Rugged Daddy (Dark Daddy Doms Book 2)

by Ava Sinclair

  “See what you’ve done to me, little girl?”

  I feel a moment of panic. My last lay was over a year ago, an unsatisfying romp with some Friend With Benefits whose modest physical attributes did absolutely nothing to prepare me for the size and girth of the rising cock becoming more intimidating by the moment.

  “Zane…” It’s the first time I’ve said his name, and it’s tinged with the trepidation I feel. He kneels beside me, and although he’s not touching me, I can feel him, feel his power, his presence. I’ve never been around anyone who’s made me feel so captivated. He reaches out, his hand cupping my face.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says.

  He stretches out beside me. Our bodies are touching now, his hard, muscular thigh against my softer, paler one. His hand is on my hip, the fingers curved over to rest on a buttock marked by his hand the night before. He’s as tender now as he was harsh then, pulling me to him, telling me it’s okay, that he’s going to be gentle, so gentle with his little girl. He’s put his finger deep inside me so he knows I’m not a virgin, but he’s treating me like I’m one. His lips caress my shoulders, the hairs of his beard tickling me so that I giggle. He chuckles, low in his throat, then the laughter dies as he moves his head down suddenly to capture my nipple in his hot mouth.

  I’m not expecting this and arch toward the insistent pressure of his drawing on the soft tip. I cry out as his teeth nip and score at the firm nub. My fingers curl into his thick hair, clutching tightly. I squirm under his mouth and he responds with a deep growl of pleasure.

  “Mmmm,” he says around my nipple, sending a thrum of vibration through my body. My pussy is clenching on itself. I can feel arousal damp on my thighs. Hunger. My core is craving his entry, his cock, even if it hurts to take it—especially if it hurts. I’ve never had a man make pain feel like pleasure, and the rougher he gets, the more excited I become.

  His mouth and hands are suddenly everywhere, overwhelming me. He squeezes my punished ass until I cry out. He wrenches my legs apart. I look up to see him kneeling between them, one hand on each knee, pressing them down, opening me wide. He looks down at my pussy, wet and spread and his for the taking. I’m literally panting with need.

  “Does my little girl want me to fuck her?” he asks.

  Oh, sweet Jesus. I literally come at his words, not hard, but the wave that sweeps over me is powerful enough to make me moan. He chuckles.

  “That’s a wet little pussy,” he says. “I can’t go any further until I taste it.”

  I don’t have time to respond before his head is between my legs, his huge hands cupping my bottom as he begins lapping at my engorged labia, stopping on each pass up to run his tongue in small, insistent circles around my clit. I come again, harder this time, and at the apex of my orgasm he latches on to the nerve-filled nubbin, suckling gently as I buck against his face, my hands now scrabbling not into his hair but into the fur of the bearskin rug at my side. I’m still coming when he flips me over on my belly and jerks me back. He slaps my still-sore ass and the sounds echo throughout the room. I whimper and mewl, the pain blending with the pleasure that has set me alight. He’s behind me, palming his huge cock. I look back to see the head positioned in line with my pussy. He drags the tip up through my slit, teasing me. Another orgasm starts to build, but then he leans forward and puts his mouth to my ear.

  “Don’t you come until I say so, little girl. You hear me?”

  I expect him to enter me from behind, but he turns me over again, sliding between my legs. “Don’t come until I say so,” he repeats.

  I shudder. How can I not? I’m spreading my legs to allow for his entry, which stretches the walls of my pussy to their limits. He’s so big it hurts, but the ache of want makes the entry that much more delicious and already the walls seeking to accommodate his girth are quivering as pleasure replaces pain and my breath grows shallow in my throat.

  “I mean it,” he says, and his hand under my bottom squeezes so hard I cry out. I concentrate on trying to put a mental stopper in the gush of wanton pleasure springing from the well of my desire. His cock hurts so good, and when his hand slides down my thigh, guiding me to put a leg around his waist, I respond with both. He’s filled me completely now. I can feel the heavy sac of his scrotum slap against me as he begins to move, slowly at first, then vigorously.

