For Her Own Good

by Parker, Tamsen

  “Now you do it,” I say, not letting up on the grasp I have on her nipples. “Lean back and show me how hard you want your sore nipples pinched and tugged.”

  She looks at me with widened, unbelieving eyes. I want her to do what?

  “Go on then. I’m not going to move an inch. If you want that feeling—and I think you do because you’re a naughty, filthy little girl who likes Daddy to be rough with her perfect tits—then you’re going to have to get it yourself.”

  Her chin wrinkles, and like the demoness she is, she squeezes my cock with her internal muscles. Oh, she wants to play this way? I don’t think so.

  “I felt that. You think you can outlast me? I could lift you off my cock, put you across my knee and give you a punishment spanking for not following my instructions, but I think you’d rather grind your way to an orgasm on my cock while we make your tits even sorer. I for one would rather come inside your tight, hot cunt than have a wank in the shower. Up to you, though.”

  Her frown deepens, and she’s cute as a frustrated kitten when she pouts. Still restive as one too. But much as I suspected she would, she pulls back experimentally from where I still have her nipples pinched between my fingers and closes her eyes, a slight wince crossing her features. But, hands gripping my shoulders, she does it again, and again. Harder this time. Farther. And now she’s determined.

  Bucking on me like she can’t get enough of my cock or the torment we’re subjecting her breasts to, she whines and holds on to me harder.

  “Are you going to come, little girl? Be my shooting Star?”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “Soon?”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  Thank God, because I don’t know how much longer I can hold out. Hoping to send her over the edge, I tilt my hips and she lets out this choked little gasp.

  “Yes, Daddy. Please. More. Just like that, please.”

  And since it feels damn good to me too, I match her rhythm, thrusting up farther, gripping her tits even harder, and then I feel it. A split second before I hear it.

  “Oh. Ooh. Daddy, yes. Yes, I’m coming. Fuck, fuck. Daddy, please. Oh.”

  Her nails dig into me as her pussy milks my cock and I spill. Spill my longing, desire, and pent-up sexual energy into her.

  It’s wildly satisfying, exhilarating to be shooting my load inside her. A lightening sensation as though I’ve been carrying this weighty craving for her. Which I suppose I have, but I never thought of it as a physical weight. But here she is: in my lap, in my arms, making the most intimate love to me, and even as the pressure of my own orgasm is relieved, there’s a swelling in my chest.

  I never want to let her go.

  Chapter 32

  Starla

  I’m going to have to talk to Doctor Gendron about my anxiety. Yes, I’ve dealt with it more or less throughout my life, but I’ve always thought of depression as my primary diagnosis. Maybe she can write me a temporary scrip while I’m dealing with this Patrick Enterprises shit? Because I’ve never had such physical, such visceral manifestations of it.

  Even after this incredible weekend with Lowry, I don’t feel any more relaxed, any less stressed. No, my agitation is off the charts and talking to him about my father didn’t help any. If anything, it cranked up my guilt, my shame, made me feel like I have the most terrible secret. What kind of grown woman is desperate for her dead father’s approval? Allows it to influence her decisions? Not that Lowry made me feel ridiculous, but ugh. Talking about my father and how much I still desperately want to please him sure as hell didn’t help with the ratcheting up of my anxiety. Occasional pounding of the heart, blood running cold or whatever, I’ve dealt with before, but not nausea and that’s what’s been dogging me lately. Not to the point that I’ve actually thrown up, but that doesn’t feel far off.

  If there’s one thing I’ve gotten better at, it’s nipping things in the bud. Telling Doctor Gendron about them before I’m paralyzed or really sick. It doesn’t make a ton of sense to waste time feeling like ass when I don’t have to.

  It makes me feel foolish that I avoided telling her about things that were bothering me for so long. But since time travel isn’t a thing—even for me with all my money—I’ll try to be gentle with myself even though that’s never been a thing I’m super great at.

  I take a last look in my mirror before heading out to meet Jerome Garrett. The outfit Holden picked out for me makes me feel powerful, but not like myself at the same time—I can’t wait to take it off and put on some cutesy pajamas because aside from the peplum on my short jacket, I don’t have any of those soft, adorable details Lowry likes so well because I can’t afford for Jerome to see me as soft or weak.

