Broken Daddy

by Blake North

  “Very well,” I manage coolly, “But there are things I need to know in order to take care of Lydia to the best of my ability. That is, after all, my only reason for being here.”

  “If you have questions, now is the time to ask them,” he says reluctantly.

  “Is Lydia’s mother dead?”

  “Not to the best of my information. At last report she was living in Nevada with her dealer.”

  “Like an art dealer? Was she a sculptor?”

  “No, she was and is an addict, Reva,” he says with a heavy sigh, “After the C-section, she became dependent on the painkillers. For a while I figured it was just that the pain continued—she had a bad time with the pregnancy and delivery, it was an emergency caesarean. The recovery was lengthy. But I thought she bounced back eventually. Lydia was thriving and noisy, and Catherine was always dressed and up and around when I got home. I didn’t find out until I sent Mrs. Whitman to be with her dying mother. I came home to check on my girls at lunch, and Lydia was alone. Catherine had left her alone during her nap to go meet with her dealer. Lydia was a baby, barely a year old. The worst part—I called the police. I thought she’d been taken, kidnapped. I didn’t believe that she’d leave the baby alone.”

  “Did you get her help?”

  “Of course I got her help,” he says indignantly, “I sent her to rehab—three of them, in fact, and each time she got out she swore things would be different. By the time Lydia turned two, I had the report in hand from the guard I had on Catherine. She was meeting with her dealer—who happened to be her old college boyfriend—three times a week. She was either having sex with him to get pills or because she wanted to. But that was enough for me. I had never left Lydia completely alone with Catherine again after the first incident, but she didn’t—she never connected with Lydia, never had the closeness or playfulness that I shared with my daughter. So I confronted her with the photos and the video footage. She actually offered to sign Lydia over to me in the divorce. I would have agreed to supervised visitation, and I offered that. She walked away from Lydia and never looked back.”

  “Oh,” I say. I look at his eyes, haunted and dark, and I wish I didn’t know. Because it’s a lot harder to hate him now. It’s no wonder he doesn’t trust anyone, between his parents and his ex-wife. It’s no wonder he is so desperate to protect Lydia.

  “Lydia has photos of her mother. She knows that Catherine exists and that she can meet her when she’s older if she wants to. That Catherine is not a bad person, but that she has a disease that makes it impossible for her to be a mother. That she loved her enough to let me take care of her,” he shakes his head, “I don’t know. I don’t think Catherine ever loved her. But I think Lydia should believe her mother wanted her and gave her up out of love. It’s better than the alternative—knowing that your mom chose a baggie of pills and sex with a drug dealer over her infant daughter.”

  He gives a harsh laugh that makes tears start in my eyes. I hurt for him, for Lydia. Even for Catherine, who is still in the grip of an addiction that wouldn’t let her live her life. I feel actual grief for the mother who won’t know her child, who wasn’t able to love and value her baby. It’s heartbreaking. And for every advantage this wealthy family has, it seems they’ve paid for in suffering. I struggle for a moment before I get control of myself.

  “Okay, thank you for telling me. Now I know what the parameters are with respect to any questions she asks. She’s also told me about wanting a baby sister.”

  “Not happening. I think I’ve told her that at least a hundred times.”

  “I told her that was something to talk to you about.”

  “Good work referring it to me. I respect the warm relationship you’ve build with Lydia in a comparatively short time. I intend to interact with you only at breakfast and dinner. In the evenings when I’m home, I will take care of Lydia, and you’ll be free to do as you wish provided you stay on property. Weekends you can leave or stay as you prefer, but Mrs. Farnsworth will have charge of her. Also, no overnight guests. If you want to sleep elsewhere on the weekends—”

  “I think it’s obvious that I don’t have a boyfriend. I wouldn’t have had sex with you if I were involved,” I say quickly.

  “That is never to be mentioned again. It was my mistake. I regret it. I will not be subject to regular recriminations about it.”

