Filthy Daddy (Her Billionaire's Baby Book 3)

by Ellie Wild

  I had gotten out most of the tears and fought through the anger and resentment phase of our unofficial ‘break up.’ Now I just felt empty. I pulled myself back up on the bed and took a sip of wine, then I reached for the first assignment in the stack of homework projects that I needed to grade.

  Every week I assigned my class a take-home project that needed to be completed with the help of their parents. The idea was that the project forced parents to take an interest in what was going on at school and get involved. But the sad reality was that most of the time, the nannies just ended up working through the project themselves at the last minute.

  For this past week’s project, I provided each of my students with a storybook. The pages inside each book had been pre-printed with the texts of different fairy tales. One book was Rapunzel, another told the story of Snow White. Besides the block of text printed at the bottom of each page, the book was blank. The assignment was for students to read the story with their parents, then work together to create illustrations that matched the passage of text on each page.

  Flipping through the stack of completed books, I couldn’t help but wonder, cynically, how many nannies were up late the night before, racing to complete their illustrations.

  It was times like these that I questioned whether I really belonged at a school like Bellamy Day. I wanted to help kids that fell between the cracks, but even my best efforts to build real connections seem to falter and fall short.

  The truth was if it wasn’t for Emmy, I probably would have considered leaving Bellamy Day a long time ago. Helping Emmy gave me a reason to stay. But now that Emmy didn’t need me anymore, I was wondering if I really belonged at Bellamy. I felt like I was missing my real calling. That I should be doing more.

  I flipped open the first assignment and immediately my suspicions were verified. The storybook Aladdin had been painstakingly illustrated with drawings far beyond the preschool level. I flipped through the pages, and felt my heart sink. Then, knowing there was not a damn thing I could do about it, I marked the back cover with a passing grade and moved on to the next book in the stack.

  I had made it through the first half of the stack by the time I needed to take a break to refill my wine glass. I checked my phone, then reminded myself again that I blocked Caleb’s number, and I reached for the next book.

  Maybe it was because Caleb was still lingering on my mind, but when I see Emmy’s curly handwriting on the cover of the storybook, my heart instinctively leapt in my chest.

  I considered moving the storybook to the bottom of the stack, but then I convinced myself that it was better to tear off the band aid and deal with it then. I took a deep breath and dropped the book onto my lap.

  ‘The Tale of the Lost Queen,’ the cover read, in squiggly magic market letters.

  I don’t remember this fairytale… I thought, frowning as I flipped open the cover.

  The first page was an elaborate colored pencil drawing of spindly grey buildings, stretched to comical proportions in front of a bright blue sky. In the center of the page, there was a girl with yellow crayon hair and a bright pink crown.

  ‘Once upon a time,’ the text began on the first page, ‘in the faraway kingdom of Manhattan, there lived a special princess named Emmy.’

  I felt my heart thump. This wasn’t the storybook I assigned to Emmy. In fact, this wasn’t a storybook at all. This was a recreation. Someone reprinted their own story, painstakingly following the format of the storybooks I had assigned so that it would look identical to the other projects. Someone had written their own fairytale, replacing the one I had originally assigned to Emmy. And the flutter in my stomach told me that that someone was Caleb Preston.

  I flipped the page and found another rendering of the girl in the crown, this time accompanied by an impossibly tall man wearing a matching pink crown and an impressive attempt at a grey suit.

  ‘One day Princess Emmy was sent to live with her uncle, King Caleb, in a strange place called Camden Castle.’

  Flip.

  ‘King Caleb loved Princess Emmy very much, but he had never taken care of a special little princess before, and he needed a little bit of help.’

  Flip.

  ‘Luckily there was a very kind and beautiful woman named Daisy who was willing to help him.’

  Flip.

  ‘Princess Emmy adored Daisy, and soon King Caleb did, too. Camden Castle began to feel like a home for the first time.’

