Single Daddy Dom

by Sophia Gray

  He wished the answer were elusive, but unfortunately, he knew exactly what it was and he loathed himself for it.

  It was Maggie.

  He couldn't get her out of his mind. He hated the fact that the last time he'd seen her, he'd made her cry. He couldn't bear the thought that every mile he put between himself and New Orleans was also a mile he put between himself and her.

  So what? his brain sneered at him. You've left behind a hundred crying girls in a hundred other towns, and you were always mighty sure they'd get over it. Why not? You always did, right? You can break some other girl's heart in the next town, and the next. Isn't that part of the adventure?

  It always had been before, but this time, it felt different. Part of it was the way Maggie had smiled at him during the end of their first date—the happiness and trust and wanting he'd seen sparkling in her eyes, and all of it just for him. Based on his previous sexual encounters, Brock had come to believe less-experienced partners generally weren't much fun. Too much fumbling and hesitation and uncertainty.

  But with Maggie, it had been different. She'd welcomed him into her and embraced him completely with a fierceness he'd never known before, as though she'd been waiting for him her whole life.

  Or maybe he'd been waiting for her?

  Deep down, though, he knew there was another reason he was having trouble with the concept of leaving her. The way her parents tried to control her and dictate every aspect of her life, right down to who she'd marry—it had reminded him of something before, but he hadn't been able to put his finger on it until tonight. And now that he had, he wished he hadn't.

  He reached into the mini-bar for another bottle and twisted the cap off, drinking it without bothering to look at the label first.

  Once upon a time, there'd been a little boy named Brock Summer whose parents lived in Grosse Tete. Their family wasn't nearly as wealthy as the Riccis—Brock's father was a surgeon, and his mother was a software designer—but they were still firmly ensconced in the upper middle class, with an emphasis on the “upper.”

  And they'd had such plans for their beloved little boy, hadn't they? That was how they'd always said it, in hushed, eager tones: Such plans, as though they could wrap up their son's entire future in a shiny gift box and present it to him with a big bow, pre-assembled, batteries included, nothing required of him except to take it and say “Thank you.”

  Such plans meant sending him to a private school, far from the playmates he'd had when he was younger. Such plans meant no meat, no soda, nothing sweet, nothing fried. Such plans meant piano lessons three days a week, baseball practice all weekend, and church every Sunday. Such plans meant he'd go to whichever college they chose for him, and such plans meant forced dates with Serena, the glum, pimply girl who came from the only other family in town that was even close to the Summers in wealth and status.

  And then came Hammer, and heavy metal music, and motorcycles, and teenage rebellion. Then came the fledgling Twisted Saints, and blowing town at age 17 without ever looking back.

  And if Hammer hadn't come into Brock's life at just the right moment to save him from his parents' tyranny, what then? Would he be working in an office, doing a job he hated for people he couldn't stand? Would he be married to Serena? Would he visit his mother and father for bland brunches every weekend so they could nag him about when he'd give them grandchildren? Would his parents have such plans for them, too?

  Hammer had saved Brock from that life. And if Brock didn't do the same for Maggie, who would?

  Crack let out a particularly loud snort, farted, shifted his position, and started snoring again.

  He was staying in Brock's room to keep up the appearance of being his bodyguard, but Brock knew there was another reason, too: he'd been tasked with keeping an eye on Brock, to make sure he didn't do anything else the others wouldn't approve of.

  So all this speculating about Maggie's future without him—or with him, for that matter—was moot, wasn't it? His co-conspirators had almost drawn and quartered him when they found out he'd had sex with Maggie. Even if he could somehow see her again, the rest of them would be furious when they heard about it.

  Unless...

  Brock stood up slowly, setting the small bottle down on the nightstand and thinking hard.

  Unless he could somehow make his rendezvous with Maggie into a guarantee of even more money for all of them. Unless he could turn it into part of the score itself. They couldn't be too angry then, could they? Sure, maybe they'd yell and curse at him a little for changing the plan again without telling them, but, ultimately, they'd want that extra cash. Who wouldn't?

  You're drunk, his brain informed him sourly. You're horny, you're lovesick, and you're making stupid excuses for a bad decision.

  It's a brilliant decision, his heart shot back. Who wants to see Turo Ricci taken down even more than Hammer and the others?

  Maggie, that's who.

  Brock crept across the hotel room, keeping his eyes fixed on Crack. He made it to the door and stepped out, closing it gently behind him. When he got down to the lobby, he ducked into the bar and ordered a cup of strong black coffee.

  For this next part, he'd need it.

  Chapter 22

  Brock

  Brock stood outside the high gate surrounding Ricci's house. He remained behind the tall bushes, peering in.

  Scaling the gate itself wouldn't be too difficult, except that he'd have to find a way to keep the loose bars from rattling together and drawing attention to him as he climbed. He'd already found several thick sticks beneath the foliage, and he'd wedged them into the spaces between the bars so they wouldn't move around and make noise.

