Big Daddy

Chapter 10

chapter ten

winnie

“Really?” Howard’s voice is dripping with sadness. Maybe actual tears, too. I’m not sure since we (ahem, me ) opted for a phone call instead of anything involving video. I couldn’t bear to see his face when I let him down easily.

“I’m sorry, Howard. But… I’m involved with someone.” Saying those words, knowing they’re about Big Daddy, sends a shiver of guilt down my spine, leaving my stomach restless and achy. I don’t actually consider us involved, nor do I consider us an “us.” But he doesn’t want me taking photos of my feet and having relationships based around selling my body, and because he ate me out like a starved man at a buffet, I’d like more of that, please.

As much as it pains me to obey, there’s a good girl captive inside me, forcing me to do it, I swear.

Or maybe I want to please Big Daddy much more than I’m letting myself realize.

Either way, I feel guilty. And I should.

Brielle has done so much for me. She is a loyal friend. And I have been too, until her dad had to be all caring and shit. Damn him.

After only twice meeting Quincey, I’m pretty sure I’m obsessed with or at the very least, hyper-fixated on him. Or the idea of him. Or the affection he shows me. Or all of it? I don’t know.

I’ve never been this way for any man. Ever.

In fact, now that I think of it, despite the fact I’ve only ever dated men well into their twenties, Quincey feels like the first man I’ve actually liked.

“But—” Howard attempts to change my mind, whimpering about how much he needs me, how much he adores my feet. But it doesn’t work. It can’t.

“Howard, there are more feet in the sea, honey bunny,” I tell him, using his chosen term of endearment as I swipe pink polish over my toes. “I’m sorry.”

I really do like Howard, as kinky as he is. But the truth is I want to please Big Daddy. Okay, not that kind of please but I want that too. Jesus Christ almighty, he’s got the thickest cock I’ve ever felt. How many women have cried out in pain when he’s slid that monster inside of them? I don’t want to know the answer to that, actually. Thinking of that makes me ragey and spiteful.

I want to please him emotionally, too, though. I want his attention and focus, and it makes me feel cared for that he even has an opinion on my life.

I guess I’m a slut for emotional reassurance and safety. Who knew? Though I guess it makes sense with dead parents and most of my adult life being spent on my own.

“If you change your mind, you’ll reach out, right?” Howard asks, his hope so palpable my heart breaks a little. I look down at my now powder pink toenails and wiggle them.

“Yeah, Howard, if anything changes, I’ll call you.”

He says another sad goodbye, and I end the call, feeling good for honoring my promise to Big Daddy, but feeling bad, too. Not just for Howard, but for Brielle.

Had her father not eaten me to a toe-curling orgasm that has had my brain mush for the last few hours, I’d still have no way to explain my evolving relationship with her dad. But he did eat me out, and then he stuck his big sexy fingers right up my ass as he pressed me into a car.

Who the fuck am I? Anatasia Steele? Jesus Christ. It’s a stark difference to my life a week ago, but I love it. I’m drunk on it. And I’m mature enough to realize some of the attraction is the excitement, but that’s just a small amount.

Big Daddy is a jerk.

But he isn’t a jerk to me.

And feminism aside, I’m pretty sure a big, sexy rich asshole who is an asshole to everyone but you is the damn dream.

I deserve the dream. I’ve been to hell and back. I’ve struggled. I’ve kept up a smile, good grades and a sense of humor through it all, to prove to the world I’m not broken. Because I’m not.

But I deserve the dream, damn it. It just so happens, my dream is being railed by my bestie’s daddy, and that’s gonna destroy shit between us. Brielle isn’t a very forgiving person… just like her father.

The betrayal will destroy us. And I don’t want that.

But I want him.

Even if he only wants me for a month. It’s reckless, risking my best relationship for a fleeting fling with a handsome, well-off older man. Logical me knows it’s not worth it. It’s NOT. But I’m not logical.

I’m the me that is utterly infatuated and projecting life dreams and goals onto a man I’ve known for less than two weeks.

And you know what?

I’m rolling with it.

“What’s up?” my roommate Dante strolls in, a towel draped over his shoulder, covering part of his nude chest. He reaches for his shower caddy, rooting around to find the fullest of his partially empty bottles of soap.

