Big Daddy

Chapter 16

chapter sixteen

winnie

By the time I remember why I hate getting drunk, it’s too late. Waking up with a pressure cooker for a skull, my body is so dehydrated I feel like the fucking Crypt Keeper, my back aching and my thighs itchy— fuuuck this .

“No more getting drunk,” I grumble aloud as I twist around in my bed, reaching for my phone on my nightstand. Except there’s no nightstand. Just bed. More bed. Lots and lots of bed.

I crack an eyeball open.

The room is so white, it feels like staring into the morning sun.

Is this heaven?

I blink, this time opening both eyes, willing the fuzziness and sleepiness to fade. But things are still blurry and god, so white. White everywhere.

Oh my god. I’m dead and this is heaven. I got alcohol poisoning. I got alcohol poisoning while trying to drink away my shame for being a horrible friend and now I’m dead.

Heaven’s gates open, and someone appears. I blink again but can’t seem to shake the fuzziness from my vision. The blurred figure moves toward me.

“God?” I breathe, my heart racing. Does God wake you up when you fall asleep in heaven?

The bed dips and a large hand comes to rest on my hip, squeezing it. I glance down to see the covers have shifted, and his hand rests directly on my body, halfway on my bare skin, halfway on my panties.

Suddenly my vision clears as the holy hand sweeps away the fog. “Good morning,” Quincey greets. I jolt up in bed and look around.

“Oh my god,” I breathe. “Am I alive? Oh my god, I’m alive. I’m either alive or you’re God.”

A smirk. The first I’ve truly seen. Or maybe I’m dreaming it?

“I’m not God, and yes, you’re alive.” He strokes a hand down my thigh, setting off a buzzing in my core. “This isn’t heaven, it’s a guest room.”

After some ungraceful floundering, I sit up and manage to get my bearings. “I could hardly see. The whole room was white.” I rub sleep from my eye with a closed fist as Big Daddy watches me. “I thought I was dead and in heaven.”

He glares.

I love his glare.

I don’t think you're supposed to love a glare, but I do.

“I guess that’s dumb though because four—well, three because I barfed at least one up—Long Island iced teas won’t give you fatal alcohol poisoning,” I explain, smoothing my hands through my hair, the curls tangled and frizzy. I must look like utter crap. Still his angry eyes rake over me. He’s already dressed in a suit and tie, his dark hair the usual shiny coif of handsome heaven that it always is. “But then again, I should’ve known it wasn’t heaven because—” I lean toward him, lowering my voice. “I’m not going there.” I point to the mattress. “Down there is where the girls who give head in the backseat of a Camero to the hot teacher during her prom go.” I dance my eyebrows. “You know?”

With a growl, he storms the bed, pinning me to my back on the mattress. Through his slacks, he’s hard, pressing against my thigh as his minty breath dusts my lips. “Do you think I want to hear about all the slutty things you’ve done?”

I reach between us and grip his cock. My mouth waters. “As much as I wanted to know how many years of experience you have, I bet.”

Our angry eyes idle, and I can’t help but envision cartoon sparks sputtering off between us. “Is this how you’d wake me up if I lived here? Hmm? Are you a morning grind roomie?”

He grinds against me, a heated and angry growl rolling around his chest. “You canceled on Brielle for him,” he says, his eyes searching mine. “And he’s just a friend.”

With his cock in my hand, I whisper against his lips, “Wingman, remember?”

“You’re a woman, not a wingman,” he says, gripping my chin, angling my mouth to his. He kisses me as he bats my hand from his cock, slipping his fingers beneath the waistband of my panties.

“Are you saying I can’t go out with my friends?” I ask, trying as hard as I can to pretend I’m unaffected by the way the pads of his fingers circle my engorged clit.

“You can go out with any female friends you please,” he says, nipping at my lips as he slides his middle finger inside me. My legs nearly tremble, his touch feels so good. “But no men. Not that he was a man. Men don’t leave women alone, drunk, with no money.”

I narrow my eyes while simultaneously grinding down against his hand. He feels so good, and so does this bed. “How do you know I didn’t have money?”

He adds another finger, curling and curving them just right. “I went through your purse after you passed out.”

I smack his shoulder, but the wall of a man that he is? He doesn’t budge. His hand fucks me faster, his eyes more intense than ever, stormy and dark. “Big Daddy!” I protest, but he’s touching me in all of the places that turn me to goo, and my protest comes out as a breathy, hungered moan.

“You have no money on you? Do you know how unsafe that is? What would you have done if your alleged friend left you?” he asks, fucking me faster and harder with each pressing question. “You know what else I found? Something that pissed me off more than an empty wallet?”

A flood of heat surges between my thighs as the heel of his palm grazes my clit. My hips rove, humping his hand the way I humped pillows as a teen—feral with no rhythmic cadence or beauty, only the horny thrusts of a girl aching to explode.

