Page 13 of Daddy's Little Liar
She couldn’t afford to.
She didn’t want to. Not anywhere near as bad as she knew she ought to.
Daddy nodded once. “Good girl,” he softly praised, and damn if her pussy didn’t spasm. An electrified jolt shivered her from clit to womb, leaving every tingling nerve inside her perked that much wider awake.
Reaching for her plate, he pushed it back toward her.
“Finish your supper.”
Supper? Dazed, she looked at her plate—an entirely new portion of lasagna stared back at her, right next to three bites of unfinished salad. She didn’t think she could eat if she tried.
As if he knew, a corner of his mouth quirked into a wry smile. “If I was you, I’d do everything I could to drag out how long I got to sit in that chair. I promise, sweetheart, it won’t be this comfortable again for a very long time.”
It wasn’t comfortable now. She was vibrating with need and had never felt need as sharp and insistent.
Picking up her fork, she tried to make her hand stop shaking long enough to cut the lasagna. He’d warmed it up, but during their exchange, it had cooled. It wasn’t tough, not by any means, but the fork wasn’t working quite right, and her hand wouldn’t hold it steady. Trying to apply pressure enough to cut her food, she fumbled and dropped it, and eventually, Daddy took it away from her.
“Let me.” Standing, he leaned over her long enough to cut her food into bite-sized portions. In the back of her head, she kept telling herself this was definitely something she should find patronizing, but it didn’t feel that way. How could it when his very nearness vibrated through her, rattling her nerves and scattering every coherent thought she had until all she could think about were the vague, titillating, and completely inappropriate possibilities stretching into the night ahead of her?
As if there had been anything appropriate about the offer she’d made that started all this.
As if she had any room to be offended, even if she could summon the indignity.
As if she wasn’t fighting herself not to turn her face into his side so she could breathe in his heady heat and scent. He smelled faintly of his garage—oil, cars, and auto upholstery—which should have been unpleasant, but weirdly, it wasn’t.
“There you go,” he said, making the last cut that segmented her lasagna into bite-sized pieces. “Now, eat, and while you’re doing that, you can tell me about the job that brought you so far from home.”
Even in situations like this, dinnertime conversations were perfectly normal… expected even.
What was wrong with her? Giving herself a hard, mental shake, she grabbed her fork, not because she was hungry—far from it. She needed something to hold on to before she went completely insane, buried her face in his ribs, and inhaled a lungful of Eau de Auto Mechanic, then confessing all.
“I didn’t know how far the town was from the highway, or I probably wouldn’t have taken that exit.” Face flaming hot, she stabbed a piece of lasagna and made herself eat it. “I guess if I’d known how close the car was to breaking down, I might have taken it faster, so I got here sooner. Without twisting my ankle.”
“Or brought a pair of walking shoes. I noticed there wasn’t any luggage in the car. A little planning can prevent a lot of problems.”
Arousal aside, that stung.
“Punctuality is at least half as important as planning, and you have no idea how much I needed to get to Santa Fe.” She hadn’t meant to be so curt, but she didn’t do well when lectured, not even at the best of times. Besides, it wasn’t like she’d known this was going to happen. “I had to leave fast. That job—the one I’m now going to be late for—is very important to me.”
It might also hold one benefit of friendly connections in upper management. The job had been offered to her before the position was advertised. She was fairly confident they would understand once they got her message about the breakdown and reschedule. Especially since the part was already ordered and her vehicle was well-prepped to receive it upon delivery in the morning. She was going to knock that interview out of the ballpark tomorrow.
“I’m not trying to—” he said, but she cut him off.
“Yeah, you are, and although I appreciate what you’re doing for me, all this,”—she waved her hands over the cut portions of food, the table, him, her lap, where the pulse of desire hadn’t dimmed so much as a little—“aside, I already have a father. Fantasy aside, you’re not him. So, whatever else we’re going to do tonight, can you please can the lecture and leave me alone in that area? Please?”
It really wouldn’t have taken any extra time to pack a bag, and she really should have brought a pair of walking shoes… or pajamas, or any number of other things she would need tonight, if only she hadn’t been so damned impatient. It was aggravating how clearly she could see that now, but back then, all she’d been able to see was her daily struggles and her fry service ending. That’s what she’d been running from when she’d rushed out the door and jumped into her car. She had enough guilt gnawing at her without him adding a few more teeth.
He looked at her a moment, then took the napkin from his lap, wiped his hands and mouth, and dropped it on the table next to his plate. Again.
Georgia huffed a breath, fighting not to call apologies after him when he left the table and walked down the unlit hallway into who knew what part of the house. Houses being pretty standard, it was probably the bedroom area. For all she knew, he had a pink-painted nursery with an adult-sized crib, lots of stuffed animals, and princess stickers all over the walls.
That was uncalled for, and she knew it the minute the ungracious thought crossed her brain. She had no reason to be irritated, and by the time she heard his footsteps coming back to the front of the house, she wasn’t fighting the apologies anymore.
“I’m sorry,” she began. “It’s been a rotten day, and you didn’t deserve that.”
“No, I didn’t,” he agreed, reappearing out the mouth of the hall. That was when she noticed what he had in his hand. It was metal, silver and looked a little like a Christmas tree at first glance. Then her brain sharply reorganized and identified it because while her past boyfriend had called her I once or twice, she wasn’t so naive she didn’t know what a butt plug was.
“Wh-What—” she stammered, but it was his turn to cut her off.
