Dirty Daddy: A Secret Baby Bad Boy Romance

by Alexis Angel

  “They have no place in this house, Jocelyn,” he told me harshly. “If the staff ever discover them or word gets out that my wife is using toys to pleasure herself, then the scandal could be disastrous.”

  “Then why don’t you pleasure me?” I remember asking him, taking a step closer. I used the cute pouty face that had worked wonders for me in the past—everything from getting me out of having to watch football with a boyfriend, to an A+ from a professor in Comparative Literature in college.

  “Because, quite frankly, I have more interesting things to do with my life,” Michael said as I stopped and realized my come hither look wasn’t working. “You’ll just have to go take a cold shower. I’m late for a meeting anyways.”

  That’s been my life for the last six months. Sexual drought.

  I’ve gotten very good at running and exercising—although it gets me horny at times looking at other people’s bodies. I’ve tried to take up sewing. I’ve done a lot more cooking. Hell, there are some afternoons I just self-medicate and drink a bottle of wine by myself, trying to forget.

  Everything seems to make me hornier.

  So, anyways, that’s what I mean when I say I wonder what frustration is going to happen to me today. Because as bad as it was before, it’s honestly only gotten worse.

  Since he moved in.

  Who? Come on, babe.

  Who do you think.

  Mr. Apollo himself. Lance Anders, with the body of a god and the face of an angel. An angel of lust that is.

  I put on my robe over my teddy and head down the stairs. Michael has already left for work and against my better judgment I’m curious to see what Lance is up to.

  He’s not on the first floor when I get downstairs, and that’s when I hear a thud.

  He’s in the gym.

  I know I shouldn’t go down there. The gym and pool are in the basement of the townhouse—it’s a New York thing for people who don’t have backyards—and Lance working out is guaranteed to get my hormones raging.

  But maybe, that’ll be a good thing. Maybe I can use that to go for a run, or something.

  At least, that’s what I tell myself as I race up the stairs, wash my face, put on a pair of yoga pants and a sports bra and put my hair back in a ponytail.

  I pause to put some color on my face before heading downstairs.

  What? I’m just looking a bit presentable. If I’m going out for a run through Central Park, I might as well look the part too.

  Besides, if Lance notices, maybe he’ll….

  He’ll what? Take you in his arms? Take his new stepmom and wrap his arms around her? Fuck her? Please. I’m behaving like a silly girl.

  Nevertheless, the butterflies in my stomach are in full force as I head to the lower level.

  The basement at the townhouse doesn’t look much like any other basement—it’s well lit and looks like the hallway of a hotel. I hear music playing from the gym and I walk to it and open the door.

  There he is. He’s on a bench, shirtless, lying on a towel. He’s got a pair of basketball shorts on and some sneakers, but that’s all the clothes he’s wearing. I watch as he lifts a barbell loaded with weights and benches it. I watch as his muscles strain, his pecs flex and his abs contract.

  Those are 8-pack abs. I’ve never seen any before, but that’s the very model of muscle definition. He’s got a perfect V-cut going down his abs. The look of intense concentration on his face is amazing; he doesn’t even realize I’m standing there until he finishes his set and gets up for some water.

  He gives a start as he sees me, standing there, staring at him.

  “Jocelyn…” Lance says, as he looks at me. I can tell his eyes are travelling my body, just as mine are travelling his.

  I’m shameless in how I devour his body. I look at his nipples and wonder what it would be like to run my tongue under them. I’m sure he’s looking at my tight fitting yoga pants but I can’t be sure he’s thinking what I want him to think.

  I might just be an old lady to him. Someone past the age of consideration. He was caught fucking the President’s daughter, of all people. Lance must be used to 21 year olds—he’s probably got an age limit on the girls he sleeps with.

  “Can I help you?” he asks me, and I realize I’ve been staring. Too long.

  So long it’s starting to look improper.

  I need to say something.

  “I’m going for a run, just wanted to see what you were doing,” I manage.

  “You’re running on the treadmill in here?” he asks me, nonchalantly, taking a step closer.

  No, I can’t be anywhere near him. I need to leave now.

