Page 96 of For Her Own Good

“Soon?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

Thank God, because I don’t know how much longer I can hold out. Hoping to send her over the edge, I tilt my hips and she lets out this choked little gasp.

“Yes, Daddy. Please. More. Just like that, please.”

And since it feels damn good to me too, I match her rhythm, thrusting up farther, gripping her tits even harder, and then I feel it. A split second before I hear it.

“Oh. Ooh. Daddy, yes. Yes, I’m coming. Fuck, fuck. Daddy, please. Oh.”

Her nails dig into me as her pussy milks my cock and I spill. Spill my longing, desire, and pent-up sexual energy into her.

It’s wildly satisfying, exhilarating to be shooting my load inside her. A lightening sensation as though I’ve been carrying this weighty craving for her. Which I suppose I have, but I never thought of it as a physical weight. But here she is: in my lap, in my arms, making the most intimate love to me, and even as the pressure of my own orgasm is relieved, there’s a swelling in my chest.

I never want to let her go.

Chapter 32

Starla

I’m goingto have to talk to Doctor Gendron about my anxiety. Yes, I’ve dealt with it more or less throughout my life, but I’ve always thought of depression as my primary diagnosis. Maybe she can write me a temporary scrip while I’m dealing with this Patrick Enterprises shit? Because I’ve never had such physical, such visceral manifestations of it.

Even after this incredible weekend with Lowry, I don’t feel any more relaxed, any less stressed. No, my agitation is off the charts and talking to him about my father didn’t help any. If anything, it cranked up my guilt, my shame, made me feel like I have the most terrible secret. What kind of grown woman is desperate for her dead father’s approval? Allows it to influence her decisions? Not that Lowry made me feel ridiculous, but ugh. Talking about my father and how much I still desperately want to please him sure as hell didn’t help with the ratcheting up of my anxiety. Occasional pounding of the heart, blood running cold or whatever, I’ve dealt with before, but not nausea and that’s what’s been dogging me lately. Not to the point that I’ve actually thrown up, but that doesn’t feel far off.

If there’s one thing I’ve gotten better at, it’s nipping things in the bud. Telling Doctor Gendron about them before I’m paralyzed or really sick. It doesn’t make a ton of sense to waste time feeling like ass when I don’t have to.

It makes me feel foolish that I avoided telling her about things that were bothering me for so long. But since time travel isn’t a thing—even for me with all my money—I’ll try to be gentle with myself even though that’s never been a thing I’m super great at.

I take a last look in my mirror before heading out to meet Jerome Garrett. The outfit Holden picked out for me makes me feel powerful, but not like myself at the same time—I can’t wait to take it off and put on some cutesy pajamas because aside from the peplum on my short jacket, I don’t have any of those soft, adorable details Lowry likes so well because I can’t afford for Jerome to see me as soft or weak.

My most expensive black heels, knee-length black pencil skirt with a slightly less than modest slit up the back, a dark turquoise silk shell, and my pretty peplum coat. Plus…

Diamonds. Yes, they’re my best friend, not you, Jerome. No matter that I prefer kitschy and twee things. For tonight, I’m rocking my favorite grown-up bling and now I’m ready to go.

Holden’s driving me, and he doesn't blink an eye at my lack of acknowledgment when I climb in. He knows I’ve got to focus. The ride there passes in a blink, though my stomach seems exponentially angrier by the time I reach the maître d'.

“Starla Patrick, I’m meeting Jerome Garrett.”

“Yes, of course, welcome. Mr. Garrett’s already seated, I’ll show you to your table. Right this way, please.”

He shows me through the restaurant to a banquette facing the harbor and there’s my nemesis-I-didn’t-choose slash possible-solution-to-my-problems.

Jerome stands, offers me a hand which I shake. My impressions from photos are borne out: the man is enormous. He’s got to be six and a half feet tall and I’m feeling all five foot four of my very average height, plus like three more inches from my heels, I guess.

“Ms. Patrick, thank you so much for joining me.”

“Don’t thank me yet.”

His grip is firm but not threatening, his hand warm and large enough to basically envelop mine. He’s not trying to use his size to intimidate me, he’s just really fucking big.

He’s a handsome older Black man, and this is the sort of guy Holden would pick out as a daddy. Except the little in me doesn’t get that instantaneous ping I sometimes do from a man who turns out to be not a daddy type, but an actual daddy. Not always, though, and definitely not what I need to be contemplating.

We slide into the cushy seats and Jerome looks across the overly extravagant table.

“I’m sorry again for your loss. Your father and I had our issues, but he was an exceptional businessman and I know he loved you very much.”

How the fuck would Jerome Garrett know that when I was never certain? Doesn’t matter. He’s only making polite conversation before we get down to brass tacks. I’m certainly not going to let the childish words slip from my tongue into the air:He did? How do you know? Did he say something about me?A million times no.

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