by Jade West
I was getting better at this stuff.
“Your cunt betrays your protests,” he growled into my ear.
I heard the rustle of his suit trousers as he freed himself. I murmured expletives as the head of his dick pressed to my pussy lips.
The racking thumped as he thrust all the way in. I couldn’t stop a groan as he bottomed out deep.
“Fuck, yes,” I hissed. “Fuck me, Mr Hart, sir. Please just fucking fuck me.”
“My pleasure, sweetheart,” he said.
He wrapped my hair around his fingers and tugged tight, bouncing me against the racking as he fucked me hard enough to take my breath. His palm ground against my tingling tits, teasing my nipples through my blouse as I rocked back to meet his thrusts.
I was already halfway there when his thumb brushed my clit and set me on fire. The pens were rattling and the shelves were thumping and I didn’t give a fuck that the meeting was going on in the room next door.
I didn’t give a fuck for anything but my gorgeous CEO’s dick and the way it took my pussy hostage in its quest to consume me whole.
“You’ll need discipline for this later, naughty girl,” he hissed. “Distracting me with your dirty office fantasies. We should be in the meeting room right now.”
“I’ll take the punishment gladly,” I hissed right back. “This is worth being a crappy employee for.”
And it was.
It fucking was.
He clamped a hand over my mouth as the orgasm ripped through me, stifling his own grunts in my hair as he followed me over the edge.
And then we laughed. Breathless and ragged and euphoric as his dick twitched inside me.
“Your meeting calendar doesn’t quite pair up with my ovulation calendar,” I whispered in the aftermath. “We’re in the danger zone today.”
He kissed my cheek and I could feel his smile. “My bad, sweetheart. You might be juggling suburban mummy bliss with corporate excellence well before you were anticipating if I keep making these fuck-ups quite so often.”
It was his bad.
Always his bad.
And we were destined for disaster sooner rather than later, but I didn’t care about that either.
I’d had plenty of opportunity to deflect the risks during the previous months, yet never seemed to find the desire to implement any actual contraceptive method.
“Mid-march,” I commented as he smoothed down my pencil skirt. “If I catch now it’ll be mid-December when I’m giving birth to little Hart junior.”
He nodded at my reasoning as he put his dick back in his pants.
“Mid-December, yes.”
How the grin lit up my face.
“You really would be a Christmas daddy next time round,” I said.
He was grinning even brighter than me as he took his dick straight back out again.
Call Me Daddy
Jade West
Call Me Daddy copyright © 2017 Jade West
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.
Edited by John Hudspith – www.johnhudspith.co.uk
Cover design by Letitia Hasser of RBA Designs - http://designs.romanticbookaffairs.com/
All enquiries to [email protected]
First published 2017
Introduction
Judge by the title.
If you think this book might not be for you, then you’re probably right.
If you’re already wet at the prospect, then I hope you enjoy the ride.
Love, Jade <3
This book is dedicated to guilty pleasures, pink glitter and daddy issues.
Chapter One
Laine
My stupid pumps aren’t cut out for this weather. Cold water squelches between my toes, and my breath is misty, wet hair like frozen straw against my cheeks. I can hardly see through the rain.
Damn my birthday for being so late in November.
Damn me for not thinking harder about my wardrobe choices.
I wasn’t planning on being out this late, eighteenth birthday or not. I’m dressed for a quick coffee on a cloudy afternoon, not for clubbing through a stormy evening – leggings and a strappy cami under a fluffy teal cardigan that holds more rain than it keeps out. This stupid scenario is all Kelly Anne’s fault, insisting it wouldn’t be a proper birthday celebration unless it involved getting trashed in some sleazy club in the backstreets of Brighton. We’ll have a great time, she said, just a bus ride and a couple of drinks, she said. Who knows, you may even meet someone hot and finally ditch the V card, she said.
I have no intention of trading my virgin status for a drunken fumble in a back alley with some random who barely knows my name.
And now she’s bailed on me, typical Kelly Anne style. Last I saw of her she was lip-locked with some vest-top-clad hipster with thick-rimmed glasses. Then she was gone, off in a puff of tequila-scented pheromones for some bump and grind at hipster-guy’s pad, no doubt. Regular, except she still has my phone, purse and keys in her handbag for safekeeping.
My own stupid fault for believing for one single second she’d take care of them. Nothing is safe with Kelly Anne after a couple of tequilas, despite what she’ll have you believe.
I root through my sopping pockets, nothing there but a couple of soggy cigarette papers.
Idiot, I’m such an idiot.
I have no real plan for getting home to Newhaven. It’s the best part of a ten-mile hike, and the odds of making it back without either succumbing to hypothermia or stumbling into the sea are slim to nil. I’m sure I should be more freaked out than I am, but I feel strangely nonchalant. Actually, it’s more numb than nonchalant. Maybe I’ve had a few too many tequilas myself, or maybe it’s the sorry knowledge that I have nobody who cares enough to realise I’m stranded all alone without a penny in my pocket.
