by Maren Smith
“It is.”
“Good. Grab those files and get in my office.”
“I thought you wanted me to sit at my desk and work, like a good little temp.”
“I changed my mind,” he grits out, clearly irritated.
“But there’s so much work for me to do. I need to get the Hanson paperwork ready, read that binder of info Wendy left for me, obvs, and I still need to look for a job where my boss doesn’t want to bend me over his or her desk.”
“Are you pushing, me, princess?” he asks low.
“Who, me? I would never dare.”
Teddy slaps the files out of my hands the second the door closes and the lock snicks into place.
Papers scatter like confetti as Teddy yanks me to him. His whiskey eyes burn like flames as he stalks me backwards until my ass bumps his desk. The air crackles with the intensity that is Teddy, jealous and territorial.
“Jakob worked really hard putting those together,” I protest on a breath.
“And I’m going to enjoy you being a good little girl and picking it back up later. Naked. My cum dripping down your silky thighs.”
His hands glide up said tender thighs and under my skirt to cup my ass and lifts so I’m sitting on the desk, knees spread. He tips my chin up, lips hovering maddening close to mine.
“I can’t leave you alone for two seconds. You’re like catnip, princess, and every stray in a twelve-mile radius wants a nibble.”
I work the buttons down the front of his shirt, exposing tan skin and a dusting of chest hair underneath. All the while he kneads my ass and grinds his erection into the very heart of me. I want his pants off.
“That include you?”
“Me? You’re mine, princess. I’m the only one getting a bite of you. Not my father.” He pushes my slouch sweater off one shoulder and then the next until it catches on my elbows. “Not Jakob and his roaming eyes.” He unsnaps my bra and it goes the way of my sweater, sliding down my shoulders to pool at my waist. Teddy skims his knuckles over the silhouette of my breasts, his intense gaze never leaving mine. “And definitely not your little asshat of a boyfriend.”
“Ex.”
“Yes. You had to break up with the sorry bastard twice to make it stick.”
“I have that effect on men.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“I think I like you jealous.”
“Just another reason you need a good spanking, naughty girl.”
Then he starts kissing a path down, down, down. He bends and captures one beaded nipple and sucking it into his mouth hard enough I nearly protest. Nearly. I hold back because of the sparks it sends down to my clit.
“I can’t have you out there,” he says. “Sitting all prim and proper at that desk while every bastard in this office drools all over you.” He reaches under me, scraping my panties down my legs until they precariously dangle off one ankle. “You’re too much of a distraction. A naughty, naughty distraction.”
Suddenly he spins me around and bends me over his desk. A sharp slap to my ass has me trying to get away. He swats my ass again, and this time heat throbs in waves from the place he spanked me.
“Whose little fuck toy are you?”
“Yours, daddy.”
“That’s right. Now, do you need daddy’s tongue in your pussy, or are you ready for my cock?”
His fingers push into me, testing how wet and tight I am. My thighs clench. “I want your… cock. Daddy.” I’ve never been so brazen. So direct as I am able to be with Teddy. “I want you to fill me up and mark me.”
He yanks me up against him, his erection pressing into the cleft of my ass.
“You have a greedy kitty, baby?”
“Yes, sir, so greedy.”
There’s movement like he's taking something out of his pocket. Then his wallet gets tossed on the desk along with an open condom wrapper.
This is it.
He kicks my legs out a little further than presses up, stretching me, filling me. I arch back into him and he fists my hair, angling me head to take my mouth as he flexes his hips against me in shallow pumps. Then he pulls back further and slams in.
I cry out, but he covers my mouth as he bends me over his desk and hammers into me. I realize, all our other interactions he’d just been warming me up. Teasing me. Now he forces me to take his full length on every stroke, skin smacking skin.
Teddy’s girth would be a lot to take on its own. With the plug, it’s almost too much. He must sense I’m struggling to adjust to his size. He reaches around and hones in on my clit. This isn’t the fumbling of a college boy but the expertise of a man who knows a thousand and one ways to make a woman come.
Instantly, I’m pulsing on his length and bucking into his thrusts. I bite his hand as I claw at his desk, trying to find something to hold onto.
“No fucking biting, naughty girl,” he hisses.
He slams into me harder and I moan.
“God, princess. I can’t wait to take you home with me and see how loud you can scream. You need to be quiet, or everyone is going to know daddy’s fucking you.”
I whimper.
“Is that what you want? Everyone to know how much you like taking daddy’s cock?”
I scream against his palm as he hits so deep, I go up on tiptoes. He chuckles low and I swear I can feel it in the very center of me.
“You getting close? You going to come for me, baby?”
I’m not sure if I ever stopped coming. It’s been one long orgasm since he put his fingers on my clit. I still nod, my body tight, so, so very close to something epic.
