Page 5 of Daddy's Little 1

It’s hot pink, her favorite color.

“What do you think about this one?”

“No. You may as well be naked.” I glower, taking in the barely-there scraps of lace and satin.

Fuck.Now I’m imagining her naked. I take a deep breath and recite multiplication tables in my head.

She huffs and goes to replace it on the rack but misses. It lands on the floor, and then I’m treated to a front-row view of Brenna’s heart-shaped arse as she bends over to retrieve it.

Dear God, make me blind. Or impotent.

My prayers go unanswered as my eyes cling to her arse, and my cock twitches behind my zipper.

Retrieving the offending garment, Brenna stumbles as she replaces it, nearly pulling the damn rack off the wall as she uses it to recover her balance.

I smother a smile. Damn, she’s cute. Clumsy as fuck, but cute nonetheless.

Her hand slides over a few more items until she pulls out a lacy black number that nearly has me swallowing my tongue. I cross one foot over the other, my cock lengthening inside my slacks in a way I’d hate for her or anyone else in here to see.

“What about this one, then? Is it more your taste?”

My taste? Fuck.

I swear sweat starts pouring down my brow at that moment. “I think…” my voice sounds far away and oddly strained. I clear my throat. “I think I’m the wrong person to ask.”

She tips her head to the side, her warm eyes meeting mine and sending a shock of electricity straight to my bollocks. Then she grins and heads to the cashier. Shit. She’s going to buy it, isn’t she? And all I’ll be able to think about the entire holiday is that she has something like that sitting in my house. Or that it’s clinging to her succulent body beneath her regular clothes.

Fuck me. How am I going to get through this without risking everything?

* * *

That evening, we fill up on leftovers from our meal the previous evening. Afterward, Brenna curls up on the sofa and plays some crossword puzzle game on her phone.

I’ve been trying to keep my distance. I’m failing at this whole entertaining her thing. Usually, our conversation flows easily as we banter, but after the whole lingerie torture earlier, everything feels a little too real.

“Is there something you’d like to do tonight? Just name it, and I’ll make it happen,” I say, joining her in the living room after showering and changing.

Brenna looks thoughtful as she sucks on the end of her pen, and chills race along my spine. Jesus, even her most innocent actions are a turn-on.

“Swim and a movie?” she asks hopefully.

I nod. “Sure.”

“Perfect!” She lights up. “I’ll go get my swimsuit on. I’m thinking Breakfast at Tiffany’s?”

Down boy. You can do this.

I clear my throat. “Breakfast at Tiffany’s, eh? You’re an old soul, lass.”

“Dad tells me that all the time.” She laughs as she stands and heads to her room to change.

I check the pool heat to ensure the temperature is good, then go to my room to pull on my swim shorts. I’m psyching myself up the whole time, praying Brenna has a boring black one-piece swimsuit. It's not like James would let her have anything else, right?

I’m in the pool before she is, and the movie is ready and waiting for her. I worry about how long she’s taking, so I start to get out to look for her and ensure she’s all right. She does have a penchant for accidents.

But then she appears in a pink bikini two-piece. It’s a bit skimpy in the front but no more revealing than I’m used to seeing on the beach and at the hotels where I stay when traveling on business. Yeah, I can handle this.

Until she breaks into a cheeky grin and struts toward me like she’s on a catwalk, twirling and posing. Her luscious arse jiggles on either side of the thong nestled between her cheeks. But then she hits a wet spot where I’d jumped in of the pool, and her foot goes out from under her.

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