Say Daddy: A Mafia Billionaire Romance

by Shanna Handel

  He gives my hair a hard pull that makes me gasp. His demand burns into my ear, my soul. “Say ‘yes, Daddy.’”

  How does he hold so much power over me? How does he make me feel weak and powerful and shameful and sexy all with a few words and a tug of my hair?

  Giving into his powers, I cede my resistance. Closing my eyes, I whisper the humiliating, thrilling words of defeat. “Yes, Daddy.”

  Suddenly, his mouth is on mine, kissing me hard. His hands are in my hair, cupping my breasts, caressing my curves. His touch is all consuming and I’m no longer a woman with things to do, worries in her busy mind.

  I’m only touch and smell and sound, my senses focused on this moment, this man.

  Nothing else exists.

  His hands find the hem of the short dress I wore here to tempt him. He’s inching it up over my bottom. He’s under my dress, tugging at the waistband of my panties. He kisses his way down my neck, my breasts, my stomach, as he slowly pulls them down to the floor.

  I step out of them.

  His hands go to my waist. He’s got me over to the couch, he’s bending me over the big rounded arm of his sofa.

  Panicked, my head flies over my shoulder. “Wait! What are you doing?”

  “Exactly what I told you I would.” He bends down and his chest presses against my back, pinning me in place over the arm of the couch. His breath is hot in my ear as he says, “I told you when you came back to Daddy, I would spank you. Hard.”

  With that, he rucks up my dress, exposing my bare ass. Holding me down with one huge, flat palm, he brings the other one down across the center of my bottom.

  The pain is blinding, exploding over my ass. I struggle to face him over my shoulder, and my hair falls over my face. “Ow! That fucking hurt!”

  “Such naughty language for a sweet girl. Does Daddy need to take his belt off?”

  “No!”

  He brings his hand down again. Even harder and in the same spot.

  I’m sucking air in between my teeth, surprised by the pain. Between clenched teeth, I gasp, “Why are you doing this?”

  “Daddy knows what you need.” He spanks me again, this time on the center of my right cheek, then on the left. “And he’s going to give it to you.”

  As he speaks, I find a surprising pool of moisture gathering between my thighs. The scent of my arousal reaches me, filling me with shame.

  He leans down again, his chest pressing against me. “Call me Daddy and I won’t spank so hard.”

  “No. I can’t!”

  Another hard spank lands, right, then left. “Are you sure?”

  It hurts so good. But I don’t know how much more I can take. I shift my weight from foot to foot, the stinging of my ass distracting me from the pulsing in my pussy. “I—can’t.”

  He spanks me hard, right, then left, right, then left. Then his hand comes down on the soft curve of my ass, right where my bottom meets the top of my thighs and it’s my undoing. Moaning, I call, “Not so hard, Daddy.”

  I’m rewarded by his open palm stroking my tender skin. His voice crooning, “There’s my good girl.”

  Goosebumps dot my flesh as my pussy melts with slow, liquid heat. I feel my nipples harden, my breasts ache, heavy against the couch. I whisper, “But don’t stop spanking me, either.”

  He gives a chuckle and I feel his erection press against my leg. He brings his hand down on that curve again, but this time with a light, stinging slap.

  Making me twice as wet as before.

  His promise to make me pleasure myself rings in my mind as I think about my wet pussy. Will he really make me be the one to finger it, finding the traces of my arousal?

  His hand comes down again, soft and stingy and delicious. “You are a little daddy’s girl, aren’t you? Getting so wet from your spanking. You love it so much, it makes me hard just knowing how wet I’m making you.”

  I give a delighted gasp as he spanks each curve in turn. Mixing the spanks with light, then hard. My entire bottom is warm, tingling and throbbing. My pussy is soaked, clenching and pulling and begging for his attentions.

  He pulls me up, turning me to face him.

  My sore bottom presses against the soft arm of the chair. He stands before me, his hands caressing my hips, my breasts.

  He growls, “You have a task to perform for me, don’t you?”

  The thought of what he wants me to do makes me cringe, but also excites me. I have no idea how I’m going to make myself do what he asks, but looking into his eyes, I somehow know that I will.