The fact that Kelly Anne is my best friend and the only real person who gave a shit about my birthday says it all. Even if I do make it home tonight, there’ll be nobody there. Mum’s away again, off in France with her latest conquest. Denny, he’s called. He works over there, doing up properties for rich folk, giving Mum the illusion that she’s one of them, and that’s all she’s ever wanted. That and a man who’ll stick with her longer than it takes to shoot his load. So far so good with Denny, six months and going strong. At least she remembered my birthday enough to send a text this year.
I think I’m heading for the sea front, I hope I’m heading for the sea front. They have bars there that stay open all night, maybe I can find somewhere to hang out until morning, somewhere vaguely warm to pass the time until I figure something out – except I don’t have my ID, that’s in Kelly Anne’s handbag, too. Even if I had any money for a drink, nobody ever lets me buy one without ID. I still get half-fare on public transport, that’s how young I look. Kelly Anne says it’s because I’m so blonde. You look like one of those creepy porcelain dolls, she says, but prettier. I guess that’s supposed to be a compliment.
Maybe I should try to find a police station, explain my sorry situation and hope they’ll let me stay until morning. Maybe I could face the ten-mile hike home when the sun comes up, if it ever stops raining. Maybe I could find a way to break in at home, or I could head over to Kelly Anne’s and wait for her to resurface, give her a piece of my mind for leaving me up shit creek on my own birthday without so much as loose change to my name. Maybe her parents will be home, maybe they’ll let me dry off and wait it out in her bedroom.
My numb feet splash through a puddle and it turns out
they aren’t as numb as I thought. My teeth are chattering, arms folded tight, my wet cardigan so cold against my skin that it feels like an ice bath. Everything seems darker here. I can’t hear any distant bass from nearby clubs, just the occasional drone of a car and the drumming of the rain. The streets are narrow, a rat run of back alleys, wheeled bins piled high with crap. It smells rancid, and even though the dim lighting and the rain make it damned near impossible to get my bearings, I’m sure this isn’t the way to the sea front. I haven’t got a clue where I am or where the hell I’m going.
Shit, shit and more shit.
For the first time through this sorry mess I feel fear creeping up my spine. I’m out of my depth, and the tequila is wearing off fast. Way too fast.
My nerves are chattering worse than my teeth. I would kill for a cigarette, just to take the edge off, and as I turn the corner I may be in luck. A solitary figure is propped in a shadowy doorway. He’s wearing a hoodie, so I can hardly see his face, not that I’m looking. I’m far too focused on the glow of the cigarette between his fingers.
“Hey,” I say, smoothing back the wet hair from my face. “Could you spare me a smoke?”
He stares at me, I can feel it, but I can’t see his eyes in the shadows. He’s big, much bigger than me. He smells of weed and stale body spray mixed with sweat, but right now none of that matters.
I launch into a monologue, telling him my name’s Laine, and how I was out with a stupid friend who took my phone and keys with her when she left. I tell him it’s my birthday, that I’m having the crappiest night of my life and he’d make it just a little bit better if he’d please give me a cigarette. I realise how stupid I sound, how weak my voice is. How weak I feel.
How alone I feel.
But I’ve felt alone for longer than I can remember, this shit’s nothing new.
He hands me the cigarette from his fingers, and even though it makes me feel a bit icky, I take it from him.
“Thanks.”
“Past your bedtime from the look of you,” he grunts. His voice is thick and raspy, and it makes me feel uneasy.
I press myself against the wall, trying to hide from the downpour and protect the cigarette.
“Everyone says that.” I take a long drag. “I’m eighteen. Perfectly legal, at least from today. Yesterday. It’s not even my birthday anymore. Talk about celebrating in style, things can only get better, right?”
My stupid giggle and attempt at humour seem to go right over his head. He grunts again. Perfectly legal. I regret my choice of words.
I keep puffing away, looking at the floor, concentrating on nothing but the welcome rush of nicotine.
“All alone, then?” I can hear the sneer in his tone. He has an accent, a hint of cockney. It’s gruff and deep and laced with the underbelly of this place.
I realise the fine hairs on the back of my neck are standing up and it’s not from the cold. I realise I’m in a dark street with nobody around besides a man who makes me feel like a mouse in a trap.
I force a smile, gesture aimlessly at the road ahead. “My friend will be along for me soon,” I lie. “She’s coming back, such a ditz.”
He laughs. “You just said she’d bailed. Make your mind up.”
“Figure of speech,” I lie again. “She’ll be back… anytime now…”
“Sure she will.” He takes a step towards me and I take a shuffle back. “You can drop the lost little girl shit.”
“Sorry?” I keep my smile bright, even though my heart is thumping like a bastard.
“How much for the works?” I feel his eyes on me, all over me. He takes another step my way. “How much for a go on that cute little ass? Don’t be shy now.”
“But I’m not…” I drop the cigarette. “I’m not a…” My eyes are wide, but I still can’t see his. “My friend’s coming right now… she’s on her way…”
He nudges the door behind him, and the stench of weed hits me. “Come up, get warm. I’ve got weed, or stronger shit, whatever you want. You’d like that, right? I bet you ain’t so fucking innocent as you look.” I can hear his smirk in his voice.
