Big Daddy

Chapter 8

chapter eight

quincey

I don’t know where Winnie lives, but my office isn’t far from my home. Twenty-four minutes, to be exact. And when I arrive first, I refuse to acknowledge the panicked idea that she may not show up.

Instead, I head inside and pour myself a glass of scotch.

With my cell phone staring up at me from the countertop, I decide to call my daughter while I wait. It is very much a guilty conscience driven call, but knowing she’s okay soothes my nerves nonetheless. I suppose the call is whole heartedly selfish.

I suppose that’s me.

Dialing, I glance at the screen of security camera feeds in the corner of the kitchen, checking for motion detection on the long driveway. Nothing.

“Dad?” Brielle answers, whispering. I glance at the gold watch on my wrist. It’s three in the afternoon. Fuck. I forgot I’m playing hooky. “Is everything okay?”

“Ah, yes. I was just calling to… schedule a dinner.” I clear my throat, glancing at the bank of camera feeds again. “It’s been a while.”

“Okay,” she draws out, still whispering while a soft rush of noises fills the space around her. She’s working, and I interrupted her. That is something I’d yell at her about as a child, when she’d toddle into my office with something cool she wanted to show me. I’m working, and work pays the bills, Brielle . I cringe at the way my own words haunt me.

“Well, I’m at work right now, Dad. Email me. I’ll put it in my calendar.”

I did my best to make her feel bad about this film school apprenticeship, knowing she herself didn’t want the assignment either. And now she’s working at it, thriving, and, quite frankly, I’m proud.

“Will do. Take care.” I end the call and stare at the screen that tells me I just had a conversation with my daughter that lasted one minute and two seconds.

One minute and two fucking seconds.

Sure, it’s the middle of a work day but still. If I’d have done things differently, I would be someone she’d always want to talk to, someone she literally couldn’t hang up on.

But another glance at my wall of security camera feeds reminds me that Brielle wouldn’t be in her sixth year of Ivy League schooling if I hadn’t been a nose to the grindstone father.

“Mr. Parker,” chirps a voice through the home intercom, jarring me from my internal self-deprecating dialogue.

From memory, I press the button on the wall, waiting for the town car to come into view as I answer.

“Yes?”

A momentary pause then—“I’m less than one minute away, sir.”

Punching the button, I watch as the gates sail open, and a moment later, the town car drives right through. Polishing off the glass of scotch, I make my way through the house, to the front door, where the drive loops.

Two steps onto the porch and my eyes collide with the open door on the town car. The noise around me slows as two bare feet hit the concrete, blue toenails wiggling against the ground.

“Damn, Big Daddy,” Winnie exclaims, stepping out from behind the car door as the driver moves to close it.

“She refused to put shoes on,” he says to me as an aside, despite being in front of Winnie. I nod, and thank him, and find myself traipsing down the remaining stairs to stand directly in front of her.

The town car pulls away.

“Where are your shoes?”

Her eyes move over the ornate stone work beneath the eaves, then over to the generously sized black lacquer front door before sliding to meet mine. “I’m kidnapped,” she says, smiling. “Kidnapped women don’t have time to put shoes on. Duh.”

I frown. “I did not kidnap you. I had you brought here so we could speak.”

Her eyebrows lift as a soft curl slides over her forehead. She pushes it back, and I notice her nails are painted the same bright blue as her toes. Blue is my favorite color. “This place is fucking huge,” she gawks, her gaze dragging over ever inch of my home. “Damn, Brielle is more of a brat than I realized.”

The hair on the back of my neck lifts at her choice of words. I think of Winnie as a brat, not my daughter, and though the only reason I even fucking know Winnie is because of Brielle, I do not want to be reminded of that right now.

Or ever, for that matter.

“She wasn’t raised here.” I glance back at the mansion. “I bought this when she went to college.”