“Not much, just… studying,” I say, motioning to my open laptop. Despite calling off tonight’s zoom and returning the money to Howard via FeetFans , I actually had been studying. I still have zero clue what my final project for my graphic design degree will be. We had one prompt: use what you learned the last two years to create something that tells us we did our job . That was literally the prompt.

I was thinking of creating a website, but for what or who, I’m not sure. I thought of asking Brielle to put me in touch with someone at Debauchery, the sex toy company working with Crave you can make a site for my buddy’s business.” Dante dances his eyebrows. “He’d probably throw in a special card, for free.”

With a smirk and an eye roll, I return my focus to the blank computer screen. “Video game trading cards don't really speak to me,” I tell Dante as he grabs his loofah from the hook near his bed.

“I get it.” He pats the wall. “Welp, I’m getting cleaned up. Got dinner with Sadie tonight.”

“Have a good time,” I reply, popping my EarPods in. I begin with a text box and sample text, because even though I have no direction, you gotta start somewhere.

With The Tortured Poets Department on loop, my lower back aching, my stomach growling and my eyes growing hazy, I think I’m finally happy with what I have so far.

Though everything in it is merely a mock up, I’ve created a gorgeous clickable store front with a pretty amazing information section. The perfect serif font, the perfect amount of sprayed color behind the text—everything looks great. As I’m putting the finishing touches on some of the alignment, Dante traipses in, his cheeks red, forehead shiny.

I tug an EarPod out. “How was dinner with Sadie?”

He reaches behind him, tugging his shirt off over his head, his silver chain getting caught. “Good,” he sighs, flopping down on the bed. “Walked her home so now I’m beat.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Does she still live in Balboa Terrace?” I ask, referencing one of the smallest, most southwestern neighborhoods in San Francisco. It’s quite a trek from here.

He nods in confirmation. “Yup—I just walked fifty-three minutes,” he says, dragging a pillow over his head. “I’m tired.”

“Too bad you guys aren’t ready for sleepovers, eh? Walking home in the morning, post-fuck with a cup of coffee would be much nicer.” I drag a rectangular box onto my design, arranging the layers.

“We haven’t slept together yet,” Dante says, motionless on his bed. “She has a bunch of roommates, too.”

I cluck my tongue. “Being poor is such a cockblock.”

He laughs. “No shit.”

We both startle at the loud knocking on our front door. So many people live here, I’m not sure that door has ever been locked, nor have we ever had any sort of formal visitor. Dante sits up. “Is anyone else home?”

I shrug. “I don’t know.” Aside from the bathroom and my bed, I don’t spend much time in this apartment, or with any of the people who live here. I could never be a Friends character. I’m more of a one-friend girl. The idea of trying to hang out with my roommates and be besties is hard for me to imagine.

The banging sounds off again. Dante sighs. “I just got home. Can I play that card? Hmm? Will you get the door?”

I scrub my hand over my face, trying to ease my aching eyeballs from all the screen usage. “Sure. I need to stretch my back anyway.”

Dante sighs, rolling onto his side with his eyes closed. “Don’t let me fall asleep with my pants on.”

On my way out, I assure him that I won’t, and head toward the door. The knocking, as I grow nearer, sounds more like thudding. I stop with my hand curved around the knob, counting the days in my head. We paid rent, and it’s… well past the due date. This can’t be the pounding of an angry landlord. I glance across the kitchen at the clock on the stove. It’s well after eleven at night. There’s no way a landlord would do this now, anyway.

Softly, raising to my toes, I press my eye to the peephole, blinking until my vision is no longer fuzzy.

“What the fuck?” I breathe, reaching for the row of deadbolts. Six twists and one chain unlock later, and I’m face to face with a very angry Big Daddy.

My cheeks flame with anger, and a touch of excitement, too. But because I told him I did not want him to know where I live and he’s now pushing inside my apartment, I focus on the anger. He looks around the messy living space, where blankets and pillows are strewn about two futons and an old love seat.

“Are you alone?” he asks, having the audacity to stare at me, his eyes frothy with seething rage.

I grip my hips and pinch my gaze. “I told you not to come here. I said I didn’t want you to know where I live.”

He steps closer, nostrils flaring, his heady scent of fading cologne and this morning’s aftershave making my nipples perk up beneath my oversized hoodie. “Are. You. Alone?” He asks, parsing out each word as if I barely understand language.