  His words send shivers down my spine. “Touch yourself for Daddy. See how wet Daddy makes you.”

  He lifts my skirt up, raising it just to the tops of my thighs. He’s kissing my neck, sucking hard enough to leave a bruise, marking me as his.

  “I don’t know if I can,” I whisper, my voice trembling.

  He stops his kisses and caresses, looking at me as one would a naughty little girl. “Does Daddy need to give your bottom harder spanks to make you obey?”

  I shake my head, the tips of my teeth sinking into my bottom lip.

  He says, “Then be a good girl and do as I say.”

  Taking a deep breath, I slide my hand over my belly. Down further, over my mound. I slip one finger between my slick folds. Despite my best efforts to remain quiet, a moan escapes me.

  I’m so fucking wet. Wetter than I’ve ever been.

  He’s right.

  I’m a baby girl, wanting a daddy. Wanting to be bent over and spanked, while he croons naughty words into my ear.

  I slip my finger over my swollen, pulsing bud, rubbing, getting some relief from the pressure his touches built inside of me. I dip my finger inside myself, gathering more of those lubricating juices, and rub my clit in circles.

  “Look at me,” he demands.

  It’s almost too much. He’s spanked me, made me call him Daddy. He’s watching me finger myself. But to hold his gaze while I perform the shameful act?

  It’s too much. I can’t.

  But he takes my chin between his forefinger and thumb, tilting it up to face him, forcing my gaze to meet his.

  Expecting an indifferent look, or at the most, lust in his eyes, I’m surprised by the intense connection I feel instead. There’s a light in his eyes that pierces my soul. A look that tells me he wants me as much as I do him.

  I rub harder, faster, while holding his gaze. “I think I’m going to come.”

  “Make yourself come for Daddy.” His lips are on mine. He’s kissing me hard. Now his hand is on top of my own, directing my movements as he kisses me. He’s pressing harder against my sex, moving faster, his large hand cupping my hand as he does.

  His fingers slide inside me. Creating that delicious friction. My own fingers circle my clit.

  I want to cry out but his mouth is against mine so instead at the peak of my pleasure, I thrust my tongue into his mouth, swirling and exploring as the waves of climax rock my core. He doesn’t stop kissing me.

  I come, his hand on mine, his mouth on mine, my body shuddering against him.

  When he pulls away, I’m left panting. Hopelessly addicted to his touch. Wanting more.

  He’s unbuckling his belt, taking down his pants. Slipping a condom from his pocket and over his hard, waiting cock. He lifts my hips, balancing my spanked ass on the arm of the couch.

  Then his gaze locks on mine once more and he holds it, boring into my soul, as he enters me.

  He fills me, stretching me until I fear I’ll break. The angle of my hips lets him drive in further. My legs wrap around his waist. The friction builds inside of my slick sheath as he thrusts in and out. My hands tangle in his hair, slide down his neck, my nails dig into his shoulders as he fucks me, hard and fast.

  Making my mind hazy, my heart pound, my knees weak.

  He’s deep, plunging so hard and fast, another orgasm finds me after only minutes. My chest heaves in heavy breaths, perspiration dotting my hairline as my core winds tighter and tighter, ready
to explode.

  His husky command: “Come for Daddy, baby girl.”

  His words are the end of me.

  I clutch at his shoulders as I cry out. He bangs hard and fast into me as I rise to a level of euphoria, coming in a convulsive shudder. Releasing all the tension he’s built up inside of me with his flirting, his teasing. His words.

  Giving me the finale that I came here for.

  He comes with his own growl of victory, kissing me as his cock pulsates within me.

  A warm happiness surrounds me, making me wonder if it was a mistake to proclaim this as something that could not happen a second time.

  But surely, I’ll never be able to do this again.

  To be so dirty as to call this man my daddy.

  I also know that from this point forward, all sex will be a letdown unless it’s with this man.

  Why can’t he be a daddy and a Bachman?

  Chapter Seven

  Luke

  I wake to find Victoria dressed, grabbing her purse, prepared to leave.