  I flipped the page and my eyes froze on an illustration of the tall king in the grey suit and pink crown, Caleb, embracing a woman with flowing blonde hair and a blue Bellamy Day polo shirt, me.

  ‘The truth was, King Caleb had been living a dark and lonely life at Camden Castle. Princess Emmy and Daisy brought color and light into his life, and the king realized that he had finally found his Queen.’

  Flip.

  ‘King Caleb hoped that Daisy would be his queen so they could be a family and live happily ever after… but then something terrible happened.’

  Flip; the page was shaded entirely black with crayon, and in the center there was a gnarly depiction of a dragon exhaling glitter-paint plumes of fire.

  ‘King Caleb was confronted by a terrible monster.’

  Flip.

  ‘The king knew that the monster would hurt the people that he loved the most. So, in order to protect his beloved queen, the king lied. He told the monster that Daisy was just a teacher.’

  Flip.

  ‘The king had told the lie to protect his queen from the terrible monster, but Daisy was hurt. She ran away, before the king could explain himself.’

  I flipped to the next page, where King Caleb was speared by his sword, his face twisted in agony.

  ‘King Caleb realized that he had lost the only woman he had ever loved. Without his queen, the family was incomplete…’

  Flip.

  ‘King Caleb vowed to never stop searching for his lost queen.’

  My eyes were already dripping with tears and I felt my entire body prickling with the rush of emotions. Both the reminder of sadness and the sudden exhilaration of renewed hope.

  I flipped to the final page in the book, and this time there wasn’t a typed passage or illustration. There was just a note, penned in deep black ink.

  ‘Daisy, I can’t beg you to understand or forgive me… all I can do is beg that you’ll give me the chance to explain myself. I thought I was protecting you, but it’s obvious to me now that I only managed to hurt you. The truth is, I would have been proud to call you mine that day. I asked for your trust, and I hope you’ll give me the opportunity to earn it. If you’re willing to give me another chance, you can find me where we shared our first date. (That’s right… I called it a date).’

  ‘Sunday night. You pick the time… I’ll be there, waiting for you. If I don’t see you by midnight, I’ll accept that you’ve moved on and I won’t bother you again.’

  I was staring at the words, and then the realization hit me. Sunday night. That’s tonight.

  Caleb was waiting for me, right now, at the NoMad Hotel. I clicked on my phone, bringing the home screen to life. It was 11 pm. That meant that I had less than an hour, less than an hour to shimmy out of my sweatpants and make it from Brooklyn to midtown.

  I felt a dose of panic added to the emotional stew brewing inside of me, and then I jumped from the bed, downed the rest of my wine, and reached for a pair of jeans and my MetroCard.

  In this fairytale, the queen is taking the subway to find her king.

  20

  CALEB

  I pushed up the sleeve of my suit jacket, revealing the face of my Rolex in the dim light of the NoMad Hotel bar.

  It was11:59, and I knew she was not coming. I knew it at 6 pm, when I got here. I knew it at 7, when I finished the gin and tonic that I was sipping. I knew it at 8, when the bartender asked if I wanted a magazine and I slipped him a stack of hundreds to leave me the hell alone and keep my glass full. I knew it at 9, and at 10, and I became certa
in at 11… she wasn’t coming.

  Still, I clung to my foolish hope that I’d be wrong. It got harder to hope as the night went on. And then, at 11:59, I had one minute of hope left; one final granule of sand in the hourglass that was tonight.

  I pushed the gin and tonic away on its soggy coaster and I leaned forward on the bar, willing myself to stand up and accept defeat. I made an effort. That was all I could do. Maybe it had been wrong to involve Emmy and get her hopes up; watching how eagerly my niece had illustrated my rewritten ‘fairytale’ had only confirmed how much Emmy missed Daisy. I had no idea how I would fill the void left in my own life, let alone in Emmy’s.

  12:00 my watch ticked. I slid forward off the barstool and threw a final hundred dollar bill onto the bar, then I turned towards the door and step straight into a black suit.