“How sweet of you,” she deadpans, then surprises me by reaching up, looping one arm around my neck. “Carry me.” Before I can protest, she leaps and I find myself catching her, curling my arms to bring her nearer to my chest. “Can’t let my moneymakers get dirty, you know,” she says, earning a glare from me. I head toward the house.

“That’s exactly why you’re here,” I remind her, growing itchy from her comment. I don’t want her selling feet photos to strangers, for Christ’s sake. The idea of it causes me great distress. Almost to the front door, Winnie sighs, her fruity breath flanking my nose as she says, “You’re strong, Big Daddy.” My cock grows plump as loose curls tickle my cheek and neck.

I keep my eyes ahead, at the door growing nearer. I don’t want to set her down, but if I keep holding her, it’s going to be awkward when I finally do put her down. The sooner the better.

“Yes, I am,” I agree, then add, “but carrying you is no test of my strength. You’re light.”

Inside, I lower her to the ground and make my way to the kitchen, her feet slapping the tile behind me. A smirk curves my lips at the way she trails after me without words.

Once in the kitchen, I refill my scotch before getting another glass from the cupboard. Finally, I let myself look at her, while silently offering her a drink by lifting the glass.

God she’s gorgeous. And I hate that my pulse skips at the way her toes curl into the ground, blue nails tempting me, coaxing and urging me to ask for things I’ve never wanted. Not until now.

Her nose wrinkles, and for whatever reason, I envision slapping my hard cock against her nose and lips before filling my fist with those curls and slamming myself into her throat.

“Got anything that isn’t brown?”

My tongue sweeps my bottom lip as I force myself to envision the liquor cabinet. I think I have an old bottle of gin, and maybe even some vodka. “You have a preference?” I question, reaching for my phone on the counter. If I don’t have it, I’ll get it.

She shakes her head. “I just don’t do the brown booze. Anything else.”

“Do you drink wine?”

She shrugs. “Just the cheap stuff.”

“Never had nice wine?” I question, placing my phone on the counter.

Winnie rolls her neck as she finds her way to a barstool at my kitchen island. “Big Daddy, for a lawyer, you can be pretty stupid.” She hooks a thumb into her chest. “Poor. Remember?”

She looks around the kitchen, her eyes following the cabinets all the way to the ceiling before they move along the crown molding, then down along the thick slabs of stamped concrete that comprise the countertop. “But you sure as hell aren’t.”

Crouching, I open the small wine fridge and root around until I find the best bottle. When I stand, I bring two wine glasses with me, and reach into the drawer for the opener. Scotch midday and now wine? Why not?

That summarizes how I feel around Winnie. Why the fuck not?

I intentionally ignore the laundry list of reasons.

“We established that outside, did we not?” I question, referencing her awe of my home earlier.

“Does it make you feel bad that you’re rich if I point it out?” she asks, reaching for the stem of the wine glass that I fill for her.

“No, because I earned this and when you earn something, there is no guilt.” I take a sip from my glass, savoring the notes of bitter black currant preserves in the pricey Bordeaux.

Winnie swings one of her long legs into the air, hooking a bare foot onto the counter top. She wiggles her toes as she dances her eyebrows, sipping her wine. “Like selling my feet photos?”

I consider her counter argument. “No, not like selling your feet photos.”

Curving around the counter, I come to stand in front of her as she lowers her wine glass to the counter, her eyes fixed on mine. “No feet on the countertop,” I tell her, my voice husky, my cock thickening. I reach out, wrapping my palm around her bare foot. Slowly, I lower her leg and foot back down, never breaking eye contact.

Her lips move, and her eyes hold mine as she searches for words, swallowing loudly, maybe even a bit nervously. “Yes, Big Daddy,” she breathes, a smirk dusting her lips.

She rests her hands in her lap, clutching the hem of her t-shirt, her eyes hooded, passion brewing between us.

“How do you like the wine?” I ask, so the silence bears more than my malevolent intentions.

“I hate it,” she breathes, still nervously tracing the thread on her shirt. “Why is it not like my feet photos?” She finishes the Bordeaux.