  “I wasn’t blaming you. We both wanted—or I thought we both wanted to—do that. But it made everything worse. I’ve been miserable about it and—”

  “Enough,” he stands, hands in his pockets, and strides across the room, “You may return your belongings to your room. I apologize for causing the awkward circumstance of your departure. You will abide by the security standards in place previously and limit our interactions as much as possible. If you have a specific question, you may send it by text message. Call if there is an emergency. Otherwise, I intend for us to conduct ourselves professionally in my daughter’s best interest. Good day.”

  I’m tempted to curtsey because he’s being so infuriatingly formal. I want to shout at him, I’ve had your cock inside me. You don’t get to act like the damn Queen of England dismissing a peasant. But I know he’s right. I hate it that he’s right, but he is. It’s better for Lydia if I do my job and stay out of the way.

  I go to my room. I didn’t really sleep last night because I was too anxious and excited about meeting with Ridge. So after I hear him leave, I lie down for a nap.

  The dream begins almost instantly. I’m lying on my bed, half-asleep, when I hear the door open. I murmur, but there’s no answer. There’s only a strong male hand pulling the blankets down. I feel his hands on my sides, running up under my dress. I’m lying on my stomach, hugging the pillow, but I move a little so he can reach my breasts. Oh, the sharp bite of sensation as he pinches my nipples makes me moan in response. His big hands, rough and powerful, cover my sensitive breasts. I feel him behind me, above me, his size and strength. His fingers slide down my belly and into my leggings. Two fingers press and rub the spot between my thighs that sends sparks and a flood of breathless ecstasy through my body. I come almost instantly at his touch but want more. So much more.

  He peels my leggings down. I hear his zipper, and my inner muscles clench in eagerness. Yes. More. All of him. It’s what I want. All I want. I’m hot and breathless. His mouth finds my ear, my throat, the most pleasurable spots that give me shivers of desire as my arousal builds. His hands on my bare bottom, my thighs. He licks my ear, then knees my bare legs apart. The springy hair on his legs tickles my bare flesh as I open for him. Never turning over. Never opening my eyes. Knowing the feel of him, the fire in my blood that is only him. Long and wet and thick, his cock moves in to me as I raise my hips to receive him from behind. I feel his chest against my back, know he is holding himself up above me on those muscular arms I want to lick and bite. But I lie there and let him move inside me, that luscious, rich thickness filling me as he penetrates me again and again. I want more. I’m whimpering for it, pleading. He presses one hand down in the small of my back so my hips aren’t lifted anymore. So his every thrust grinds my clit into the bed. I’m facedown, and the friction is incredible. Ridge kisses my shoulder right at the neckline of my dress. There’s something forbidden, clandestine about having my green dress still on as Ridge fucks me from behind, plunging his huge, rigid cock into my soft, wet pussy, grinding my clit against the bed until I’m screaming. His hand covers my mouth. The raw eroticism of that dominance, of his silencing me, makes me come harder until I’m begging and tears course down my face with my release. He pounds into me harder until I feel him come. I’ve never felt a man plunge so deep and then spill a hot rush into me like that before. The raw wetness I feel, the power of having consumed his climax, gives me another shudder of pleasure.

  I feel weak as he withdraws from me, every inch of that wonderful cock pulling out. I whimper slightly, knowing I’ll be sore tomorrow from the roughness of his final thrusts, and yet reluctant to let
him go. I want him to do that again and again. I want him to put his hands where his cock was, fill me with his fingers until I’m coming again and again. It would never be enough. That rigid, harsh exterior hides a well of eroticism, both tender and rough, and I want all of it. I’m captivated by him. Fuck me more, I want to beg him. I realize neither of us has said a single word the whole time. It’s deeper than anything I could put into words, and I don’t want to speak anyway. I want to touch and feel, lick and suck and bite. I want all of him until he’s weak from all the ways we’ve had each other. Until he drags me onto his chest to sleep until we wake and make love again.

  I lie still, hoping he won’t leave right away. I wonder if I keep silent, if we can keep doing this. Wordless trysts, a silent fling—silent except for the screams. Could we, every day, by mutual unspoken consent, meet like this and find release together? The thought nearly knocks me over with the power of it, with how much I want it. Can I put it into words? Or if so, would he laugh or be disgusted with me? If we didn’t have any emotional involvement, any interactions as he termed it, could he come to me every morning? Could we keep fucking without a word?