Just then, Dante appears. Apparently, the commotion prevented him from sleeping, but also got him up, reminding him that he wanted to undress. Because as he treads toward me, concern etched into his features, he’s shirtless. And pant-less.

Big Daddy’s eyes rake over Dante, then dart to mine. He’s livid, and though I’ve never seen him livid, I know this is it. I think there’s a vein pulsing in the center of his forehead, too.

But fuck that. I told him not to come here. He has no right to be mad.

He steps between me and Dante, giving me the wall of his broad back to face.

“Who the fuck are you? You some fucking foot creep? Hmm? Can’t find a woman to meet your fetish needs in real life so you rope her into it? Is that it?” Big Daddy seethes, towering over Dante, who is actually not short. The soft coif of his unstyled but still extremely sexy hair adds an inch, or maybe it’s just his powerful anger that makes it seem like Big Daddy is dwarfing him? Either way, he hovers like the heel in a movie, casting a shadow over Dante’s face.

“What the fuck?” Dante bumbles, clearly confused on multiple fronts. “Who the fuck are you, man?” Dante questions, unphased by Big Daddy’s aggression. We’re city dwellers. People being assholes, using the public street as their toilet and wearing trash as clothing doesn’t faze us.

“Shh,” I hush, reaching up to cup my hand over Big Daddy’s mouth to get him to shut the fuck up. I don’t really want to explain myself to Dante, but considering Quincey came in with guns blazing, I realize, now I will have to. Fucking Big Daddy. So dramatic.

Just then, Big Daddy reaches out, slapping his palm in a vice grip on the back of Dante’s neck, yanking him until they’re nose to nose.

“Let go!” I shout, reaching up to grab Big Daddy’s forearm, tugging at his grip. “Stop,” I command, shooting him the death glare until his eyes leave Dante’s and slide over to mine. Reluctantly, he releases Dante, who reaches for his neck, soothing the sore muscle.

“I thought your dad was dead,” he says to me under his breath, still rubbing his neck.

I shove a hand into Big Daddy’s chest, leading him back to the door. “He’s not my dad,” I say to Dante. “And we’re okay—thank you. I’m just gonna step out into the hall for a minute.”

Dante nods, then looks past me to Quincey, glaring at him. Damn, I’ve never seen Dante glare, and he’s never been put to the test as a real friend. I always considered him just a roommate. It’s nice to know he had my back. “Thank you for defending me, though. That means a lot,” I tell him with a warm, heartfelt smile. Then I turn to Big Daddy and scorch his soul with the most heated glare I can muster. “Get in the hall, assjacket,” I hiss, pushing him out the open apartment door into the hall. I slide my feet into a pair of my slippers near the door, and pull the door closed behind me.

Big Daddy shoves his hands through the side of his hair, turning half circles before coming to face me, exhaling slowly. He drops his hands for a second before shoving them in his pockets. His sweatpants pockets.

Holy shit. Big Daddy looks hot as fuck in sweats. With sneakers, sweats and a hoodie on, Big Daddy, now that I’m not glaring at him with murderous intent, can really pull this look off. I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s handsome as fuck. God help my soul for saying it, but holy hell.

I do my very best not to eye the thick bulge protruding from his meaty thighs, keeping my face screwed up with anger, despite the fact I feel the rage draining each moment I’m stuck in this hall with him, his stupid good smell and the outline of his thick monster cock.

“I told you not to come here.”

“You said you’d stop FeetFans .” He licks his lips, and in a split second, I see turbulence in his irises. The kind of storm that comes only from care. “You promised.”

My pulse hammers in the back of my throat. Heat pricks up along my spine, and I find myself nearly breathless as I calibrate what this moment actually means.

“I did stop,” I tell him, because I’m suddenly quite interested in Big Daddy knowing I’m telling the truth. Knowing that I kept my promise. I take a step toward him, stuffing my hands in his pockets, finding his. He waffles our fingers together in the privacy of the fleece, and my heart throbs behind my ribs, sending rushes of heated desire through every fiber of my being.

Holding hands is intimate. Big Daddy and I are practically strangers. But it doesn’t feel wrong. And we don’t feel like strangers. Not at all.

“I looked. I looked at your account. Your icon was green,” he breathes, his voice losing steam with each spoken word. “You were active,” he says in barely a whisper.