  Why is she leaving so quickly? Was I too rough? Have I scared her off?

  My chest aches at the thought of her being gone. I call out, “Wait. Let me make you breakfast.”

  Surprised to see me awake, she turns, a guilty look on her face; she was planning on sneaking out. “I-I can’t. I’ve got to be somewhere.”

  I spring from the bed, pulling a pair of sweats over my naked body. I go to where she hovers by the door. The deep need for her to stay consumes me. “Sit your ass down. You need to eat.”

  Blush rises in her cheeks. “I was just hoping to get out of here before you woke up. I didn’t want it to be... awkward.”

  I ask, “And is it? Awkward?”

  Looking me over, a slow smile stretches over her face. “No. I guess it’s not.”

  “Then stay for breakfast.” I point to the table. “Sit.”

  Just the way she is, the way she smells, the sound of her laugh, the way she fits perfectly in my arms. I want her to stay for breakfast and lunch... call in sick and stay for dinner.

  “Fine,” she says, giving me a little of that attitude that makes me want to smack that ass.

  I ask, “What’s your favorite breakfast food?”

  She raises her brows. “Pancakes?” She looks right at home, sitting at my table.

  “Pancakes also happen to be my favorite. Luckily, I have everything we need. Coffee?”

  Giving me a nod, she takes a seat at the little table in the kitchen area of the apartment. Watches me as I cross the room, fill the coffeepot with water, grind beans and add those.

  Opening my fridge, I throw out a quick mental ‘thank you’ to my dear housekeeper, Florentine. She’s stocked my kitchen. Again. Not one of her tasks but she calls me ‘skin and bones,’ and wants to put more meat on me. I see she’s left a huge pan of her lasagna, just part of her plan to fatten me up.

  I pull out milk, cream, eggs, maple syrup, bacon. “How do you like your coffee?”

  “I can drink it with milk, but my favorite is vanilla creamer.”

  “I got you.” Grabbing a small bowl from the cabinet, I whisk together milk, a little cream, some sugar and a dash of pure vanilla extract. The coffeepot beeps.

  She shakes her head, saying, “Please don’t go to any trouble for me.”

  She has no idea what it means to be a baby girl.

  Daddies live to go to all the trouble for their girls.

  Our joy is going the extra mile to give them what their hearts desire.

  Choosing the perfect mug, I pour her a cup, stirring in some of the homemade creamer. “Try this.”

  I hand her a mug decorated with a cat with a rainbow tail and a unicorn horn. Big bright pink letters are stamped across the bottom, saying Meowgical.

  She laughs, taking the mug from me. “How did you know I like cats?”

  I say, “You’ve mentioned Mr. Stuffings. More than once.”

  “I am bad about talking about him, aren’t I? I’m kind of like an eighty-year-old woman in that regard.” Taking a sip, her eyes light up. “This is delicious. How’d you make it?”

  “It’s easy. I’ll make a batch to send home with you.” Amongst the kitchen goods that Florentine has purchased, I find a pretty glass bottle with a lid. I whip up another batch of the creamer and pour it in the jar. I find a sheet of labels and a marker in the drawer. Making a special set of labels, I carefully apply them to the jar and put it in the fridge to give her when she leaves.

  “Music?” I ask her.

  “Sure.” She sits, quite content, sipping her coffee, the morning sun shining through the window in streams, lighting her hair.

  I’m on a French Easy Listening kick, so I put that on. The music fills the apartment, easy and light.

  While she drinks her coffee, I get to work. Scrambling eggs, frying bacon, flipping pancakes. I find myself singing along quietly as I work.

  She asks, “You know French?”

  “Only what I’ve memorized on this station. They seem to play the same ten songs over and over. More coffee?”

  She smiles. “Sure.”

  I make her another cup, serving it with a bow. “What about you? Do you speak any other languages?” I ask, headed back to the stove.

  She says, “I learned a little Spanish in high school. But I wasn’t a very good student.”

  “Too distracted by the boys?” I ask.

  Giving a laugh, she says, “No. I was mostly distracted by my doodling.”