  “I’m terribly sorry, sir,” the man bumbled, taking a step backwards, and I deduce from the gold name badge inscribed ‘concierge’ that he was hotel staff.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I mumbled, stepping around him.

  “Erm… are you Mr. Preston, by chance?” he called after me.

  I glanced back, then I glanced around the rest of the bar. Besides a couple making a baby in a corner booth and a pair of Midwest thirty-something soccer mom tourists who came to New York hoping for their Sex and the City experience, the bar was empty. No other potential Mr. Preston’s there.

  “Yes,” I admitted reluctantly.

  “This is for you,” he said, handing me an envelope. Then, in a loud whisper, he added, “It’s urgent.”

  He waited around for another few seconds, probably to see whether I opened it, before he nodded politely and scurried back towards the hotel’s reception area. I debated whether I should just stuff the envelope in my pocket or tear it open there, and in the end, it was the concierge’s emphasis on the word ‘urgent’ that made me curious enough to pry open the envelope and see what’s inside.

  I find a note, scrawled in red pen ink on hotel stationery:

  ‘Someone once said that there’s something sensual about hotels; the guests are like strangers exploring a foreign land, and should two of them meet and the mood strike, then pure bliss is just a room key away. Well, here’s to testing that theory. 615.’

  I remembered that line, and I remembered who said it. I told Daisy that on our first date, right here at the Hotel NoMad. I glanced into the envelope and even though I already had a pretty good idea of what I’d find inside, I still felt a jolt of excitement when my eyes landed on the black rectangular room key.

  Room 615.

  It was her.

  I slipped the note into my pocket and headed for the elevator. My pulse was like electricity, throbbing as it pulsed through my veins. I was hard as fucking steel by the time the elevator doors slid shut, and even though I had an entire script planned for tonight, the apology, the groveling, the explaining myself and revealing my feelings, I had a hunch that Daisy had other plans for the night.

  But when the elevator dinged on floor 6 and the doors slid open, I hesitated. I told Daisy once before that things between us couldn’t be meaningless. And I meant it. If the past week has proven anything, it was that there was something real between us, something dangerous and fragile, but something real nonetheless.

  And I was not fucking it up again.

  I glided down the hall, my footsteps muted by the plush red carpet. I found room 615 and I slipped the key into the door, then I took a deep breath before I pushed it open.

  Inside, the room was dark, dimly illuminated by the flicker of candles lining the narrow entryway. I found the room empty; the bed was made, the sheets undisturbed. My cock screamed through my pants and I wondered if I’ve missed her again.

  Then I spotted the beam of light snaking out from under the bathroom door. I crossed the room, the weight of my steps creaking on the old hardwood floors, then I pressed the door open with my knuckles.

  The bathroom lights were off, but the glow of candles was stronger in the small bathroom. The flickering flames reflected off the massive white cast iron tub, which was filled with a sea of bubbles and, more importantly, Daisy.

  Her neck was resting on one end of the tub and her feet were propped on the other. Her arms were draped around the rim, and when her eyes flicked up to me she remained perfectly still. Her face was completely blank, but the look of want in her eyes, combined with the sight of her soaking in that tub full of bubbles, made my need for her burn even hotter through my veins.

  “Interesting choice of locale for a conversation,” I said finally, breaking the tense silence.

  “I didn’t invite you here for a conversation.”

  “No? Why, then?”

  “I thought you didn’t like stupid questions,” her pout twisted into a smile, and she sinks a bit lower into the bath of creamy white bubbles.

  The animal inside of me wanted to dive through those bubbles and ravage her right there in the cast iron tub, but the gentleman in me remembered the thoughts I was thinking in the elevator.

  “I already told you before,” I said, standing my ground. “I can’t have meaningless sex with you.”

  “You’ve told me a lot of things, Caleb, and they haven’t all been true.”

  I crossed the bathroom and sit on the rim of the clawfoot soaking tub, bending down so I can smell the rose-scented bubbles as they pop against her bare shoulders.