His hands tighten around mine, and the action unleashes something wild and cathartic in my belly. I rock to my toes and press my lips to his mouth, the tenseness in his shoulders melting away as I sweep my tongue against his. “I had to break it off with Howard. That required logging in, and sending his money back to him.”

I clench my grip on him right back, my tummy dropping at the feel of a man gripping my hands so firmly. It’s been so long since I’ve held hands. “I kept my promise, Big Daddy.”

He stares down into my eyes, full lips parted, a day of growth blanketing his strong jaw. “Who is the naked man?” He asks, but before he lets me respond he uses our joined hands to drag my body flush against his. He’s hard, pressing his cock into my belly as he adds, “I don’t like that.”

I smirk, stifling the sharp moan lodged in my throat at the feel of him against me. He’s not just hard but painfully hard, like he’s got a fucking steel pipe in those sweats. My insides clench again. I want to know what he looks like completely naked. I want to see his hard cock again. I want to know—does he have a filthy mouth when he’s fucking? Does he utter filth when he’s on the verge of unloading? Would he let me lead?

“That’s my roommate, Dante. He has a girlfriend. We’re just friends.” I love the way his breath flanks my nose as he digests the information I’ve just fed him. A growl rumbles in his chest.

“Why is he nude?”

I sigh. “He isn’t nude, Big Daddy. He’s in boxers. And he’s dressed that way because he was about to go to sleep. Some people sleep in their boxers,” I tell him, patronizingly and teasingly wrapped into one. “Not everyone sleeps in a dressing gown and cap still,” I tease, chewing my bottom lip to prevent myself from laughing at my own joke.

He unlinks our hands and for a split second, I think I pushed Big Daddy too far. But when he reaches around and fills his palms with my ass, lifts me up and presses my back against the wall, a huge smile tears across my face.

“I’m teasing, I’m teasing!”

He growls into my mouth as he steals a kiss, wet and hot. “You keep talking like I’m ancient. I’m forty-eight, you little brat. Do you know what forty-eight means?”

I shake my head as he scatters light kisses along my jaw and down my neck. My pussy is screaming.

“It means I’ve had thirty years to learn how to use my cock to make brats like you melt,” he groans, thrusting his erection into the dampness between my legs. I don’t want to think of him fucking other women, but I love his evil teasing.

“I’ll have you crying on my cock, Winnie, I’ll have you riding and bucking and screaming. And after, you’ll be on your knees, begging me to forgive you for ever calling me old.” With that, he releases my ass and lets me slide down the wall to the floor. He steps back, his erection completely tenting his sweats. Something about the way he doesn’t even acknowledge how hard he is makes me want him that much more. I reach out but he steps back.

“No more.”

I stick my bottom lip out in a pout. “You just came here to rile me up?”

He tips his head to the side, and though he doesn’t smile, his eyes soften, just a little. “I thought you’d gone back on your word.”

“I would never,” I say, the truth lifting easily from my lips.

He looks down at his feet for a second, then back up at me, stroking a large hand through his shiny, chestnut waves. “You drive me crazy, and I don’t understand it.”

My heart hammers inside me, shaking my soul, making my ears burn and my cheeks heat. “Ditto.”

Silence passes between us but we never take our eyes off one another. “Do you need clothes for your new job?”

The sudden change in topic jars me, but when I remember that I’ll be working at Parker he’s been a helicopter dad her entire life, according to her. And I’ve borne witness to his many calls, check ins and now, grocery drops. So, I don’t know how or why he doesn’t feel bad.

And I don’t know why him not feeling bad makes me feel better, but it does. His calmness reassures me, because it just doesn’t seem like a man like Big Daddy could make a mistake so grand, his daughter won’t speak to him.

“I don’t get this either, but right now, it's for us to not understand, together ,” he says, somehow saying exactly what I needed to hear. He kisses me again, and this time, he’s the one to step back.

“Sleep well, Winnie, and we can discuss this,” he says, waving his hand toward my apartment, “later.”

I don’t know what he means, but I stand at the door of my place until he’s inside the elevator, and the doors close. I run inside my apartment, hopping over mounds of laundry and bags of trash that need to go out, clambering at the window facing the street. I wait until Big Daddy appears, and I watch him get into his car and drive off.

I head back to bed with a smile so big, I cringe myself out.