  Tori’s sensitive, creative—I can picture her being an artist. I ask, “You can draw?”

  She says, “Anyone can draw. If you mean, am I any good, you’d have to decide for yourself.”

  I think of her little cat doodle on the note she left me. “Well, I’d love the opportunity one day. I have zero artistic ability, unless you count cooking as creating.”

  I set a plate before her. Two pancakes with melting butter, drenched in syrup, two slices of perfectly crisped bacon, one scrambled egg, and I put a plate at my place at the table with double that amount of food. “Orange juice?”

  “Seriously?” She eyes her plate greedily. “I haven’t had a breakfast like this... well, I really don’t remember when. I’ve been living off cold cereal.”

  “You know what they say. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.” I rarely eat it myself, never going to the trouble of cooking for one.

  I pour two glasses of orange juice and join her at the table. I watch her take a bite.

  Her eyes close for just a moment, but the small gesture makes a strange fullness in my chest; she’s savoring it.

  She lets out a deep sigh. “That’s delicious.”

  Simple pleasures; to have her here, enjoying my coffee, my cooking, it makes me happy. “I’m glad you like it.”

  We eat in a comfortable silence, dotted here and there by idle chat. When we finish, she insists on helping me with the dishes. What we don’t load into the dishwasher, I wash, she dries. Our arms brush against one another’s in the small kitchen.

  When we’re done, I can feel her need to leave. She’s hovering by the door, unsure of what to say.

  As much as I want her to stay, I’ve got shit to do. I make it easy for her. Grabbing the creamer from the fridge, I say, “Here, take this with you. I know you need to get going.”

  As she reads the label, where I wrote, ‘I think you’re pretty meowgical,’ a look of delight dances across her face. I’m glad to be the one to make her light up like that.

  “Thank you. I love it,” she says. Her hand is on the doorknob.

  “Wait.” I reach out, placing my hand over hers. When she came last night, she made it crystal clear this was not happening again. Just in case it is, I want my goodbye kiss.

  Bowing down, I place a soft kiss on her lips. “Goodbye, Tori.”

  “Tori?” she whispers.

  “That’s what I call you in my mind.”

  “You think of me often?” she asks, a quiet smile on
her face.

  I say, “More than you would think, considering how sassy you are.”

  She seems pleased with my response; a soft glow lights her eyes. “Well, thanks for... everything. See you at work, tomorrow.”

  And she’s gone.

  And I’m late for work.

  On my day off from the club, I’m on duty in the Village. It’s a great recharge to work alongside the Brothers. Flying solo undercover for the family can be lonely and I look forward to the camaraderie I’ll have one day when I live amongst them.

  Rockland’s wife, Tess, fancies herself a matchmaker. She has a mission to see all the single Brothers married off. She tells me as soon as I get hitched, my time over the apartment of the gym is over and I’m moving to the Village.

  Sounds fantastic.

  The only problem? I don’t have the girl.

  As I dress for work, there’s a lightness in my step I attribute to a fantastic night of sex, but I know it’s more. She’s sticking in my head and I find myself wanting to call her mine.

  Pushing the thought aside, I focus on the task ahead.

  When I arrive at work, I head straight for Bachman Enterprises. The tall gray building is the hub of the family’s businesses. As the car rounds the corner, I notice a group of Brothers moving quickly away from the building, the energy amongst them almost visible.

  I have the driver let me out. Joining the group, I grab one of the Brothers, Jason, as he passes me. “What’s going on?”

  “We just got a shipment,” he says, nodding in the direction of the garages on the back of the property. “We’re getting in the Jeeps and heading over.”

  Excitement fills me like it’s Christmas. “New weapons are my favorite.”

  “Me too, man.” He slaps me a high-five.

  We reach the huge metal garages. The bay doors are open, lines of sleek black Jeeps at the ready.

  We load up, heading over to the family’s private airport where the shipment will be waiting. Jason climbs into the driver seat of one of the Jeeps and I ride shotgun.

  Crates of arms have arrived from the family’s private island off the coast of Greece. It’s called the Parrish, and it’s the main location weapons are stored. We turn ours in after every use, trading them in for new.