  “You want the truth, Daisy?”

  She didn’t respond, but she dipped her chin subtly; a nod.

  “The truth is that I can’t just fuck you, because I fucking love you.”

  She blinked behind the shield of bubbles, sinking lower into the tub but keeping her eyes locked on mine. She was silent and in those few seconds and I couldn’t figure out what she was thinking or what she was going to say.

  “Tell me what you want, Daisy.”

  Her eyes flicked up and her lips pursed together.

  “I want you.”

  I gripped the edge of the tub, my body reeling with the ache of restraint. Her hands slipped from the rim, sinking into the bubbles. I watched her shoulders bunch together and I could tell exactly what she was doing. She was touching herself.

  I imagined the feeling of her velvet skin, wet from the rose scented bathwater; wet with how much she wished that her fingers were mine as she slipped her knuckles between her legs underwater.

  “Tell me what you want,” she said, keeping her eyes trained on mine.

  I leaned forward, bending through the bubbles between us so that our faces were close.

  “You.”

  She bent up the rest of the way and our lips connected. It was a desperate, hungry kiss, and I only pulled away so that I could tear off my suit jacket and plunge my arm into the bubbly bathwater. The water soaked through the white sleeve of my dress shirt, but I didn’t care. I needed to feel her.

  Under the bubbly surface I found her fingers spread over her clit. I weaved my hand over hers, then I guided her fingertip to make small, slow circles around her clit. She inhaled sharply and sucked in her lip, leaning towards me.

  I kissed her again and then she pulled her hands away, letting me take over. I slipped my hand lower, plunging two fingers into her hole while I tasted the gasp escaping her lips. Then her hands popped through the bubbles and wrapped around my waist, then moved towards the fly of my pants.

  I kept pressing my fingers into her underwater while she tore open my pants and released my screaming cock through the opening of my briefs. Her fingers wrapped around the base of my shaft, and just feeling her hands on me made me want to explode. The way her eyes widened as she took in my size made me need her even more.

  I pulled my hand out of the tub and she propped herself up on her knees. My hands found her perfect tits as they emerged from the bubbles, and my fingers slipped in the suds as I slid my fingers over her nipples, making the same little circles that I made over her clit.

  She moaned again, then she lowered herself towards m
y pulsing cock. I braced myself for the sensation of her hot little mouth taking me in, and I gripped the edge of the tub, willing myself not to come.

  I felt her tongue first, lapping up the underside of my head. I felt a jolt of pleasure shake through my spine and I gripped the tub a little harder as she spread her lips open, tasting all of me as she slides my thick cock into her mouth.

  She went tantalizing slow, and I felt my body melt inside of her with every inch she took. I knew I would come if she didn’t stop, so I slid back out. Her eyes flicked up, disappointed.

  “I’m not good?”

  “You’re too good,” I assured her. “I need to be inside of you. Now.”

  She smiled.

  “Come on,” I said, bending into the tub and pulling her from the water. I tossed her over my shoulder and she squealed with shock. All of her bubbles and wetness soaked through my shirt, forever staining me with traces of Daisy. I wore her proudly, and carried her through the bathroom door, then hurled her onto the bed.

  She squealed again, then watched with wide eyes as I stripped off my pants and shirt. I needed to be inside of her, but I also needed her to come first.

  “Touch yourself,” I said, watching her wet body squirm on the bed.

  “No way,” she said. “It’s not the same as when you do it.”

  “Don’t make me tell you twice,” I warned, giving my cock a quick stroke to ease the pure fire that’s pumping through my skin.

  She slipped a delicate finger between her legs.

  “Spread your legs,” I said. She obeyed, but not enough. “More,” I said.

  She spread her legs further apart, and I watched as her fingers clumsily try to replicate the way I played with her clit. The way I tugged on her lips, the way I pinched and pulled and rubbed all the right places. She got it all wrong, and she glanced up at me hopelessly.