  Avoiding the lone guard with a shotgun who patrolled the grounds wouldn't present much of a challenge, either. It was a large house, and once the guard disappeared around the corner, Brock would have about three or four minutes to shimmy up the gate and run across the lawn.

  No, the real problem was what came after that.

  Brock knew he couldn't go in through any doors or windows on the ground floor—someone like Ricci would certainly have a hell of a security system in place, and he couldn't risk an alarm going off. There was a wooden trellis at the side of the house with a window right next to it, but who knew what was behind it? Turo's bedroom? And even if it weren’t, could Brock really expect to sneak around the second floor trying to find Maggie's room without being caught? For that matter, even if he could, what reaction could he expect from Maggie if he just pushed open her door and walked in?

  Wow, I must have been pretty drunk, Brock thought. This plan was incredibly stupid.

  Suddenly, a light switched on in the window next to the trellis. Brock saw Maggie's face in it, looking out into the night. She wore a nightgown, and without her makeup, Brock thought she looked more beautiful than ever despite the sadness in her eyes.

  It's a sign, Brock thought, smiling. I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be tonight, and the plan's going to work after all.

  Maggie watched the armed guard stroll across the lawn. When he went around the corner, she withdrew from the window.

  It was time.

  Brock hopped up onto the gate, using the cross-bars as footholds. The bars swayed and wobbled a little, but the pieces of wood between them kept them from hitting each other. When Brock reached the top, he considered climbing back down the other side carefully, then figured it was better to save time and jump. He landed badly on his right ankle, rolling it. The pain was sharp, and he almost cried out.

  He hobbled across the grass as quickly as he could, agony flaring in his ankle with every step. He knew this would make climbing the trellis a lot harder than he thought, and he briefly considered turning back and hopping the gate again before he was discovered.

  Then he took another look at the light in Maggie's window and kept going.

  When he got to the trellis, he hooked his hands and feet between the slats cautiously, lifting himself up to test the weight. The wood groaned a bi
t, but it seemed like it would hold.

  He hoped it would. If he came crashing down on the lawn in a pile of boards and vines, he couldn't think of a single believable excuse he'd be able to give Ricci.

  Brock pulled himself up the trellis, trying not to put too much weight on his injured ankle. He did his best not to count off the seconds in his head as they turned into minutes, but he couldn't help it. He wasn't ascending as easily as he thought he would, and if he didn't make it up the trellis and into Maggie's room in the next seventy seconds, he'd have an ass full of buckshot.

  What if she doesn't let you in? his brain scoffed.

  Too late to worry about that, genius, his heart snapped irritably. Just get to the top.

  One of the wooden slats splintered under Brock's left foot, and he almost lost his balance and fell. He was sure Maggie or the guard would hear the sound, but the window remained shut and no one came running.

  As Brock reached the highest slats, a splinter dug into the palm of his hand. Twenty seconds, and the guard would come around again.

  Brock leaned over, looking into Maggie's window. She was reading in bed.

  He tapped on the glass gently.

  Maggie glanced at the window, saw him, and turned pale. She looked like she was about to make a sound of surprise, but Brock put a finger over his lips, indicating for her to remain quiet. She got up and edged over to the window, the shocked expression frozen on her face as she opened it.

  “What are you doing here?” she hissed.

  “I had to see you.”

  Maggie seemed taken aback by this. “Well...what if I don't want to see you?”

  “Please,” he panted, trying to maintain his grip on the trellis. “I need to tell you something. It'll only take a second, and it's important. After that, if you want, I'll go away and you'll never have to see me again. Just please let me in, before the guard comes back.”

  She hesitated for a moment, then reached out to grab his arms and help him inside. “All right, I guess you'd better get in here before you get shot. But I don't know why I'm doing this.”

  “Because I'm betting our night together meant as much to you as it did to me,” Brock said as she closed the window behind him and drew the curtain. “I'm betting you've been thinking about me constantly, just like I've been thinking about you. In fact, I'll bet that's why you aren't sleeping tonight.”

  “So first you sleep with me, then you try to distance yourself from me, and now you're coming through my bedroom window like some half-baked Peter Pan? You think you can just jerk me around, is that it?” She folded her arms in front of her obstinately, frowning at him.

  “Listen, on our second date...I didn't want to say any of that stuff to you, okay? If it were up to me, we'd have had another night like the first one, and another, and another. But it wasn't my choice.”

  “So whose choice was it, then?”

  He looked her in the eye, took a deep breath, and took the biggest risk of his life. “The people I'm working with. The ones who are helping me bring down your father.”

  She stared at him, stunned. “What are you talking about?”

  He told her everything.

  Chapter 23

  Maggie

  As they sat on the bed together, Maggie listened to the entire long, strange story. She knew she should have had a million questions for him, and she did—but for some reason, the least-important one came out first.