  My most expensive black heels, knee-length black pencil skirt with a slightly less than modest slit up the back, a dark turquoise silk shell, and my pretty peplum coat. Plus…

  Diamonds. Yes, they’re my best friend, not you, Jerome. No matter that I prefer kitschy and twee things. For tonight, I’m rocking my favorite grown-up bling and now I’m ready to go.

  Holden’s driving me, and he doesn't blink an eye at my lack of acknowledgment when I climb in. He knows I’ve got to focus. The ride there passes in a blink, though my stomach seems exponentially angrier by the time I reach the maître d'.

  “Starla Patrick, I’m meeting Jerome Garrett.”

  “Yes, of course, welcome. Mr. Garrett’s already seated, I’ll show you to your table. Right this way, please.”

  He shows me through the restaurant to a banquette facing the harbor and there’s my nemesis-I-didn’t-choose slash possible-solution-to-my-problems.

  Jerome stands, offers me a hand which I shake. My impressions from photos are borne out: the man is enormous. He’s got to be six and a half feet tall and I’m feeling all five foot four of my very average height, plus like three more inches from my heels, I guess.

  “Ms. Patrick, thank you so much for joining me.”

  “Don’t thank me yet.”

  His grip is firm but not threatening, his hand warm and large enough to basically envelop mine. He’s not trying to use his size to intimidate me, he’s just really fucking big.

  He’s a handsome older Black man, and this is the sort of guy Holden would pick out as a daddy. Except the little in me doesn’t get that instantaneous ping I sometimes do from a man who turns out to be not a daddy type, but an actual daddy. Not always, though, and definitely not what I need to be contemplating.

  We slide into the cushy seats and Jerome looks across the overly extravagant table.

  “I’m sorry again for your loss. Your father and I had our issues, but he was an exceptional businessman and I know he loved you very much.”

  How the fuck would Jerome Garrett know that when I was never certain? Doesn’t matter. He’s only making polite conversation before we get down to brass tacks. I’m certainly not going to let the childish words slip from my tongue into the air: He did? How do you know? Did he say something about me? A million times no.

  “Thank you.”

  A waitress comes to take our drink order, and while I’d been dreaming of a full-bodied Douro red, the idea of it now makes my stomach turn. Goddammit, I was really counting on alcohol to ease the way of what will no doubt be an extraordinarily difficult conversation.

  When she departs, Jerome’s intense gaze settles on me.

  “How’s your health?”

  “Excuse me?”

  That’s pretty fucking rude. And yeah, I expected this to be difficult, but not from this angle. How’s my health, a.k.a., how far away am I from checking into Harbinson as an inpatient again? That’s what he means and I’m not here for it. What the hell?

  “I don’t mean to be overly familiar—”

  “You’re failing spectacularly, then.”

  His mouth tightens, but I’m not even sorry.

  “Look— May I call you Starla?”

  “Sure.”

  He’s already poked at my mental health, so what the hell differ
ence does it make if he does it using my first name or my last?

  “Starla. I’m fully aware of your depression diagnosis. I know you treat it very successfully with ECT. I would imagine the grief of losing your father compounded what you deal with every day. I have no illusions that your depression makes you helpless or anything less than formidable. It’s—”

  He seems to take a breath, collect himself, and I’m curious what he’s going to say.

  “I’m not sure you know my sister has bipolar disorder. So, I don’t know what it’s like to be you, but I probably have a better idea than most people.”

  “I didn’t know that. I hope she’s well.”

  I genuinely do. Depression can be really fucking rough, but I’m not dealing with the one-two punch of depression and mania.

  Jerome shrugs. “We’re lucky we have an effectively unlimited amount of funds to throw at it. She’s been able to access the best treatment available, and I’ve done my best to let her be independent to the fullest extent possible, but there have definitely been some rough times. Right now she’s doing well. She’s an incredibly talented artist. Would you—” His face lights up, and then as quickly falls. “No, I’m sorry. That’s wildly unprofessional.”

  “What were you going to say?”

