Page 17 of Inked Daddies

And now, as I sit at my desk and open my laptop, I can’t stop myself from doing what I’ve always done when my feelings get too big to handle. I write.

I start with the scene in the parking lot, but I change the details just enough to make it mine. In the story, it’s not Marie backed up against her car. It’sScarlett, a feisty librarian with a secret past. And it’s not Crow threatening her—it’s a nameless villain with a knife and a cruel smile.

But the men? They’re still Sam, Hugo, and Trick.

I let my fingers fly over the keyboard, pouring everything into the words. Smith steps out of the shadows first, his voice low and commanding as he orders the villain to back off. Hudson moves in next, his hands steady as he pulls Scarlett away from danger. And Tex? Tex is grinning, his confidence unshaken as he throws the first punch.

The words come easily, each one pulling me deeper into the story, deeper into the fantasy of what it would be like if they weren’t just my crushes. If they were mine.

Smith’s hands linger on Scarlett’s waist, his dark eyes filled with worry. Hudson’s voice is soft as he reassures her that she’s safe now, his touch a silent promise. And Tex—always Tex—is quick to crack a joke, his grin lighting up the darkness.

I know it’s ridiculous. I know that no matter how many words I write, no matter how many books I publish, these stories will never be real.

But as I lose myself in the world I’ve created, it doesn’t feel ridiculous. It feelsright.

Hours pass without me noticing. By the time I glance at the clock, it’s past midnight, and my fingers ache from typing. I save the document, leaning back in my chair with a satisfied sigh. The book isn’t finished—not even close—but it’s a start. A messy, unpolished, entirely self-indulgent start.

And for now, that’s enough.

I close the laptop and head back to bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. My body is exhausted, but my mind is still racing, replaying the events of the night.

I know I’ll see them again tomorrow.

And when I do, I’ll smile and act like everything is normal. Like I didn’t spend half the night turning them into heroes in a story that will never leave my hard drive.

Because that’s what preachers’ daughters do. They keep their secrets.

After an hour, though, I can’t stay still. I’ve been kicking at the sheets, wishing it was the guys touching me instead. When I close my eyes, I see them. Serious Sam, taunting Trick, and heroic Hugo. It’s impossible to sleep. There’s only one way out of this.

My pajamas have got to go, so I yank them out of the way. I reach over the edge of the mattress and shove my hand between it and the box spring to find my battery boyfriend. I have privacy at home, but keeping him hidden is safer. Thankfully, it’s a good one that’s virtually silent.

I, however, am not.

My pillow muffles my sounds when I start face down, ass up. This position usually gets me going fast, especially when I’m wound up like tonight, but no joy. What’s wrong?

I huff at myself and turn over in the dark of my room, but moonlight pours in through the open window. Not that I worry about anyone seeing me—our place is practically surrounded bythe swamp. The only things watching me are the alligators and mosquitoes, and I’m pretty sure they don’t care.

The toy slides around my wetness until I hit the spot that makes my body clench. I give in to that sensation, the vibrating pulse in my clit. In my head, it’s Trick’s pierced tongue, a particular fantasy of mine. I’ve always wanted to know what a piercing could do for me.

I imagine Sam’s rough hands on my tits and Hugo kissing my mouth as Trick works between my thighs. Heat flashes through me like a forest fire sparking dry kindling. The three of them?—

“Oh, shit.”

I sit up fast, shoving the toy under the blanket. Is it Crow? Did he come back? My pulse spikes in fear. I squint into the dark, where there’s movement between the knobby cypress trees and saw palmetto. A tall figure—not Crow.

He steps into a pool of moonlight, and I can’t breathe. It’s Trick. Trick saw me fucking myself with my toy.

Why the hell am I even more turned on right now?

I don’t know what to say. There are no words in my head, just the pulse between my thighs, urging me onward. And then I notice something odd.

Trick’s jeans are open. His hand, moving back and forth as he looks at me. We lock eyes—his piercing blues like those of a wolf eyeing prey. He gives me a subtle nod, glancing down between my legs.

He wants me to do this. He wants to see me touch myself.

I’m inclined to give this man whatever he wants from me.

Slowly, I lie back, my body throbbing for this. I don’t think about the lines I’m crossing or the rules I’m breaking. Actually, I’m not sure that’s entirely true—being bad is part of what’s getting me off.

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