm a bastard and I want to observe her falling into the pit of ravenous lust for me. The same that I've had to suffer for years. I want to see her losing her mind as she fights the desire for me to tear her clothes off her body and suck her perky full tits into my mouth. I need to know that she's tormented by the same raging need to be pressed against my body as I am for hers.

I'm standing here as casual as fuck, like I'm waiting for the parade to pass by or some shit. My arms crossed, one leg bent. It's all a fucking facade. I'm as tension-riddled as a tiger about to pounce. I want to leap at her like a fucking beast. I want to push her back three steps so she's shoved into my desk and has nowhere to go but clamber up onto it with the force of me.

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