  His back is arched, and he’s supporting himself by his arms as he glides in and out of me. The skin of the bear feels both soft and rough under my back. I’m sandwiched between two beasts. Between the conquered and the conqueror. I too, feel conquered. Deliciously conquered.

  “Don’t come yet,” he says, and his words make me aware of how close I am. My body is quaking with pleasure, my pussy on the verge of a symphony of spasms as the tide of sensations threatens to sweep me away. His voice sounds far off. “Wait.”

  I obey, my excitement heightened by the limits he’s putting on my response. Sweat drips from his brow, hits my cheek, and runs salty into my mouth. He’s smiling down at me.

  “You feel so fucking good, little girl,” he says. “So good.” He sits back, taking me with him, kneeling so that I’m straddling his lap. He fucks me in hard upward thrusts and all I can say with each one is “Ah!”

  Ah! Ah! Ah!

  “Come for me.” His cock makes firm contact with my g-spot, and I can no longer say “ah!” I can no longer say anything. The pleasure has taken my breath away. I want to say “Yes,” but my body says it for me. Pleasure courses through my body, and I sink my teeth into Zane’s muscular shoulder as he holds me to him, his huge hand stroking my hair as he comes, too, his huge cock pulsing hot seed spills into me as I revel for a moment in my own power, the power of bringing him the same level of ultimate pleasure.

  He holds me tenderly for a moment before wrapping me on a blanket he pulls from the sofa, laying me gently on the rug. My body is exhausted by our carnal dance and I watch through hooded lids as he refreshes the tub with hot water before picking me back up and placing me inside. This time there are no words as he washes me. There’s just tenderness as he cleans me from head to toe. His touch is almost reverent, and he’s especially gentle when he washes my pussy, which is delightfully sore.

  Outside the wind howls, and I know he is right. It is a dangerous world out there, and I am not ready for it. But with him, I feel completely safe.

  Chapter Six

  “Would you like to see what I do out here?”

  It’s finally stopped snowing and Zane has been up since daybreak, digging a trench through the snowpack to the little building with the green door. He tells me I might be interested in what he has out there.

  “Yes,” I say. “But I can’t go outside because someone burned my boots.”

  “Hold on.” He disappears into another room and comes back with what looks like a bundle of fur.

  “I’ve been saving these,” he says. “They were in the trunk along with the other clothes.”

  “They look like mucklucks,” I say, examining the boots. They are old and a bit stiff, but in remarkably good condition.

  “They are,” he says. “Or the closest thing. The family that lived here was very resourceful.” Zane helps me put on the boots, which are a bit tight but very warm, and laces them to just below my knees. He gives me one of his sweaters, which is ridiculously large and makes me look like a little girl wearing her daddy’s clothing. I know he’s thinking the same thing because he’s smiling.

  “You look cute enough to kiss,” he says, “but you know what that leads to.”

  “More kissing?” I ask with a shy smile.

  “I might not be able to stop if I started,” he says. “But undressing you now would be kind of a chore, so that’ll have to wait.”

  I agree. As much as I’d like a repeat performance of last night’s sex, I’m curious to see what he has outside. I can’t believe how much snow has fallen. The top of the trench comes up to my elbow. Zane says it’s the most snow he’s seen since settling h
ere several years ago.

  “Why did you come out here?” I ask.

  “Because the animals are better company than people.”

  He opens the door and the first thing I see are two button black eyes regarding me from the branch of a floor-to-ceiling enclosure in the back of the shed. The russet creature slinks from the branch down into a hollow log at the base of the enclosure, sticking its head out long enough to regard me warily before withdrawing. It looks like the perfect cross between a cat and a fox. I’m instantly charmed.

  “What is that thing?” I ask. “And where did you get him?”