My vision goes dark as I break, pussy yanking and clasping his cock as I sob out the orgasm of orgasms against his hand. He curses low and then he’s pulling out. There’s a bit of fumbling before ropes of his hot release paint my ass and pussy, dripping down my thighs and pooling at the top of my stockings.
He came on me.
He really came on me.
I peek over my shoulder and take in his self-satisfied smirk as he smears his cum into my flesh, and I’ve never felt so replete. So content. So owned.
“You look like the kitten who ate all the cream,” he tells me.
“Funny. You look like the cat who ate the canary.”
“I’ve just begun getting my fill of you, princess. My naughty little office temp.”
“Tation. I’m daddy’s little office temp-tation.”
“Yes, yes you are.”
The End
For more by Aubrey Cara, please click here.
Author’s Note
Thank you for reading Daddy’s Office Temp-tation. If you enjoyed, please consider leaving a review on your favorite ebook site. All reviews are appreciated, no matter how big or small.
Sugar Princess
Nicolina Martin
About the Author
Nicolina Martin is a Swedish born author who escapes the long, dark winter nights by writing hot contemporary romance/suspense.
She’s a mother of three teenage girls, a medical doctor, a quirky loner, and a social human being. She has traveled the globe, has had more lovers than she can count, has loved and hated, succeeded and failed, has gone through marriage and divorce. She has seen darkness and despair, as well as light and happiness.
All these experiences, she pours into her tales, taking her readers for a wild ride while twisting their minds. She loves showing that stories can be different even if the trope is the same. Nicolina believes that life is too short for regrets and in looking forward, no matter what. She wants to enjoy every moment, and cherish life.
Follow Nicolina on Amazon, Bookbub, FB and more: https://linktr.ee/nicolinamartin
Copyright © 2020 by Nicolina Martin and Red Hot Romance, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including, but not limited to, photocopying or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
; This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, locales, and events are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, and events are purely coincidental.
Edited by: Nerine Dorman
Chapter One
Misha
The store is no more than a hole in the wall, and the entire front is floor-to-ceiling windows that don’t cover much of what goes on inside. I shake my head. Those windows could easily shatter if I wanted to, say, get the attention of the owner.
Inside the store, a young woman moves between mismatched armchairs of various sizes and little round tables crowded too close together. Behind the chairs and tables are shelves filled to the brim with books. Hardcovers, paperbacks, coffee table books, all passionately squeezed in to fit as many as possible in a seemingly chaotic manner. There’s love behind the arrangement. That pleases me. I appreciate reading. It’s weightlifting for my mind, and I like staying in shape. The messy display offends my sense of order, though. I would have organized it differently.
Rounded, pink neon letters along the façade spell out ‘Sugar Princess.’ An arc is painted on the window in several shades of pastel: Sweet Heroes and Spicy Heroines. We have a flavor for everyone.
I don’t understand the shop’s concept. Is it a bookstore or a café? Well, it’s not my business. I’m here to collect. I kick down the support and jerk up my motorcycle so that it locks in place, then I pocket the key and march up to the door. Collecting protection money was something I did when I was twelve. At thirty-nine, I thought those days were past, but thanks to my idiotsky drunk of a brother, here I am again, stuck in the US of A for a few months, paying off his debt.
Back then, I would go in with a bat, smash up some shelves and break a few things. It usually did the trick. Today, I hope to settle this with a few well-chosen words. I pull open the door, step inside, and take a deep breath. To my surprise, I’m met by the sweet smell of vanilla, like of syrniki, my favorite dessert, not musty books as expected.
The girl by the tables freezes with her back to me. I raise an eyebrow, appreciating her outfit. A wide, brown leather belt nips in her small waist, creating an alluring hour-glass shape. Below the belt, a wide, deep red skirt falls to her knees. Above the belt, a red-and-white polka dot blouse hugs her chest. As she turns to me, I have to pull my gaze away from the creamy skin of her ample breasts revealed by the blouse’s plunging neckline. Her honey-blonde hair is tied into two braids that rest one in front, and the other behind her shoulders. On top of her head sits a glittering tiara, worthy of a princess. She widens her round blue eyes as she lets them travel my body, and her intense scrutiny is an almost physical sensation. She looks as taken aback as I feel.
Her heart-shaped face opens into a smile that reveals deep dimples. What do they say, the Americans? Cute as pie. To my Russian soul she is cute as the sweet pancakes this whole bookstore smells of.
“How do you do, sir?” she asks, pulling me out of the near-trance.
Sir.
I like how polite she is. I hope she’s as pliable as she is polite and will fold like a cheap lawn chair when I put pressure on her. It would be a shame to have to wreck this little shop.