  I start to turn over, determined to ask him. But he flips me onto my back, his eyes dark and dangerous. He shoves my dress up, baring my pussy. Yes, I think, this is why I shaved yesterday. Because I’m wanton, wicked. Because I was hoping my boss would lick me between my legs, and I wanted nothing between his mouth and my tender, quivering flesh. I admit it: all my life I thought I was a good girl. I’m not. I’m bad and filthy because I want the most forbidden man in the most forbidden way. It’s unethical, immoral, irresistible.

  He drapes my knees over his shoulders. He still has his shirt on. And his tie. That makes this even hotter. Seeing his heavily muscled shoulders moving under the designer shirt, seeing his dark hair against the pale skin of my parted thighs. He laps at me, his hands lifting my hips to hold me against his face, his ravenous mouth. I bite my lips, hold my breath, grip fistfuls of the sheets in my hands to try to hold out against the onslaught of his wicked mouth. But in the end, I succumb. He unleashes such pleasure for me, such a riptide of bliss that I cry out high and long. His hand reaches for my mouth to cover it and stifle my cries even as his tongue plunges deeper. I suck his fingers and buck my hips. I’m coming so hard that I may black out.

  I wake in twist of sheets, my hand between my legs working and rubbing that needy spot. I bring myself to climax easily in the remnants of hottest dream I’ve ever had. About the hottest man I’ll never have again. I bury my face in the pillow, my cheeks burning hot with shame.

  Later I go for a run. Then I call Angela and assure her that I know I only still want Ridge because he’s forbidden. She laughs at me. I tell her I’m going to spit on her pity pizza next time if she keeps this crap up when I want sympathy.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Ridge

  I watch Lydia chasing Reva around the house, sliding in their sock feet and giggling. Reva turns and catches Lydia, lifts her up with a dramatic grunt about how big she’s getting, and swings her around. My daughter’s delighted squeals fill the house. The fretful whines, the crinkle between her eyebrows, has all but disappeared. She’s still temperamental, still grouchy in the mornings, but she’s happier. She’s blossoming.

  Yesterday she put on a singing show. She made me sit on the couch beside Reva while she dragged out her microphone. Then Lydia went into the playroom and was gone approximately forever while I sat and stared at my phone to avoid talking to the nanny. When I stole a glance at her, she gave me an inviting smile that made me go hard all of a sudden. I shifted uncomfortably and logged in to the security app to check alerts on the perimeter.

  At last, Lydia came out in a sequin fairy costume that she’s pretty much outgrown, a purple feather boa and what looked like a pair of Reva’s boots that were much too big for her. She took the microphone and started singing the new Taylor Swift song. The one she loves, doesn’t understand, and doesn’t really know the words to very well. I give her my full attention, applaud when she’s finished and taking extravagant bows. I don’t even laugh out loud at her hilariously wrong lyrics delivered with noisy enthusiasm. I just take pleasure in Lydia’s confidence and joy. I love that she’s expressive, that she’s come out of her shell. She had a rough time with shyness when she had to change schools.

  It’s wonderful to see her happy. Even if it means sitting beside Reva from time to time. Having dinner with her most nights. Catching myself exchanging a conspiratorial look with her when Lydia talks about a loose tooth and the tooth fairy. Or giving her an eyeroll when Lydia explains something everyone else obviously knows. Of feeling like we’re partners in crime once in a while, a kinship I can’t afford.

  When I told her, I didn’t interview for a wife and mother, it was true. I was reminding myself as much as her. Because I had a wife, Lydia had a mother. It was no good. We’re on our own and I’m damn lucky to have my daughter safe and sound. I intend to keep her that way. I’m indulging her by having Reva here until the threat is past. So far, I’ve been lucky or else Rativan’s lulling me into a false sense of safety. Because I’ve only had a couple of calls threatening all I hold dear, one set of slashed tires on my car while I was at work. That’s nothing. Amateur stuff. Not the level of threat I expect from a crime family. So maybe they have bigger fish to fry than a security contractor. Maybe they’re going after the Feds, or maybe they’re more interested in breaking Rativan out of maximum security than they are in retribution.