“You drank it all,” I point out, acknowledging the empty glass in my periphery. “And you shouldn’t have to use your body to earn money for necessities.”

My shoes slide against the slick floor, bringing us nearer. So near that I hear each exhale that escapes her, each slow blink of her hooded eyes as she stares up at me.

“Just for fun?”

I let one brow rise, questioning her.

“According to the rules of Big Daddy, I can’t use my body to make money for necessities, but can I use it just for fun? ”

I nod. “That’s one of the things your body is for, yes.” Sweat beads along my upper lip, beneath the day-old stubble. The wine combo is driving me to say things I wouldn’t normally say.

“What are the other things?” she asks, batting her eyes in a way that tells me she isn’t trying to be seductive at all, but still seducing me nonetheless. She’s just Winnie, and god do I want her. “Enlighten me,” she says, then slowly, tantalizingly she adds, “ Quincey .”

A growl unfurls inside me, causing my core to nearly vibrate from my unfettered desires. Since the moment I laid eyes on Winnie, I knew she’d be hard to forget. Now, though, I’m actually a little fucking terrified of what I’d do for her.

“Do you really want to know?” I ask, my voice husky as I lean over the counter, grabbing the wine. While I enjoyed the wine, I prefer the scotch, but I don’t switch back because she likes the wine. Despite the fact I know I should stop, I refill my glass. Knowing she doesn’t need a second either, I still refill hers, saying, “It will change things between us, Winnie, if I answer that question truthfully.”

“Give it to me,” she replies, swiping her glass from me to take a big drink. “I can take it.”

My head falls forward, my eyes on her bare toes curled around the barstool as I fight the image of her riding my cock. Stifling a groan, I can’t stop myself from imagining my thick shaft disappearing between her hairless pink lips as her head falls back and she moans, “ I can take it, fuck me hard, I can take it! ”

Taking a breath in through my nose, I exhale through my mouth as my gaze lifts to hers. I wonder how I went all these years without meeting Winnie, and in a way, I thank God that we never crossed paths. Would I have been able to resist her through an undergraduate and master’s degree? I’ve known her a week and I’m dying to tear off those shorts and fuck her sweet little cunt until she’s a speechless puddle of my cum.

“Your body isn’t a playground for men, Winnie, and you shouldn’t use it as such. Have fun on your terms. Without payment. To make you happy,” I reach past her for the bottle of wine, holding her eyes as I top myself off.

“Hmm,” she hums thoughtfully, her seductive gaze following my every movement. “And what if using my body to make myself happy means I am a playground for men?” she questions, paraphrasing my words, leaving the sentiment behind, carrying only the crass bottom line.

I ignore her bratty retort. “Secondly,” I tell her, my balls thrumming at her attitude. Loosening, then removing the silk tie at my throat, I toss it onto the counter and work on the top two buttons of my pressed dress shirt. “Don’t you want to give a man a child one day? Children? Don’t you dream of falling head over heels for a man, not being satiated completely until you let him use your body as a vessel to create his family?” Boldly, I reach out and dust my fingers along her belly for a moment. “When you’re done bearing his fruit, he will worship you as the queen that gifted him his entire life. He will spend the rest of his days feasting on you, his temple, his goddess.” My heart is racing. “But if you sell yourself short before that?—”

“That’s your dream, not mine,” she protests, but it falls flat. Because that is what she wants. Desire danced in her eyes as I spoke. I saw it. I’ve seen the look many times in clients’ eyes—when they want something so badly they’re actually afraid to admit it.

I say nothing, giving her a moment, but she twists her lips together, glaring, silently stewing.

“All I’m trying to impart is that your whole life is ahead of you. A career, and a husband and family, if you decide you want that. Don’t let temporary difficulties lead you down a path unerasable from your story.” My head grows woozy, and I realize this is what I should have said to Brielle when she took the apprenticeship at Crave. These are the fatherly words that should have been spoken instead of reminders of how much I’ve paid and yelling. There is always so much yelling.