  He looks a bit sheepish and spreads his hands on the table, as though he’s laying out all his cards for me to see, inspect.

  “I suppose your father told you I’m a ruthless businessman. Which can be true. But I’m also a total softie when it comes to my family.” He shrugs again, the considerable breadth of his shoulders rising and falling as he takes a sip of the wine he’s ordered. “I was going to ask if you’d like to see some of her paintings, but this isn’t show-and-tell nor is it a nursing home where it’s fair to expect everyone to ooh and ahh over pictures of your grandchildren. I apologize.”

  He’s embarrassed, and I get the feeling there’s something about me that renders him vulnerable, soft. Which I could—should—use to my advantage. But I’ve never been inclined to be cutthroat. I’ve been one of the people who end up bleeding out from the knife wound across their windpipe for too long to find that appealing.

  “I’d love to see them.”

  “Really?”

  This whole thing could be a ruse, but I’ve fallen for it. I won’t buy it hook, line, and sinker, though, nor would my advisors let me. But what’s the harm in looking at Jerome’s sister’s paintings? What’s the harm in either him thinking more kindly toward me or that he’s fooled me?

  “Yes. I’m not much of a collector, but I majored in art history. Over my seven years of college.”

  The corner of his mouth quirks, but probably trying not to laugh, he tames it. I used to be embarrassed it took me so freaking long, but now I’m mostly proud I did it at all. Jerome ultimately reaches into his coat pocket to pull out his phone, the enthusiasm blooming on his face again. He hits a few buttons and then hands me his phone.

  “That’s her website, you can scroll down and see more.”

  It’s hard to tell from the images how large the paintings are, but they’re vibrant and saturated with color. Mostly bright and lush with shades that make me think of the rain forest but sometimes the colors swing darker, moodier. This isn’t overblown brotherly pride, though, she’s really quite good. Bertryse Garrett. At the end, there’s a photo of a woman who I assume is Bertryse standing next to one of her paintings. It’s a huge canvas, and her smile is almost as wide. She’s gorgeous, as are her paintings.

  I hand him back his phone, saying, “She’s lovely, and very talented. You must be very proud.”

  “I am. My little sister’s been killing it for a long time. Sometimes I just feel like I’m along for the ride.”

  His expression tells me he’s not just saying this, not trying to butter me up with saccharine platitudes. I can almost always pick up on when people resent the ever-loving hell out of their relatives or friends with mental illness but are trying to be martyrs. I don’t get that from Jerome at all.

  “I’m sure sometimes you are.”

  He laughs, a hearty thing, and offers me a toast. “Ain’t that the truth.”

  * * *

  By the time we’re finishing our entrees, I have decided that despite my earlier reservations, Jerome Garrett might be the answer to some of my prayers. Not all of them, certainly, because my advisors will be wary, Tad will be ripshit, and I’m guessing my father’s ghost will be so distraught he’ll be pissed he was cremated so he can’t roll over in his grave. But after talking to Jerome, I feel like perhaps my father took everything that happened between their businesses as a personal slight instead of the exhilarating game Jerome seemed to see it as.

  If everything checks out, I will be selling a good portion of my shares in Patrick Enterprises to Garrett Industries. Which will mean I’ll still maintain the largest stake in the company, and as a voting bloc, Jerome and I will have the final say on any decision that comes to the board.

  I’m not giving him an answer until I can review everything, but after speaking with him and reviewing the portfolio he brought for me, I feel as though we have a lot of the same sensibilities. We both feel more responsible to our employees than to our shareholders, are committed to doing our best to be environmentally conscientious and innovative, and share a dedication to diversity at all levels of the company, but especially in the C-suite.

  Yes, I’m going to have my people go through his proposal with a fine-tooth comb and tear it to shreds, but fundamentally…this might be okay? My heart doesn’t shrivel at the idea of leaving my people in Jerome’s care the way it does when I imagine doing the same with Tad. Will I always agree completely with him? No, of course not, but I do fundamentally think Jerome will do a good job of steering the Patrick Enterprises ship. Which is what I tell him.