  For now, I’ve finished an estimate for a new client. I’ve called to shout at my vice president for authorizing an ad in a gun collector’s magazine because we want elite clientele who need serious security, not firearm fetishists. I hear Reva shut her bedroom door. I relax a little. I feel like a hostage in my own room and office when she’s here and awake. I imagine going to the kitchen for a drink and meeting her in her nightgown, something soft and sheer I could crush in my hands. I take the laundry Mrs. Whitman washed and start sorting it into drawers. As I line up socks in the drawer, I see it. A scrap of raspberry pink lace clinging to a dark sock. I peel it way as it clings with static electricity. A pair of hot pink lace panties that belong to the nanny. I hold them and stare at them like they’re a rare artifact. I crush them in my palm, try to think of a simple way to return them. I could stuff them back in the laundry for Mrs. Whitman to deal with. I could march down the hall and knock on Reva’s door and say, “I think these are yours.” Because confronting her with her panties in my hand wouldn’t be the least bit awkward or sexually charged. Putting them in the laundry room is clearly the answer.

  I stand up to do just that, but I find I don’t want to give them back. I want to keep them. The slight roughness to the cheap lace is sexy against my skin. I know what I’m going to do. I lock my door. I unzip my pants and sprawl on my bed. With Reva’s lace panties in my hand, wantonly, I start to stroke my cock. It’s already standing at attention, and the rasp of lace turns me on even more. Aroused, my cock is big, and wrapping it in her lace panties feels naughty, wrong. Filthy. With every stroke I grit my teeth. I shut my eyes and imagine her.

  I fantasize that Reva knocks on my door, finds me this way. I pause, unlock the door and open it just a crack to ask if something is wrong. Yes, she says, I need you now. She pushes her way through the door, backing me up toward the bed. I sit down, my cock still out. She kneels down in front of the bed, takes just the tip in her hot, questing mouth. I think I’m going to scream because I want her so much. I anchor my hands in her hair, pull her face against my cock so she takes me deeper in her mouth. A few long sucks and she draws back with a knowing smile. She pushes me back onto the bed and crawls up over me. I reach for the deep neckline of that green dress she wore the day she moved back in. I pull it lower, revealing the swell of her breast. I reach in, draw her entire breast out of the dress and capture it with my mouth. I love her nipples, so sensitive, so rosy, so quick to peak and harden in my lips. After a few
minutes, she pushes me away and peels off her dress to reveal she’s wearing nothing under it. I reach down instantly and cup her bare mound in my hand, fingers teasing at the outer folds of her pussy. She grinds against me wantonly. I feel her wetness seeping on to my fingers, and it’s so erotic.

  I roll her on to her back and lift one of her legs to wrap it over my shoulder. I straddle her other thigh and sink in to her. By holding her leg up, I can go so deep with every thrust. She feels amazing—slick, tight, eager. My cock is pounding in to her before I can slow myself down. She rocks against me, moaning with every deep thrust. I rub my thumb across her mouth. She opens her lips and sucks it. I take it away, use my wet thumb to stroke her clit in hard, tight circles until she’s coming so hard she screams like an animal. I make myself slow the rhythm somewhat, enjoy the cling of her wetness as I withdraw and the hot feeling of being consumed when I thrust back in. I manage to keep going for a while as her flutters of pleasure subside. She reaches up and catches my hand, laces her fingers through mine and pulls me down for a kiss. I kiss her softly at first, but she wants more, opening her lips for my tongue. When I’m kissing her like that, deep and dizzy, I start to come. It’s hard and fast, explosive, and I kiss her the whole time. I let her swallow my groans, my hands coming to frame her face as I keep kissing her. We roll onto our sides and make out like teenagers, her hands in my hair, my fingers stroking her beautiful face, still flushed from the exertion. I pull her against me.

  Then I open my eyes, annoyed with myself for fantasizing about her like I’m some horny teenager. Then I stroke myself, pretending the lace panties are Reva’s hand, that she’s the one touching me like this, building the anticipation and giving me release at my peak. My body jerks with climax, my head falling back. How can I want her so much? Why didn’t having her on my couch get this out of my system? I want to fuck her night and day.