by Smith, Maren
Could she actually come from it?
There was a spot, deep inside of her, that Daddy’s cock kept rubbing over with every thrust. A spot that made her pant and wriggle, toes curling in response.
It wasn’t quite enough… but Daddy had just said she could come.
Desperate, reached for her pussy. Daddy didn’t stop her, and she bucked as she rubbed against her swollen clit. Leaning forward, Daddy began to fuck her even harder, faster, his cock going deeper inside of her while he bent her nearly in half.
“Oh Daddy!” She threw her head back, her fingers working hard against her sensitive nub. Writhing, her nipples moved against his chest, the wiry hairs teasing them and adding to the sensations rippling through her.
Her ass tightened, but Daddy’s cock kept moving, forcing its way through her tight ring and muscles, giving her the erotic mix of pain and pleasure her body craved. Crying out, Lizzie rubbed harder.
The orgasm rose up inside of her like a tidal wave, huge, slow moving and inexorable. Somehow it felt different from her usual orgasms, as if it was coming from somewhere deeper inside of her.
“Daddy, I’m coming!”
Throwing back her head, she gave herself over to the sensations, the slick glide of Daddy’s cock sending her reeling through tumultuous explosions of exquisite agony. Daddy shouted, thrusting into her hard, and she felt him pulse inside of her. Liquid heat filled her, adding to the raw bliss of her climax, and they rocked together in perfect ecstasy.
* * *
Curled up around his exhausted little Lizzie, Derrick kissed the back of her neck. He loved having her spooned against him, knowing that she was safe in his arms and all was right with the world.
“I love you, sweetheart,” he whispered.
He’d thought she was asleep, but apparently not quite yet.
“I love you too, Daddy,” she murmured back.
And all was right with the world.
THE END
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Super Daddy
by
Allysa Hart
and
Rayanna Jamison
About The Dynamic Duo
Allysa and Rayanna (or Ally and Ray as their friends call them) are author besties who met on Facebook years ago when they were both writing dirty kinky books. In 2018, they had two opportunities to co-write together, and so began the Dynamic Duo!
“The girls” as their PA likes to call them, live on different sides of the continent with husbands that look eerily similar. They each have 2 children, 2 dogs, and when they aren’t writing, they are generally video-chatting with each other, and terrorizing Facebook, often doing both at once. They share a mutual love for sushi, Lindor truffles, and books that make them laugh.
Since they are basically one person, Ray and Ally have a joint newsletter, a group they run together where they get up to all sorts of shenanigans, and a joint Facebook page where they share their love of kinky books and dirty rom-coms via sharing links, sales, giveaways and new releases from their favorite authors.
You can join them here:
Newsletter:
https://www.subscribepage.com/z6y6z7
Dirty Daddies Party Room:
https://www.facebook.com/groups/1919181154804758/
Copyright © 2019 by Allysa Hart and Rayanna Jamison
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including, but not limited to, photocopying or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, locales, and events are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, and events are purely coincidental.
Dedication
For Angela…
Chapter 1
Angela
I shut off the lights in the front of the pawn shop and locked the door. It was pitch black outside and I cursed the city for their lack of attention toward maintaining street lights as I pulled down the security gate and made sure it was locked tight. I also cursed Donnie for not showing up for work tonight. It was the only night of the week I took off and Donnie was my only employee. I couldn’t afford more than him. Hell, I couldn’t afford him, but he worked for trade and a small wage. It was a strange arrangement, but it worked for us, except when it didn’t. Like, when he didn’t show up.
Owning and running a pawn shop could be a shady business. People from all walks of life came through my doors. Often, I listened to the desperate sob stories of strangers as they were forced to sell their valuables to pay a bill or get rid of a memory. Sometimes people came in and their stories didn't quite add up, setting off my danger radar, but money talks in this business and I had learned early on not to ask too many questions. Most of the time for my own good.
Trudging up the stairs to my apartment, I had only two things on my mind; wine and a hot bath. Reaching for my apartment door, my hand was just giving the knob a turn when a series of loud crashing knocks—Bam! Bam! Bam!—exploded from downstairs.
My heart leapt into my throat. I wasn’t expecting anyone, and Donnie knew better than to show up after hours unannounced. Clutching the mace I kept on my keychain, I tiptoed back downstairs and peeked around the corner, hoping to be able to see who it was through the storefront windows. All I could see were high beams of light shining back in, searching the shadows of the store.
Making sure to stay out of sight, I slipped into the backroom where I kept my gun. The knocking got louder, more demanding. In between the pounding, loud, gravelly voices yelled my name. “Police, Angela Shue.”
The police? What do the police need from me?
I’ve had officers show up before, of course. When you own a pawn shop, it pretty much comes with the territory. Usually they were looking for stolen goods or wondering if I’d seen this suspect or that, but they always came during business hours. They were never demanding or rude, and they certainly weren’t banging on my door late at night and screaming my name.
My danger radar was sounding off at high volume.