  “I’ll be running in the Park, around the Reservoir,” I tell him, backing away. He takes another step and all of a sudden I know that if I stay I won’t be able to control myself.

  I head as quickly as I can to the exit located on the other side of the gym that leads up to 88th Street.

  “Jocelyn,” Lance says again, but I don’t stop, my legs pump me up the stairs and before I know it, I’m in fresh air. I start jogging at a slow pace west, toward the Park.

  That was really stupid of me, the way I acted back there. Don’t worry, hun, you can say it.

  I’m 15 years older than Lance and I’m acting like a teenager. Worse than a teenager. Like a lovesick little girl with a crush.

  Except I’m not a little girl. I’m a 35-year-old grown woman who’s acting like a fool in front of her stepson.

  You can’t see me, but I’m mentally kicking myself as I enter the park and start running around the jogging path around the Reservoir.

  I need to stop ogling Lance around the house. I need to stop lusting after his strong back muscles when he walks around shirtless.

  I need to focus. My life isn’t that pretty right now. And that’s probably why I’m transferring this lust onto him. I’m being blackmailed into staying in a marriage to a man who obviously doesn’t love me. But I can’t do anything or else my father’s legacy crumbles.

  I need to stop thinking about Lance and start worrying about what I’m going to do. Maybe this run will clear my head. Maybe it’ll—

  I don’t know what happens but all of a sudden I’m falling and hitting the ground. Before I can even register what’s going on I’m being picked up by a pair of strong hands.

  “Shut up, or your dead, bitch,” a gruff voice tells me.

  Now, as the Mayor’s wife, I’m entitled to NYPD security when I go out. But more out of practicality I’ve never used the protection service. I’m a born and raised New Yorker, I can handle anything.

  I open my mouth and raise my hands, and get ready to scream.

  Without realizing what happens the side of my face all of a sudden starts to sting and I realize I’ve been slapped.

  “No screaming, or you’re dead!” the voice tells me with urgency. “You’re too pretty to kill before I get a chance to fuck you!”

  I look around me, desperately trying to figure out what’s happening.

  A man in a black hoodie, with his face covered is holding onto me. His skin is dark, but I can’t tell what nationality. He’s got loose sweatpants on and I can smell liquor on his breath.

  With one strong grip, he’s holding my hand. The other one he reaches over and places on my ass, giving it a squeeze.

  I feel like throwing up as a shudder of disgust goes through me.

  The man doesn’t waste any time. There’s no joggers running by me to call out for help, and he starts dragging me toward the bushes.

  “Like I said, don’t fucking scream, or this will end even worse than its going to, understand?” he asks.

  I can’t move. I realize I should yell. I should kick him, but he’s too strong. And he’s dragging me at an insane angle.

  I can’t believe this is happening to me.

  But just because I don’t have a good vantage point now, don’t think I’m beaten, hun.

  When a man tries to take advantage of a woman, remember what we’ve alwa
ys been taught. Just bide your time, be patient, and when ready, kick them in the balls extra hard.

  I just need to find my opening.

  72

  Lance

  I don’t fucking know what came over me, but the moment I heard Jocelyn walking up the stairs I was already lacing my sneakers and putting on a shirt. I’ve already ran fives miles on the fucking treadmill before moving on to the weights, but I can’t fight against this fucking urge to go after her.

  When my eyes found her, tight yoga pants and all… One fucking look, and that was all it took for me to become fucking hard. Fuck, could she be any more fucking irresistible? I almost dropped my fucking jaw to the floor when I saw her.

  But she’s my fucking stepmom. I can’t do it.

  Welcome to my fucking head the last few days. Looking at her tight fucking ass as she bends over and getting fucking hard. Then realizing who she is and hitting myself. Watching her tits jiggle. Then realizing she’s married to my Dad and I don’t want to fuck with that shit.