  “Her,” he corrects. “She’s a pine marten, and her name is Kali. She’s kind of a bitch so don’t put your fingers in there.” He opens a box and pulls out a freshly dead squirrel, which he tosses into the enclosure. The marten’s head comes out for a moment, its whiskers wriggling as it sniffs the carcass. A split second later, it grabs it and pulls it into the hole with a savagery that seems out of place with her size. “I found her half dead in a snare last year, not too far from where I found you. She moved too fast for you to see it, but half of her back leg is missing. She’s adapted well in captivity, but she couldn’t survive in the wild.”

  There’s an angry edge to his voice.

  “It’s likely whoever snared her didn’t mean to.”

  “I disagree. The snare was set in a patch of forest where a population of martens is on the comeback after years of decline. Some hunters don’t like them. They think martens compete for game they like to come up here and shoot.”

  “That’s awful,” I say sadly. “Humans usually hunt for sport. Animals hunt to survive.”

  “Exactly, but you can’t tell that to some selfish person who feels entitled to kill whatever they want.” He pauses and walks over to a worktable where he picks up a photo album. Inside are pictures of martens he’s live trapped, weighed, and tagged for release. About the size of small housecats, the martens—which are members of the weasel family—are russet colored like Kali or darker brown. They all share the same foxlike face, and some of the photos almost make me laugh. It’s clear that the animals have little appreciation for scientific endeavor. It’s also clear that Zane needed the gloves to handle such spitfires.

  “Genetic diversity in the area marten population is the topic of my latest research project,” he says, and as I peruse the handwritten data meticulously entered in the logbook I’m once again struck by the irony of his general appearance and demeanor. Zane Tyler has a doctorate and yet he chooses to live here in self-imposed solitude? Why?

  I want to ask him, but the way he deflected my question the first time makes me wonder if I’m not the only one with something to hide.

  The trench he’s dug extends to the equipment shed, where the nearly stolen snowmobile is back under the tarp beneath the repaired shelf, then on to the smokehouse where Zane keeps slabs of salt pork he purchases hanging alongside venison he harvests himself. He tells me he takes no joy in hunting, but considers it a necessary skill. He asks me if I’ve ever shot a gun.

  “Once or twice,” I say.

  “Would you say you’re comfortable with a firearm?”

  “I know how to fire one. I wouldn’t say I’m comfortable.”

  “Then you aren’t allowed to touch one until I give you some lessons. They aren’t toys.”

  I want to remind him again that I’m not a child, that I know this. But he’s back in daddy mode, treating me like a schoolgirl in need of instruction. And like a child, I tromp along in my fur boots as he walks from the buildings back to the house, soaking up knowledge he imparts about the wildlife in the area. There are wolves, he says. He hears them howling, but it’s rare for them to venture to his homestead. Just the same, he wants me to stay inside. Winter is hard on animals, and they can become desperate.

  But there are worse, more desperate creatures than starving wolves he tells me once we’re inside.

  “What?” I want to know. Bears are hibernating this time of year. “Wolverines?”

  “Man,” he says. “Come a thaw, I want to get you somewhere safe. In case your boss comes looking for you. I don’t want you to have any extra trouble on my account.”

  His comment puzzles me. “Why would it matter that I’m staying with you? He’s mad at me, remember? If he hasn’t come looking for me already, maybe he didn’t notice that I ripped him off. I probably hurt Ken Workman’s pride more than his wallet.”

  “That’s when some people are the most dangerous,” he says. He grows quiet then. “Eva…” he begins, then he stops.

  “What?”

  “Unless I’m with you, I want you to stay indoors. Once it’s safe to travel, we’ll go to a friend who has an airstrip. He can fly you back out west, far away from all this mess.”

  Less than two days ago, I was trying to escape. Now the idea of leaving feels me with dread and the pain of betrayal. Now that he’s had his fun, is he planning to just get rid of me? So much for being his little girl.

  I tell myself I’m being stupid, that I was as much a willing participant in our romp on the rug as he was. As far as being his little girl, I should be used to understanding that father figures don’t always come through on their promises.

  Toughen up, Eva, I tell myself. You’ve gone your whole life taking care of yourself. Now is not the time to look to somebody else.

  “If I’m going to be stuck inside, at least let me help with things,” I say. I try to keep the disappointment out of my voice. “You know, pull my weight like you said?”