Winnie’s expression softens. I swear she understands me in ways no one else has, which I realize is some tarot card, crystal ball bullshit. I’m a man of the law. I believe in rules, repercussions and reason.

Even so.

I shove a hand through my hair. “Selling parts of yourself can ruin your future.”

She blinks, her mouth parting wordlessly as we lock eyes. My words linger between us, and I picture every single thing I said. I envision shoving her legs back, seeing her knees near her face as I thrust deep, giving her every hard inch, every hot drop. I see us on Sunday morning, lazy and tired, on our sides, my cock feeding her pleasure one inch at a time. I see her belly swollen, tits full, a baby on one hip, another at her feet. Then I don’t just see her, but instead, us. Our life. My hair has more silver. Her crow’s feet are soft. Time has carried us forward, age has found us, and I spend my days and nights eating my favorite meal, losing myself in my perfect, still young wife.

It's a powerful, heady fantasy, my statements bold, the sentiment overwhelming. My thoughts swim from Brielle, and how I need to right things with her, to Winnie, and how I want everything from her.

Yet neither are within my grasp, despite one of them being just one foot away.

Winnie rolls her lips together and says, “That’s incredibly sexist.”

Despite what she’s said, her neck is flush, and her nipples are hard. I sip my wine, my head flighty from the amount of booze I’ve had in such a short time period. “It’s not. The fact it’s true is sexist, but the fact that a woman would be judged on foot pictures by a future partner whereas a man would be forgiven for the same thing,” I tell her, searching her eyes, “that’s real. And I only want the best for you.”

“Why?” she asks, her tone deflated, her confidence replaced with hushed hesitancy.

“I find myself in the unusual position of caring about you. To ridiculous lengths.”

She finishes off her second glass of wine, and I take our empties and put them in the sink. “But why?”

“I’ve been asking myself what’s different about you,” I admit, standing in front of her, moving the barstool out of the way with my foot. “You aren’t afraid to stand up to me. To call me on my shit. You’re strong, beautiful, and intelligent.”

“I am all those things,” she smirks, chin tipped up. “But tell me the real reason why you care about me using my feet to get men off. And don’t lie, Quincey.”

The urgency with which I feed her the truth is alarming.

“I want you to be my playground, Winnie. And I don’t want you taking those fucking photos for other men.” I lean in, dusting my lips against hers, knowing I shouldn’t, knowing it’s fucked up, fully aware that this is a terrible fucking idea.

But she kisses me back.

She loops her arms around my neck and before I know it, her legs are around my waist, my tongue lodged down her throat as her silky moans flood my mouth.

I can’t stop myself, and she doesn’t stop me when I slide my palms up her back, beneath her shirt. She’s in shorts today, gym shorts of some kind, and an oversized t-shirt which has somehow hung just perfectly to show off her hardened nipples for the last ten minutes.

My palms skate up her back, my cock weeping at the forbidden sizzle of her body writhing against mine. Her skin is so soft, like something that’s just come out of the dryer, warm and satiny. Winnie breaks the kiss, her eyes hazy and distant as she pulls back, breathless and gorgeous.

“Big Daddy,” she breathes, placing one of her hands between my pecs, the other clinging to my neck, the tips of her fingers playing with the ends of my hair.

I don’t say anything; I stare at her as she gently writhes against me, the feel of her feet hooked at my tailbone making my groin ache.

I’m not just hard now. It’s beyond that. I’m hard and straining to stand upright against the fabric of my slacks. She grinds her covered, wet pussy against the length of my cock, drawing out her own gasps, her hooded eyes opening wide.

“We shouldn’t,” she breathes, glancing down between us to catch an eyeful of my cock jutting up through my slacks, pressed into her.

“You brought me here to talk, right?” She nibbles on her lower lips, eyes searching mine. “So talk.”