Page 27 of Daddy Knows Best

"Comfortable?" His voice rumbled through his chest where my shoulder pressed.

Comfortable wasn't the word. Alive, maybe. Burning. Home. "Yes."

"Good. I'm going to read a grounding script while you focus on breathing." He produced a small card from his breast pocket, his other arm still steady around me. "Just listen and let your body settle."

But settling felt impossible when I could feel everything—the solid muscle of his thighs beneath me, the rise and fall of his chest, the way his cologne wrapped around me like expensivesmoke. The script began, something about roots and earth and safety, but the words dissolved against a more pressing revelation.

He was hard.

Not fully, not obviously, but there—a telltale thickness pressing against my hip through his slacks. My pussy clenched in response, going from warm to soaking in seconds. I tried to focus on his words about breathing and grounding, but my body had its own agenda.

Without thinking, I shifted. Just a small movement, adjusting my position. But it pressed me more firmly against that growing hardness, and a whimper escaped before I could stop it.

His reading stuttered for just a second. "Focus on the breath, Emily."

But his voice had roughened, and hearing my name like that—graveled with want he couldn't quite hide—destroyed my last thread of control. I rolled my hips. Deliberate this time, a slow grind that made us both exhale sharply.

"Daddy." The word fell from my lips like a confession, like a plea, like the only true thing in the world.

His arm tightened around me. "Emily. We can't—"

But I was already moving again, chasing the friction that made thoughts scatter. His erection pressed full and insistent now, and I ground against it with the desperation of a week's worth of fantasies made real.

"Please." I turned my face into his neck, lips brushing his throat. "I've been so good. I did everything right. Please."

His breathing had gone ragged, chest heaving beneath my cheek. The hand holding the script trembled. But he didn't push me away. Didn't restore the professional distance that kept us safe.

"Fuck." The curse cracked from him like breaking glass. "Emily, you have to stop."

But his hips lifted slightly, pressing back against me, and that involuntary response undid us both. I turned fully, shifting to straddle his lap, dress riding up until only thin lace and his slacks separated us. His hands found my waist—to steady or stop me, I didn't know and didn't care.

"I can't stop thinking about last week." The words tumbled out between panting breaths. "About how you watched me. How you told me when to let go. How you—"

"Emily." My name came out strangled, desperate. His fingers dug into my waist, and I could feel him fully hard beneath me now, could feel myself soaking through lace and probably his pants too.

I looked at his face—really looked. His pupils were blown wide, that careful control cracking at every edge. A muscle jumped in his jaw. His lips parted around harsh breaths. He looked wrecked. He looked hungry. He looked like a man about to break his own rules.

"Just once," I whispered, leaning closer until our breaths mingled. "Just let me—"

I closed the distance between us, pressing my lips to his in a kiss that started soft—a question more than a statement. For a heartbeat, he went perfectly still. Then his mouth opened beneath mine with a groan that vibrated through my bones, and suddenly we were devouring each other.

His tongue swept into my mouth, tasting faintly of spearmint. It was everything I'd wanted for seven days. One hand tangled in my hair while the other gripped my hip, holding me against him as we kissed like drowning people finding air. I moaned into his mouth, grinding harder, feeling him thick and perfect beneath me, right where I needed—

His hands turned to iron on my waist, and the kiss died between us like a light switch flicking off. One second I was drowning in him—his taste, his heat, the desperate sound he'dmade against my mouth—and the next, he was pushing me away with enough force to make me stumble.

"Stop. Now." The words came out raw, like they'd been ripped from somewhere deep.

I reached for him, confused and aching. "Nate—"

"No." He gripped my waist harder, lifting me off his lap like I weighed nothing. My feet hit the carpet gracelessly, dress twisted and riding high. "Stand over there. Don't—don't come closer."

The rejection hit like cold water in the face. I stood there swaying, lips swollen from kissing him, body still pulsing with want. "I don't understand. You kissed me back. You wanted—"

"What I want is irrelevant." He shot to his feet, putting the chair between us like a barrier. His face had gone pale beneath the tan, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "This is—Christ. This is exactly what can't happen."

He strode to his desk with jerky movements, nothing like his usual liquid grace. His hands shook as he yanked open a drawer, rifling through files with increasing desperation. I watched him unravel, this man who was always in control, and felt my stomach drop toward my shoes.

"Daddy, please. We can talk about—"

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