“Hmm?” I moan, wanting to kiss him but ashamed of my hungover mouth.

His eyes capture mine, dark and foreboding. A single vein pulses in the center of his forehead, echoing his rage. “Birth control.”

My motions cease and my eyes lift from the place where I was watching his hand fuck me. “I practice safe sex. How can that be a bad thing?”

His mouth comes down on mine before I can protest, before I can warn him that I haven’t brushed my teeth, I’ve only drunk water. But Quincey doesn’t care. He hikes my legs up around his waist and presses his groin to my core, still finger fucking me as he uses his bodyweight to thrust deeper.

When he breaks the kiss, his hair is spilling over his forehead, and the tip of his nose is pink. “What day is it?” he asks as he adds his ring finger to my cunt.

My stomach tightens and my taint buzzes with pressure. My toes curl and my thoughts slide away, my orgasm cresting. “Thurs… Thursday,” I manage, wiggling against him faster, this time rhythmically.

“You haven’t taken your pill since last week,” he grunts, his erection slipping past his hand, poking into my thigh like a steel pipe wrapped in fancy fabric. “You could get pregnant if you’re active,” he tells me, his tone stripped raw, his voice hoarse and hungry.

With my climax just around the corner, I reach between us, batting his hand away. I go for his zipper, and he stops me by grabbing my wrist. “Winnie,” he says, his eyes locked to mine, silently warning me.

But I don’t care.

I want this.

I want it more than anything.

I don’t know how to explain it.

I have his zipper down and his pulsing erection in my hands within a second. His eyes hold mine as I align the head of his cock with my engorged pussy lips, and the pulsing in my clit intensifies as I stare up at him.

“We can’t go back,” he says, giving me a chance to pull away. But I don’t want to leave this room without knowing what it feels like to have a man like Quincey Parker between my thighs, throbbing and pulsing inside of me.

I lick my lips. “So fuck me already, Big Daddy.”

With a feral groan, he slams inside me, making me hiss and jerk as I struggle to take his girth and length. He’s so much more than I’ve ever had, and my body feels the stress of his size. Yet through the streaks of pain and pulsing aches, I’ve never felt so good. So tingly. So hot. So desired.

My womb actually aches inside my body as his cock spears me, in and out, over and over, his wild groans making my breasts ache to be gripped and my nipples throb to be sucked. Every veiny inch of him sinks deep inside me, so deeply that I cough. I gag. I cry out for him as his mouth swallows every word.

His tongue tangles with mine, his aftershave making my insides melt as he thrusts between my thighs. “You want my cum, Winnie Collins?” he asks, the bed slamming against the wall with each savage plunge inside me. “Then earn it. Come for me, come for your Big Daddy,” he rasps just as my body seizes, my cunt tightens, and I come harder than I ever have in my life.

Waves of euphoria wash over me, my lower half pulsing in rhythmic waves of pleasure, my eyes pulled closed as I moan his name, over and over.

“Big Daddy… Big Daddy… oh, god, Big Daddy…”

A beat passes and Big Daddy is pulling out, scrambling to lift my shirt and expose my stomach and bra covered tits. I open my eyes in time to catch the slit on his cock opening, a ribbon of pearly heat rocketing from him, painting my belly and bra.

“Not yet,” he groans, his fist twisting his cock right under his crown, jacking every single drop free. Ribbons of release paint my body, warm and thick, white and perfect. My eyes keep moving between the sight of his masculine hand jerking his meaty cock, and all the cum painting my skin. I gravitate toward the single drop that made it to my cleavage, slowly rolling down to the filigree lace of my bra.

When I swallowed him, I swallowed a lot. This orgasm is no smaller. In fact, there may even be more cum than before. And even though I just came, the sight of his orgasm makes everything down south get hot and needy all over again.

Inside, I’m aware of my emptiness. I’m aware of the hollowness in my womb. The space in my chest. All of it.

He gets to his knees, using the bedsheet to wipe his cock before he stuffs it back into his slacks. Slacks that cost more than everything I own, no doubt.

“Wait here,” he says to me, climbing off the bed in search of a towel. When he comes back with a warm bath towel, he takes a seat at the edge of the bed, his eyes hovering on mine as he softly cleans me up.

“How are you feeling?”

I press a hand to my bare stomach, in the one place he hasn’t wiped up his mess. “Like I got bounced on a trampoline with a hangover.”

He pales. “I’m sorry, Winnie. I know I shouldn’t have,” he motions to my body, “come at you like that.”

“On me,” I correct, smiling. Then I reach for his towel, using it to clean the cum from my fingers, one at a time. He watches with rapt attention, attention that fuels me. “And I’m only kidding. I feel good.” I pass him back the cum-coated towel. “Don’t believe me?” I let my legs fall open, and look down at my still pink, still swollen clit. “Watching you rocket cum all over me has me ready for round two.”