  It sounded like a fucking good idea: get to the basement, work myself to fucking exhaustion, and hopefully I’d have a clearer head afterward. Yeah, not a fucking chance in hell. By now my mind is already busy weaving the most fucking indecent kind of thoughts it can; I can already picture my fingers tracing her perfect curves, my hands on her ass as I fucking pull her into me… Fucking hell, I’d give an eye and a fucking arm to have her on her knees, my cock halfway in her mouth as she looks up at me. Now that’d be a fucking sight. Of course, if that happened… That’d only be the fucking start of it all. What, do you think I’d be able to fucking stop once she had her lips wrapped tight around my shaft?

  Out of control as I am right now, I know I should stay fucking put, but I just need to see her again. I’m not thinking straight, but to be honest, I couldn’t give any less of a fuck about that.

  I hurry up the stairs, but she’s nowhere to be seen. She has a fucking head start, but I figure I can catch up with her easily. There’s a breeze as I step outside, and my skin prickles as I feel the fucking cold air of New York’s morning. Rubbing my hands together, I start jogging down the fucking street, heading straight to the Park.

  There, a few morning souls are already running around the lake; I ease my pace, looking around for Jocelyn, but she seems to have fucking vanished. Fuck, I hope she didn’t decide to go somewhere else. Maybe she thought I’d follow after, and if that was the case, she fucking nailed it, and decided against coming this way.

  I’m almost ready to turn the fuck around and head back home when I catch a glimpse of a woman running in the fucking distance, following a trail that sneaks its way among rows of imposing field maples. I squint my eyes, taking in the distant shape of the runner; it’s her, no fucking doubt about that. Even though I’m too far away to see her face, I’d recognize that sweet ass anywhere. Fuck, just one look at her and my cock is already fucking twitching.

  I pick up the fucking pace, running after her with a spring in my step. I don’t even know what I’ll fucking say to her once I catch up, but hey, what’s the harm in jogging with my stepmother? That’s not a fucking crime, last time I fucking checked. We’ll just bond as stepson and stepmother. Oh, fuck, who am I trying to fucking fool? I didn’t leave the house because I wanted to “bond,” whatever that fucking means. I did it because… Fuck, I have no idea why. After seeing her this morning, yoga pants hugging her slender legs, her sweet lips almost begging me to rest my cock between them... I just knew I had to come after her.

  I’m already within shouting distance but I keep quiet, deciding to surprise her. And that’s when I fucking see him—a fucking guy in a black hoodie, a kerchief covering his face, fucking jumps out from behind the trunk of a maple tree and pushes Jocelyn to the fucking floor. She loses her balance and goes down fast; her knees hitting the ground as the man takes one wide stride toward her. He grabs her by the hair and pulls her into a hedgerow, making me lose them out of sight. Fuck, fuck!

  My heart starts to fucking race, and for a moment, all I see is fucking red. There’s murder in my fucking veins right now. Whoever that fucking bastard is, he has no idea about the world of fucking pain he has just stepped into; he has just signed his fucking death sentence.

  Running like a fucking train, I chase after the two of them. My feet hitting the floor at an anxious frantic pace, I cover the distance between me and the fucking hedgerow in just a few seconds. I stop, and looking around, notice movement between two fucking bushes. Moving like a fucking bullet—and as fucking murderous as one—I jump into the bushes, my hands turning into fists.

  The fucking bastard has her pinned down on the ground, struggling to part her legs and rest his body on top of hers. The motherfucker is trying to fucking rape her! I feel rage coursing through my veins, my muscles tensing as I hurry toward the two of them.

  Jocelyn is putting up a fucking fight, though. She has the flat palm of her hand on his face, trying to claw his fucking eyeballs out, but the man simply pushes her arms to the side. Then, he reaches behind his back, pulling a fucking knife out from his back pocket. Motherfucker.

  “Hey, let her fucking go!” I shout as the man presses the blade against her neck. I lock eyes with Jocelyn, fear making her eyes wide as the man turns to look at me. His eyes bore into me like nails, suddenly realizing that he has a fucking problem on his hands. He has no idea how big of a fucking problem.

  Right now, he has one fucking choice to make, and I can see the gears turning inside his head as he considers his options; he either lets her go and bolts, or tries to get rid of both of me and Jocelyn, eliminating all witnesses. As he gets up and turns to me, his fingers curled tight around the knife’s handle, the choice he made becomes clear as fucking crystal to me.