Grabbing my tiny handgun, I slipped it into the waistband of my jeans and headed toward the door. The closer I got, the harder it was to see. The beams of the flashlights shining through the glass were blinding.
Nervous, but not wanting to risk pissing off the city’s men in blue, I cracked the door open, thankful for the giant security gate that now locked me in, protecting my store front. “What do you want?”
“Are you Angela Shue?” The voice which had been so gruff and angry sounding just seconds ago, now lowered an octave, becoming just another friendly neighborhood watchman.
I call bullshit.
“Who’s asking?” I kept my voice cool and collected, but on the inside, my heart was beating at a million times a minute.
Something just was not right.
“Angela, may we come in?” The voice still sounded cheerful, non-threatening, and fake as fuck. “We are looking for Donnie Carhart. Do you have any information on his whereabouts?”
I shook my head. Of course, this was about Donnie. “Nope. He helps me in the store sometimes, but nothing official. I haven’t seen him in over a week.”
“We really must speak to him.”
“I have an address and phone number for him somewhere,” I admitted slowly, still being cautious. “Would that help?”
“That would be helpful. May we come in?”
No, thanks. I’m not in the mood to be raped or robbed tonight.
“No,” I responded nicely, but with force that told them I was serious. “I don’t think that’s necessary. Let me grab the information for you. I’ll be right back.” I shut and locked the door behind me. I didn’t like how insistent they were. I couldn’t put my finger on what exactly seemed so off, but by nature and environ
ment, not to mention profession, I was a highly skeptical person. Sometimes it was hard to tell if something was actually off or I was just being paranoid.
With all my senses on high alert, I headed into the backroom again and dug through the filing cabinet until I found Donnie’s information. Scribbled on a half filled out job application, I had no idea how accurate it was. I’d been so desperate for cheap help that I’d never even verified any of it.
Paper in hand, I turned back to the front of the store.
One step, that was how far I got before the back door slammed open, splintering the frame at the levels of all three deadbolt locks, and suddenly a dark-shadowed figure came barreling out of the night straight at me. I barely had a chance to scream, much less to fight or run. That was how fast he grabbed me, throwing me over his shoulder before running with me at lightning speed all the way upstairs to my apartment.
I fumbled for my gun but lost my grip, and down it fell, tumbling uselessly all the way to the bottom step. Belatedly, I thrashed, kicking and twisting in an equally helpless attempt to break away.
“Calm down, woman,” growled a deep male voice. It had all the silky smoothness of melted butter to it, and while I’m typically a melted butter kind of girl, the whole caveman act was a little over the top. “I’m one of the good guys,”
Oh yes, of course you are, because the bad guys always admit to being bad. And I’m Shirley freaking Temple.
“Eat shit and die, fucker.” I fought harder, jabbing my elbow into his back. I was just opening my mouth to scream when two sharp smacks landed full across my ass. The sting was incredible. It not only silenced my scream mid-gasp, but I even forgot I was supposed to be struggling. “Did you just hit me?”
I knew how asinine that question was, even as I posed it. The stranger had stormed into my shop, thrown me over his shoulder, and was carting me upstairs. He was probably planning to do a lot more than just hit me.
“I did not,” he responded calmly.
Denial doesn’t make it not so, dumbass.
I was choosing between a handful of sarcastic responses when the stranger with the silky voice continued, “I did not hit you. I swatted your butt, and there’s a lot more where that came from if you don’t calm down and let me rescue you.” He actually sounded indignant, like I was the one somehow in the wrong instead of him.
Um—hello Fuckface… You’re the bad guy in this scenario.
“Rescue me? From what?” I demanded, matching his indignation with a hefty helping of my own. “This is bullshit. Put me down!”
He didn’t. In fact, he continued up the stairs completely unfazed, with me fighting and screaming and thrashing with all my weight in a desperate attempt to knock him off balance. His grip was too tight, there was no breaking myself free.
“Help, someone! I’m being kidnapped. Rape! Fire! Rape! Help!” I screamed every cry for help I could think of.
It didn’t make a difference, of course. There was no one around to hear me, not even my ‘friendly neighborhood watchmen.’ Apparently, they’d given up on my return. I couldn’t hear them pounding anymore.
As soon as we hit the top landing, my assailant raised a large booted foot and kicked the door in. The wood splintered and shattered as the old frame gave way to the brute force. I was kicking, pinching, scratching, tugging, and punching any and every available place on his body that I could reach, but nothing I did fazed him. I didn’t get so much as an ‘ow’ out of the masculine stranger. I may as well not have existed.
At least, not until we were in my apartment. That was when Grabby-Hands McAsshole leaned over and set me down in front of him. The man was a barbarian. He loomed over me, easily a head taller than I was with a muscular build that would have turned my head, if only I weren’t so pissed. I tried to run, but he grabbed me around the waist and pulled me off my feet, holding me against his rock-hard torso. The man was solid and quite possibly insane, since he was dressed in a blue and yellow superhero body suit that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
“Angela,” he drawled, repeating the same things he’d already said to me on the stairs. “I need you to calm down. I’m one of the good guys.”