I shake my head. “She’ll be here soon, and I’m really not… I shouldn’t be here…”
“I bet you make a fucking fortune with that nice little girl shit.”
“I’m not playing…” I move away from him, but back into one of the wheeled bins. Cardboard boxes fall to the floor and make me jump.
He laughs louder. “Come on, baby girl, don’t be such a fucking tease.” His voice is leery, drunk. “Bet you sound real fucking nice when you’ve got a nice hard cock in your snatch.”
My back is pressed tight against the bin, and he’s close, too close. His breath is in my face. It stinks. He stinks. He smells musty and rank, like one of mum’s old boyfriends… the window cleaner with the black tooth… the one who slipped his hand between my legs when we were watching Disney and never came over again…
“You want this… I want this…” His horrible laugh is right in my ear. I feel his lips on me. “You’ve got me all worked up, baby girl… you owe me for the smoke… you owe me now… what you gonna do about it?”
I look around, trying to catch sight of an exit, but there isn’t one. He’s too close, too big, and even if I made a break for it, where would I go?
“Don’t…” I say. “Please…”
“Gonna warm you right up, make it feel real nice, if you’re a good girl.”
My chest feels tight, cold air hissing in my throat as I struggle to gulp it in. My heart is racing, but I feel disconnected, as though I’m not here, as though this is happening to someone else. I feel his breath on my neck, the warmth of his fingers as they slip inside my cardigan. I feel like I should be fighting, kicking and screaming and clawing at his face, but I’m so numb. So scared.
His thumb brushes my nipple and it shocks like electric.
“Knew you fucking wanted it,” he grunts.
A strange sense of detachment washes over me, a sense of being sucked into a pit, where there is nothing, where everything is easy, where I can hide in the quiet place in my mind and pretend this is not me. It’s his tongue against my ear that snaps me back to myself. It feels wet and hot.
“No,” I say, and my voice sounds stronger this time. I’m wriggling, trying to bring my legs up, squirming away from his mouth.
“Chill the fuck out,” he hisses, and my heart pounds in my ears.
The rumble of cars at the top of the street spurs me on, and I lash out, catch him hard across the face. He swears and stumbles, touching his cheek for just long enough for me to kick out and make a run for it.
“HEY!” he calls. “GET THE FUCK BACK HERE!”
I hear his footsteps in the puddles behind me, the air in my lungs burning as my numb feet pound the street. I can feel him behind me but I daren’t look back, just keep focused on the light at the top of the street, at the sound of a car heading closer. I see the headlights, blurry through the rain, and the danger behind me drives me straight into the road. I’m waving, jumping, throwing my arms above my head as I hear the screech of tyres. I close my eyes, a rabbit caught in the headlights.
I hear a car door slamming.
I jump a mile as a hand grips my elbow.
Nick
The girl jolts to life as I grip her arm, big blue eyes staring up at mine, lashes dripping. Her mouth is open, just a little. Her breath is misty.
She’s young.
She’s pretty.
And she’s scared. Really fucking scared.
Footsteps pound the ground to my right, and I see him, the piece of shit waster.
The girl flinches, tugs away, but I keep a grip of her, place myself between her fragile little body and the dickhead chasing her.
He’s wasted. Buzzing with some shit. Speed probably.
“Beat it,” I say. “Fuck off back to where you came from.”
He shrugs. “Just hanging with little Laine, bro. Ain’t no problem here. C’mon, little g
irl.”
Hell will freeze over before she goes anywhere with this piece of shit.
I smile at the loser. “I’m not your bro. Do yourself a favour and run the fuck along before there is a fucking problem here.”
He looks me up and down, and even through the rain he clocks the cut of my suit. His eyes flick to the Mercedes, to the keys still clearly in the ignition.
“I wouldn’t try it,” I say. I take a step towards him, shoulders back and easy. I could take him and I know it. He’s just another loser, another dreg from the cesspit of life, and I’ve seen plenty of those in my lifetime.
I glare at him, and beckon him forward, perfectly willing to put this piece of shit on the ground where he deserves, but he’s backing away before I utter another word, druggie feet tripping over each other.
“Didn’t mean nothing by it. Don’t even know her… never met her…”
I don’t bother watching him retreat. I’ve no need. Dickheads like him don’t bother men like me.
I pull the girl closer, and she seems to snap back to herself. Her cardigan is sodden, hanging from her shoulders, and she’s shivering.
“Laine?” I ask. “I’m Nick. Nick Lynch. You’re safe now. Where do you need to go?”
“Newhaven…” she says, and her voice is as pretty as she is. “My friend… she pulled some guy… she has my keys, my money…”
“And where is your friend now?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know…”
“I’ll take you home,” I say, and my words are simple, obvious. I’m surprised when she follows me to the passenger door of the Merc and slips into the seat without hesitation, but she seems dazed somehow. Naïve, maybe. Maybe that’s what got her into this mess in the first place. I suspect as much.
Young, naïve and vulnerable.