  “Brock? What kind of a name is that?”

  “You don't seem too surprised by all of this,” Brock pointed out.

  Maggie thought it over. “I...guess I'm not, actually. This might sound weird, but it confirms a theory my mother already had about you. She tried to tell Dad you were some kind of fraud who was working with the bikers to rip him off.”

  Brock raised his eyebrows. “Jesus, really? She guessed all that?”

  “Uh-huh. Dad refused to hear it, though. He shouted her down. He's convinced you're for real, and that you'll make him one of the richest men in the country.” She started to laugh. “Wow, have you seen what you've done to him, by the way? He's completely falling apart! You must be one heck of a con man.”

  “'Hell,'” he corrected her. “And for what it's worth, yeah, I'm one of the best in the world.”

  “And so modest, too,” she said. “If having sex with me wasn't part of the plan, then why did you?”

  He looked deep into her eyes. “You know.”

  “And why tell me everything now?”

  “You know that, too.”

  She shook her head. “Nope. Sorry, but if you want to convince me I should trust you now, you'll need to do a lot better than that.”

  “I told you because whatever we have, I don't want it to be over when we're done scamming your father. I want you to come with me. I know you hate it here, and I know you want to go someplace where your parents can't tell you what to do anymore. You might find it hard to believe, but my childhood wasn't so different from yours where that's concerned—and, believe me, staying only guarantees that you'll stay miserable. Eventually, the time comes when all that's left is for you to run away. For you, that time is now.”

  “Is that the only reason?” she asked warily.

  Brock smiled. “No, there's one more. I helped my friend Hammer get payback for what your old man did to him. I'm betting you wouldn't mind some payback of your own. You can help us strike the final blow against him, and come out the other side with enough of his money to live your life however you want.”

  Maggie thought this over. It seemed like Brock held the keys to a whole new life, one where all her dreams of freedom and independence could come true. But as she looked at him and processed everything he'd told her, she realized the dream she most wanted to come true was the dream of being with him.

  She reached out, taking his face in her hands and kissing him.

  The warm breeze of his breath inside her mouth made her light-headed with desire. She felt his hand pressing against the back of her neck, pulling her closer.

  The first time they'd been together like this, Brock had kept his clothes on. Every night since then—even the nights after the second date, when she'd convinced herself that she hated him—she'd been haunted by the thought of what had been under those clothes. His wide shoulders and tapered waist made her hungry to see his body, and she'd promised herself if she ever had another chance, she'd satisfy her curiosity.

  Now she fumbled with the buttons on Brock's shirt as she kept kissing him, undoing them one at a time until she could pull them aside and gaze at the chest beneath them.

  His pecs and abs were firm. There were tattoos here and there—some of them were vivid and detailed, while others were crude and blurry, like jailhouse ink. She briefly wondered if he'd ever been in prison.

  But one thing caught her attention the most, and she had to stifle a giggle.

  “You're blonde?”

  Brock nodded, smiling.

  She shrugged. “Works for me.” And suddenly her lips were on his neck, working their way down his chest and stomach passionately until she was on her knees in front of his belt buckle. Her fingers trembled as she unbuckled it and lowered his zipper. His cock emerged, already hard for her.

  She took the shaft in her hands for a few moments, kneading it gently, feeling it pulse and quiver in her palms. Then she brushed aside a strand of hair that was hanging in her face and parted her lips, taking him into her mouth.

  A moan escaped Brock's lips and Maggie immediately reached out for his hands with hers, squeezing his fingers as a warning. There were several rooms between her bedroom and her parents' room, but still, they couldn't risk making any sounds above a whisper. Brock signaled his understanding of this with a squeeze back, his breath coming in tight hisses.

  Maggie reveled in the feeling of his cock throbbing against her tongue. She felt a secret delight in plunging it deep into her throat, taking herself to the absolute threshold of gagging on it, and then pulling back at the last momen
t. It was warm as it pushed up against the roof of her mouth over and over again insistently. His hands were wrapped around hers so tightly that her fingers were starting to ache, but she didn't care.

  When she couldn't take it anymore, she withdrew her mouth and stood up between his legs, pushing her panties down and kicking them aside.

  “Do you want me to fuck you, Brock?” Maggie asked in a hushed tone. She smiled, enjoying the role reversal.

  Brock grinned, nodding. “Oh yes.”

  “Then ask me.”

  Brock's muscular arms snaked around her waist forcefully as he looked into her eyes, teasing her, daring her. “No, I'll tell you. Fuck me, Maggie. Fuck me now.”

  Maggie felt a delicious shudder edge up her spine at his commanding tone. She hiked up her nightgown and straddled Brock's waist, lowering her wet pussy onto him. She bit back a moan of delight as he penetrated her, feeling him pierce into the molten core of her like a drill seeking precious ore.