  “I’m going to have a lot of questions, and I’m sure the lawyers will have a lot to say about all of this, but I do feel, at my core, as though this is a real possibility. I wouldn’t waste your time by telling you it was if I didn’t mean it. I am cautiously optimistic about what we’ve discussed.”

  Jerome looks pleased as punch, and he should. This would significantly increase his presence in certain sectors and introduce his presence in others. It would make an already powerful man more powerful. But from his treatment of me, the way he talks about his sister, I feel as though I can trust him—within reason, of course. I don’t mind having to check on the ship, make sure it’s still headed in the right direction, but I sure as fuck don’t want to have to be steering it myself all the time which is what the past several months have felt like.

  I like the way he rises when I stand to leave, offers me his hand again.

  “Thank you again for meeting with me. I hope this all works out, and even if not, it’s been a pleasure.”

  “Likewise. I’ll be in touch.”

  And then I head toward the exit.

  It’s still difficult. I hate the idea of disappointing my father, of handing his legacy over to someone who isn’t me or someone he trusted, like Tad. But the thing is…I cannot do this. I cannot run this company without sacrificing my mental health. I’d like to be able to power through and do the difficult thing, but I can’t. It is not within my capabilities. Admitting that blows. Makes me feel incompetent, less than worthy, all the worst things people have said to me for my whole life. Not to mention having to admit that my father was wrong about me and giving up on the approval I’d finally been able to win from him after feeling like a disappointment for so long. That…that will be the worst part of it, I’m sure.

  But possibly, by making an informed and responsible decision, I’m actually not fucking this up as badly as I thought? God, I hope so because I cannot handle feeling nauseated like this forever. There is some shit that I have recognized as my depression being an asshole and I can ride through it, but I cannot chill on the feeling-like-I’m-going-to-hurl express. Not gonna happen. Indeed, I’m not chilling anymore—it’s an
effort to not be puking up my excellent dinner on this carpet on my way down to my car.

  I want to go home. I want Lowry. He’ll understand and let me lay my head in his lap while he pets my hair, and he won’t complain while he holds my hair back as I puke. He’ll get that my anxiety has grown beyond the bounds of what my mind can bear so it’s visiting itself upon my body in an effort to be like, “Hey, Dickhead, pay attention to me. You should do something before I move on to other things like chest pains. Wouldn’t that be fun?” Ugh. He’ll encourage me to talk to Doctor Gendron about it and make me feel smart and responsible for doing it instead of like a failure.

  Before I go home, though, I need to make a detour to the restroom because for fuck’s sake, I can’t not vomit.

  I head straight to the last stall and barely lock it before I’m on my knees and hurling all the things into the toilet. Perfect, A-plus. At least it doesn’t take long for my stomach to empty its contents. The bile burns my throat and tastes god-awful in my mouth. I don’t think I can wait until next week to see Doctor Gendron, I’ll leave her a message when I get home and she’ll either call me back and put in a scrip or she’ll fit me in tomorrow. She always does.

  When I make my way out, there are a couple of other women washing their hands, checking their makeup, gossiping at the sinks. And they all totes heard me tossing a sidewalk pizza. Awesome.

  In case I had any doubt, as I wash out the foul taste from my mouth, the woman next to me gives me a sympathetic smile.

  “Morning sickness? God, I had it the worst with my first baby. Don’t worry, the second one was so much easier.”

  Uh, what? I could protest, “No it’s just a physical manifestation of my overwhelming anxiety. Obviously.” The thought of being knocked up had never entered my mind. But now it does, even as I smile politely because there is no goddamn way I’m pregnant. We use condoms, every time. There is no fucking way. No. Fucking. Way.

  I walk out feeling like I’m in a fog. Trail over to the car feeling the same and ride back to my apartment without saying a word to Holden, other than handing him the information Jerome Garrett gave me and telling him to sic my lawyers on it immediately. I walk into my building and wait until he drives away, but then—just for the hell of it—walk to the nearest drugstore a couple of blocks away. Just for shits and giggles, just so I can sleep tonight, just so I can prove to my sometimes worthless brain that no, I’m not pregnant, I must be throwing up because I’m so stressed. Because that would be oh-so-much better.