Page 22 of Daddy's Naughty Orchardist
“Not yet,” he warns. “Daddy decides when.”
The words ignite something deep inside me, something I didn’t know I was waiting for. When he finally presses his hard, thick cock into me, slow and steady, I cry out, half in pleasure, half in the shock of being so completely filled.
He hushes me, kissing my temple. “That’s it, baby girl. Take me. Take all of me.”
I do. God, I do.
“You are so fucking tight for Daddy.” He thrusts his hips forward, almost violently, claiming me completely. The rhythm builds, harder, faster, every thrust driving me closer to the edge of another orgasm. He never breaks eye contact, never lets me forget who’s in control. His hand slips under my thigh, angling me to take him deeper, and the world explodes again. And this time the orgasm is hotter, sharper, infinitely better. I see stars. I literally see stars. White bursts of light burst behind my eyes.
When he follows me over the edge, his groan is ragged, raw. He buries his face in my neck, whispering against my skin, “Mine.”
The word seals something between us. Something terrifying. Something inevitable.
We collapse together on the blanket, tangled in hay and sweat and the smell of apples. For the first time in forever, I don’t feel like I’m carrying everything alone.
For the first time, I let myself believe in more.
CHAPTER 10
Three days later and I wake up smiling. The last three days have been pure bliss. We’ve had sex several more times and he spanked me last night. A bare bottom, over the knee, deliciously hot spanking for climbing on the ladder without a spotter again. Afterwords, he fucked me from behind and it was everything. I promised to be his good girl… but maybe, just maybe, I like being his naughty girl, more.
I come down from my room and instantly feel something's wrong the moment I step into the farmhouse kitchen. The kitchen that's been the heart of our family for three generations feels different today. It’s charged with the kind of tension that comes before bad news. The morning light streaming through the gingham curtains should be warm and welcoming, painting everything in that golden glow that makes our farmhouse look like something from a country living magazine. Instead, it feels ominous, like the calm before a storm.
My Aunt Jeannie is perched at the table, her knitting needles clicking furiously, the television muted but tuned to the local news. My cousin's half-finished donut sits abandoned on the counter. The air feels… off.
Everything about the scene screams emergency, from the way Jeannie's shoulders are hunched with worry to the untouched coffee growing cold in her favorite mug. In our family, abandoning fresh cider doughnuts is practically a cardinal sin, a sure sign that something terrible has happened.
Then I see it.
On the screen, above a ticker about fall harvest festivals, is Brett's face. My Brett. Standing in the orchard with a camera crew, holding up one of our apples like it's a damn trophy.
The betrayal hits me like a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs. This is the man who held me in the hayloft, who called me his good girl, who made me believe that I could trust him with my heart and my family's legacy. And here he is, parading his new discovery in front of cameras like we're some sort of tourist attraction. What will this mean for the orchard? Will it be more business or will scientists want to flock here to examine the trees?
"The rediscovery of malus aurora, a rare species of malus domestica, thought extinct for decades, is a breakthrough for both science and agriculture," the reporter chirps, pointing her mic toward him. He adjusts his glasses, calm and composed in a way that makes me want to scream.
"This fruit represents not just a rare genetic marker, but resilience. Its survival here, in Hunter Orchards, is nothing short of extraordinary. This is the type of tree that can survive through low water conditions, in high heat and in freezing temperatures. If replicated correctly, we have a plant that can help with malnutrition around the globe."
The words sound impressive, professional, exactly the kind of scientific discovery that makes careers and wins grants. But all I can hear is the violation of trust, the casual way he's turned our intimate family story into public property. This isn't just about apples it's about home, about sanctuary, about the sacredspaces we keep for ourselves. The back of the orchard, the space he wanted to study, is also home to our family cemetery. It holds memories that go beyond what the public has ever had access to. My family settled this land, and now… it’s all over the news like a damn amusement park.
Jeannie looks at me over her glasses. "Honey… he didn't tell you?"
My chest goes cold. "No," I whisper.
Of course he didn't tell me. Because if he had, I would have stopped him from going public with it. I would have protected what's ours, what's mine, what I thought was becoming ours together. I’d told him how private this part of the orchard was, how much it meant to me. The realization that he knew I would object, and did it anyway, makes the betrayal so much worse. I feel used. Dirty. Exploited. Did he play Daddy to get me to agree to let him finally go do his research? Because the morning after we had sex for the first time, is when I finally brought him out there.
The cameras pan over the orchard, zooming in on the very overgrown section I'd told him to tread lightly in. The section my family has protected for generations. Those trees represent more than just rare genetics. They're the wild heart of our orchard, the untamed spaces where my grandfather used to take me when I was little, where I learned that some things are worth preserving simply because they exist, not because they have monetary value. Seeing strangers' eyes consuming that sacred space through television cameras feels like desecration.
I don't hear the rest. I'm already grabbing my jacket.
The cold October air bites at my cheeks as I storm across the orchard, my boots crunching through fallen leaves that should remind me of cozy sweaters and pumpkin spice everything. Instead, they sound like breaking glass, each step carrying mefurther from the romantic fantasy I'd let myself believe in and closer to the harsh reality of betrayal.
I find him by the old cider press, notebook in hand, still wearing the same button-down from the interview. He looks up, sees me, and smiles, like nothing is wrong.
That smile, the same damn smile that made my heart flutter when he first fixed my tractor, when he caught me reading romance novels in the barn, when he whispered sweet praise against my ear, now feels like mockery. How can he stand there looking so pleased with himself when he's just blown up everything we could have built together?
"Monica—"
"What the hell was that?" My voice cracks like a whip.