  He regards me over the table where he’s starting to prepare lunch.

  “Is that what you want?”

  No. I want more of playing house as your little girl. The words are on the tip of my tongue, begging to be spoken. But pride and realism muffle them.

  “Yes,” I say, and he’s silent for a moment.

  He turns away. “You can fix lunch. I’ll go out and get some more firewood.”

  He baked a loaf of bread before dawn. I take it now and cut it into steamy slices that I top with ham and cheese. I’m grateful that Zane has gone back outside. I’m feeling uncharacteristically emotional and conflicted. I look outside. The sun on the snow throws a brighter than bright shaft of light through the window. It’s still bitterly cold, and I wonder how long it will stay that way. How long before the snow pack melts down enough for him to pack me onto the snowmobile and take me to the airfield? I imagine looking down as the wilderness recedes. I imagine Zane Tyler becoming a speck on the ground before disappearing, before becoming a memory, a story to tell my friends in the future.

  So, who was the most interesting guy you ever dated, Eva?

  Well, I wouldn’t say we dated, but there was this one guy… we had this instant chemistry… he saved my life… he called me his little girl.

  I should be grateful. He did save me, after all. He’s planning to help me get away without facing the music for stealing from Ken Workman. But the way he makes me feel…

  With the sandwiches made, I throw myself into cleaning the cabin. I pump water into a wooden bucket, fetch the mop from the pantry, and begin to clean the kitchen floor. In the process, I get my woolen socks wet, so I hang them by the fire to dry. Zane is still outside, so I go to the chest in his room where he keeps the old-fashioned clothing. It’s the first time I’ve opened it myself. There are several more dresses and nightgowns. I’m digging through them looking for socks when I notice the lid has a separate compartment. Perhaps they are in here. I reach up and undo the clasp, but it’s not socks I find. It’s papers. Specifically, news clippings. I pick one up and unfold it. It’s Zane, although he looks different. His beard is closely cropped, and he’s wearing both a jovial smile and a bow tie. But it’s the headline that garners the most attention. “Popular Biology Professor Dismissed Amid Scandal,” it reads. The subhead underneath provides additional details. “Board votes 3-4 to fire Dr. Zane Tyler for inappropriate conduct.”

  “Looking for something?”r />
  I startle at the sound of his voice. Zane is leaning on the doorframe. I fumble with the paper, hastily folding it.

  “I was looking for socks.”

  “Bottom left side,” he says.

  I hold my breath, waiting for him to explain the article, but instead he just walks away. I hear a thump and a hiss as he adds wood to the fire. I find the socks and shut the trunk, closing away the secrets. Zane is eating his sandwich when I walk in.

  “I hope it’s okay,” I say. “The sandwich, I mean.”

  He looks up at me as he chews, but doesn’t say anything. Is he offended? Angry?

  I join him at the table, my legs dry and warm again in the woolen socks. I eat my sandwich, stealing glances at Zane as I do. But he finishes in silence, only addressing me as he puts the plate in the sink.

  “I have some things I need to do,” he says. “I’ll be working in the building. Stay put.”

  He walks back to the door.

  “Zane?” He doesn’t turn back. His body is tense as he pulls on his coat. I rise from the table. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  He glances to the side and for a moment I think he’s going to look at me. But instead he just reaches for his hat, puts it on, and walks outside.

  Zane is clearly disappointed in me, so now he’s shunning me. It’s worse than being spanked, but as effective. I could easily go back into the chest and pull out the papers. I could get the whole story of his ousting, could piece together more of who this man who’s taken me in and fucked me senseless. But I don’t. Instead I go to the bookshelf and take down one of the books he’s coauthored. I drag my finger down the spine, over his name. I go through the book, which is part narrative, part dry scientific jargon. It’s a book by scientists for other scientists, full of data charts and up close photos of feet, ears, and paws. It’s a book I now know was written by a popular professor who likely enjoyed engaging a lecture hall full of students. What happened to drive him from his position, to compel him to live apart from society in this remote homestead?