“Good guys do not break down doors and attack poor unsuspecting women in the dark! The police were at my door, you fucking liar, they are the good guys! If you hurt me, I swear to god I will rip off your balls and shove them down your throat.” I screamed, hurling insults and threats without pausing to consider if they made a lick of sense, and through it all I never stopped fighting. Not that it mattered. His arms never loosened, and if he found it a strain to hold me, he never showed it. Tears of frustration pricked the backs of my eyes as I realized I was wasting my energy. It was as if his skin was made of impenetrable steel.
“Those were not the police, Angela,” he stated calmly. “That was a ruse to get you to open the door. For your sake, I’m glad you didn’t.”
I had a whole line of new insults to spew up at him, but my earlier sense of foreboding returned full force. My instincts were telling me there was every possibility that he was telling the truth. Certainly, the men pounding at my door hadn’t seemed very cop-like at the time.
“I'm not lying to you,” the man before me said. “I’m trying to protect you, and I need you to trust me. Those men were very bad men, and I suspect we do not have much time before they come back. I need you to grab anything and everything of importance to you and come with me to a safe house. Don’t worry about clothes or other such inconsequentials. Only irreplaceable items.” Loosening his grip at last, he set me back on my feet and carefully let me go. “You have two minutes.”
I stood, dumbfounded as he strolled back to the door. As he stole cautious peeks around the doorjamb toward the stairs, I took a second to get a better look at him. He was tall, really tall, and all muscles. His dark hair was cut close to his head on the sides, but left a little bit longer on the top. And, no joke, he wore a cape. He looked like a knockoff superhero from one of the many comic books I had for sale in my shop.
What the hell was going on? Who was this man, and why was he dressed like that? It wasn’t anywhere near Halloween and when I racked my brain for possible explanations, the only thing I came up with was mental institution escapee. And that was scary.
While I was inclined to believe him when he said the men at my door were bad men, that didn’t automatically make him, as he claimed, one of the good guys.
Adrenaline pumped through my body, kicking my brain into gear. I ran for the kitchen and grabbed a knife, but before I even got it out of the block, my wrist was seized and I was forced to let go.
“You are not a very good listener, little girl,” the hard-as-steel, smooth-as-butter man stated, a hint of amusement in his tone. “You have now wasted one minute of your two. I suggest you stop fighting me and get your things together, or you will leave with nothing.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I growled through clenched teeth. I would have kicked him in the balls if I thought it would have done any good.
Cocking his head to one side, he studied me through slightly narrowed eyes and that hint of a smile still playing on his lips. “It’s cute that you think you have a choice. Let me know how that works out for you.”
My resolve melted and the tears threatened to fall again, but tears were a sign of weakness. That was one thing I had learned growing up in the foster care system; never let them win. Never let them see me cry, and I hadn’t. Not in over a decade. I was not about to let this caped weirdo be the first to break that winning streak. Not knowing what else to do and hoping to buy myself time enough to come up with a solid plan, I stomped into my bedroom to grab what things I might need—my laptop and the lockbox from under my bed with all of my important documents, emergency cash, and jewelry in it—and shoved them into my backpack along with a handful of random clothes, even though he had said I would not need them.
Who doesn’t need clothes?
“Let’s go,” Smooth-As
-Butter said, appearing out of nowhere to loom at me from my own bedroom doorway. He nodded when he saw my stuffed backpack and beckoned me to come to him, but I was in no mood to cooperate with my would-be kidnapper. Sighing, he strode in far enough to grab me by my arm and hauled me back out into the living room.
The unmistakable sound of glass shattering downstairs startled me all over again. The men that I had assumed had gotten tired and left, had just broken into my pawn shop. I jumped at the sound of something else breaking, and Caped Weirdo caught me.
“Come with me,” he said, like I had a choice. He held me in a cradled position and stalked to the fire escape without letting go.
“Wait,” I said, suddenly realizing what he was thinking. “We can’t get down this way—the ladder is broken.”
“I don’t need a ladder.” He chuckled, tightening his grip around me as he lifted his foot and, as if we were weightless, hopped up onto the thin railing that would otherwise have stopped us from falling. He jumped and I screamed, self-preservation kicking in as I threw my arms around his neck and braced for the impact that never came. Wind whipped my hair, tugging and toying with the long blonde locks like a lover. And still, no impact. Almost cringing, I turned my face far enough away from his chest to steal a frightened peek, but all I saw was the blackness of night and the silhouette of my captor’s steely jaw. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought we were flying, but that was a physical impossibility. Wasn’t it? People could not fly. Right?
If we aren’t flying, my stunned brain asked, then what are we doing?
“What’s happening?” I squeaked, too afraid of falling to so much as wiggle in his grasp. There was no give in his arms, anyway. Every inch of his body against mine felt as if it were made of stone, with only a thin cover of skin to make him warm and more human-like. “P-put me down!”