  “You’re fucking dead, boy,” he hisses, lunging at me and trying to fucking slice me across the chest. Boy? Jesus fucking Christ, he’s already trying to fucking stab me, did he really have to call me boy? That just makes me want to fucking knock his lights out even more.

  I take one step back, getting out of his reach, but he comes after me, the fucking sun reflecting on the blade as he moves it above his head and brings it down. Fuck, I can’t dodge him forever; if I simply keep getting out of reach, my luck is going to fucking run out and I’ll end up with that knife buried five fucking inches deep in my chest.

  “Fuck,” I curse under my breath as my back hits the trunk of a large fucking tree. Death in his fucking eyes, the guy in the hoodie closes the distance between me and him and changes his grip on the knife, grabbing it underhandedly. He raises his arm and then brings it down again, aiming for my fucking heart. This is it; I can’t dodge him anymore.

  Moving fast, I take one step toward him and raise my arm up in the air, trying to block him. His forearm hits mine as he presses down, the tip of the blade hanging two inches above my head.

  “Who did you call a ‘boy’?” I ask him with a grin, gallons of fucking adrenaline raging through me. He wasn’t expecting me to be so fucking bold, so I take his moment’s confusion to ram my closed fist into his fucking face. There’s a nauseating crunching sound as my hand crashes against his nose, and the man tumbles back, letting go of the knife and bringing both hands to his ruined face. His kerchief is turning fucking red, soaking the blood from his broken nose.

  “You’re fucking dead,” he hisses again, rage burning in his eyes. Like a fucking madman he throws himself at me, trying to grab me by the neck. I sidestep him easily and fucking punch him again, this time my fist landing on the side of his face. He tumbles onto the ground, falling flat on his ass. I take the chance and jump on top of him, fucking pummeling him with my close fist. This motherfucker tried to fucking rape Jocelyn, and if I wasn’t around... Fuck.

  “Lance, stop. He’s out,” I hear Jocelyn say. She’s sitting back against a tree, her voice weak and fearful. If it weren’t for her, I’d keep punching until there was nothing left, fury guiding me as I remember this fucking bastard’s intention
s. Adrenaline still coursing in my veins, I get up, leaving the unconscious fucker sprawled on the ground, and walk toward Jocelyn.

  “Are you okay?” I ask her, looking into her eyes. Her lips are dry, and there’s an expression of pure terror in her face, as if only now her close call started to sink in. “Did he hurt you?”

  “I’m… I’m…” she starts, but the words get lost as a fucking violent sob takes over her. I reach for her, taking her in my arms as she starts to cry. I place one hand under the nape of her neck, gently caressing her.

  “Hey, hey… It’s alright. I’m here now,” I whisper into her, and she hugs me tight, her head resting on my shoulder. I close my eyes, just holding her close and waiting for her to calm down.

  Her tits are pressed against my chest, and I have to take a deep breath to focus on what’s happening. It’s not that easy, though—her warm skin, her breasts, the way she has her arms around my chest… That mental image from before, my cock deep in her mouth, hits me again, and I have to take a deep breath.

  Fuck, I just want to lean in and kiss her. I feel warm blood surging toward my cock, and I start getting fucking hard. And, fuck, I’m only wearing basketball shorts. If I pop a fucking boner right now, there’s no fucking way I’ll be able to hide it from her.

  Breathing deeply, somehow I manage to regain a fucking semblance of control. I should get a fucking medal for this: Zen Master of the Year.

  “Let’s go,” I tell her. “I’ll take you home.” I stand up, pulling her up to her feet; with one arm over her shoulders, we head out from the bushes and into the trail. I almost want to leave the fucking bastard there, choking on his own blood; he sure as fuck deserves it, but saner thoughts prevail. Grabbing my cell phone, I call 911 and inform them of what just happened. The dispatcher asks me to remain here, waiting for the police, but there’s no fucking way I’m going to be hanging around this place with Jocelyn. I’m taking her home right fucking now. The NYPD can get our fucking statement there, as far as I’m concerned.