Big Daddy groans, pulling the comforter over my bare body. “That fucking mouth of yours,” he says, smoothing a hand over his coif, restyling it with ease. “No round two. Round one was… foolish enough.”

I stick out my bottom lip in a pout. “How was riding me deep and hard a mistake?” I draw the question out like a piece of bubble gum. I love getting under Big Daddy’s skin. Under him otherwise, too. “You pulled out,” I remind him, but of course he knows. I’d be willing to bet I’m not the only one who wishes he wouldn’t have.

Suddenly, Quincey’s expression twists from something of frustration to wild anger. Anger, driven by intensity, consumes his features as he gets off the bed, to his feet, shoving big hands through his styled hair. “Asking you to live here. Having unprotected sex. Sneaking around behind Brielle’s back.” His hair, mussed, still looks sexy. He drops his hands to his sides, staring blankly at the comforter covering my body. “I have no business being with you.”

The breath caught in my chest whooshes out, leaving me hollow, my eyes burning from unshed tears.

“And yet,” he continues, slowly raising his eyes to mine. “You’re the only thing I want.”

I lick my lips, afraid to ask the question burning up my thoughts, incinerating my tongue. But I have to. Even if it’s foolish to want to ask, I can’t go another moment without knowing. “If I wasn’t her best friend, if we didn’t have to sneak around, if I was just someone you bumped into?—”

Finally, his dark eyes make it to mine. They narrow, and my stomach clenches. “Brielle has always told me that men flock to you. That you’re always being hit on and asked out.” Our gazes lock, and my heart is racing. “Yet you think so little of yourself.”

I swallow thickly around the blob of confusion and emotion in my throat. “No, I don’t.”

Pinching his slacks, Big Daddy sits on the edge of the bed, bringing his hand to my cheek. Having my cheek cupped makes me unusually emotional, and I press into his palm, savoring the affection. “You think sneaking around is what has me hard all day and all night?” His thumb traces the arch of my lips before plunging past them, onto my tongue. I suck his thumb as a small groan rattles in his chest. “ You make me hard. Not sneaking around. And if you weren’t my daughter’s best friend,” he says quietly, slowly closing the space between us until we’re nearly nose to nose. I suck on his thumb as he says, “my cum would be keeping you warm,” he says, placing his hand over my abdomen, applying gentle pressure. “And we’d never have to talk about you missing your pill again.”

From his words or the hangover, I’m not sure, but the room starts spinning. My head and neck feel heavy suddenly, and my brain goes to static like old TV sets when a show is over. I can’t think. I can’t speak.

I just sit there, dizzied by Big Daddy, and watch him pull garment bags from the closest, along with shopping bags.

“You still have to work today. But you can come in when you’re ready,” he says, hanging the bag on the armoire directly across from the bed. “I had clothes brought here, in your size.”

“I’m not the same size as Brielle,” I reply.

He casts me a glare that says he’s annoyed. “I told her your size.”

“How did you know my size?” I ask, folding my arms over the comforter covering my bra.

Big Daddy sighs. “I looked at the labels on all the clothes you had on.”

Oh. Well. I guess that makes sense.

“You woke a woman up at the ass crack of dawn to shop for me?” I push. I don’t know why I’m pressing this. Big Daddy did a nice thing for me. Still, each nice thing he does feels like a brick being laid in a wall between me and Brielle.

“No, she went out last night and did it. Brought it all back last night, too, which you’d remember if you weren’t passed out.” He snags an extra bottle of water from the mini fridge in the corner. I hadn’t even noticed that till now, then again, all I’ve done in this room is sleep, think I’m dead, and fuck Big Daddy. “If you want to get drunk, you’ll do it with me. I can keep you safe and take care of you properly.”

I stick a leg out from the comforter, curling my toes. “So, when I want to get drunk, I should call my best friend's dad to come hang out with me? Sounds feasible,” I tease, my tone deadpan.

Big Daddy comes to the side of the bed and wraps his hand around my foot, bringing it to his crotch. I rub him through his slacks, but his eyes stay on mine. “That’s how you define me?”

I know exactly what he’s referring to, but my throat clogs the longer he looms over me, so I shrug. “You don’t even know my middle name,” I breathe, trying to make him understand that I want him with the same intensity, but we’re both being highly irrational. We don’t even know each other.

“May. Winnie May Collins. I saw it on your ID.” He presses his finger into his chest. “Come in when you feel better. The driver and car will be waiting.”

I sit up as he walks toward the door. “I’m coming with you. Just give me ten minutes, okay?”

He stops in the doorframe. “I said you could come in late.”

I don’t want to be alone here. It’s too much Quincey to handle without him. I’ll do something stupid like start seeing myself here. Or worse. Start seeing us having a life.

“Ten minutes,” I breathe, stumbling out of bed, the blankets wrapped around me.

He nods. “Ten minutes.”