“Is that coffee I smell?” I take off my sunglasses and move a step closer. She backs up. Her instincts tell her something is wrong, but the polite veneer doesn’t wear off just because everything inside her screams at her to be careful. She works in retail, and I am a customer.
“E-e-ehm, yeah,” she stutters as a blush creeps up the sides of her cheeks. “I just put it on. It will be a few minutes. Did… did you come here looking for something special?”
I sure did, and she’s not going to like it one bit.
Carrie
“What is your name?” His deep baritone combined with a thick accent I can’t pinpoint, maybe Eastern European, maybe even Russian, causes a shiver to run through me. He is made up of squares, I decide. A squared jaw, squared shoulders, a squared forehead. He has thick dark hair that lies neatly combed back, tamed with hair gel, light green penetrating eyes that flash as they look me over, and a massive black beard. He looks like a caveman that someone glued a suit to. Primitive. Capable. Sexy as all hell.
I haven’t been with a man for two years. Not since my father passed, and I kicked Ethan out.
Ethan is the most self-centered person I have ever known, and he somehow managed to make my grief all about himself. Having given him eight years already, that was the last straw.
I haven’t looked at a man since. I’ve kept my head down and worked.
But today I not only look, I gawk.
Something about this rough stranger with his expensive-looking suit, and his intense gaze, has me spellbound. The silence is deafening. I realize I’m staring, and that he asked me a question.
“Ehm… Carrie. Carrie Ellerbrock.”
“And are you from California, Carrie Ellerbrock?” It sounds as if his tongue is making love to my name, and I choke down the moan that wants to climb up my throat. Russian, I decide. That raw, sexy accent is definitely Russian.
I can’t tear my gaze off his hands as he slowly pulls off his black leather gloves, meticulously, finger by finger. His hands are callused, huge, deliciously veiny squares too. Jesus Christ. My girl parts clench from the vision before me, and my mind plunges into the gutter with a dizzying speed as I imagine what those rough palms could do to my bottom.
“Mm-hmm.”
His gloves held in one hand, he pulls off his coat, hangs it over one arm and then moves, seemingly regarding the bookshelves. It gives me a perfect opportunity to study his broad back.
“And is this your business, Miss Ellerbrock?”
The silence mounts between us. I’m supposed to answer? This is ridiculous. How can anyone be expected to function when sex on legs walks into their little bookstore? The coffee brewer gurgles, signaling that the last few drops are hitting the pot, pulling me out of my weird near-trance.
I clear my throat, square my shoulders, and involuntarily jut out my substantial bust, but lose the ability to speak when his gaze lands on my breasts.
“Mmph,” I say, and flee to the safety behind the counter, aiming for the coffee pot and the rack with cups. His presence burns holes in my back as I pour a cup of coffee while shaking slightly. I ground myself in the familiarity of the action and, as I turn back to him, my hands are steady again.
“Cream or sugar?”
“Black.”
He has soundlessly crossed the distance from where he stood in a matter of seconds. I swallow the gasp that wants to escape me, look over his shoulder, at the abandoned street, and then back up at the man, realizing two things: I’m alone with a stranger whom I somehow doubt is here for the classics, and he smells really good.
“Black coffee it is. Do you want anything to go with it?” I scan the assortment of cookies I have yet to unwrap and then I work on routine, unveiling the trays in the cooler counter.
He takes the cup and puts it to his lips, sips, then lets out a pleased sigh as he sets the cup back down on its saucer. “You are a little young to be running a business all by yourself, Miss Ellerbrock.”
“I’m not that young,” I snap back with a laugh. I only look it because I’m cuddly and have these rosy round cheeks that I hate. “Did you want something with your coffee?”
“No, thank you, miss. Though the smell is delicious, I admit.”
“Can I help you with something? Did you come here looking for a book?”
Do huge, hot, quite scary-looking Russians read romance?
“No.” He takes another sip. “I did not come here for the books. But yes, Miss Ellerbrock, you can help me with something.”
The way he keeps saying my name makes me swoon, but there’s a dark hunger in his eyes that makes me increasingly jittery. He’s watching me like a predator ready to pounce on his prey.
“Am I making you nervous, little one?”
Aaaand he’s seeing
right through me.
Yikes.
The way he says ‘little one’ makes me want to cuddle up and purr despite the turmoil inside. I swallow back the emotion that suddenly threatens to overwhelm me. I was forced to grow up way too early when Mom died, and I became the woman of the house. I took care of my father more than he took care of me, and we were both left with holes in our hearts that we never talked about.
This massive caveman, with his heated gaze, calling me ‘little one,’ makes me want to curl up in his lap.
Yes, he’s making me nervous. He’s rocking my whole freaking existence, pulling up things I’d rather stay buried.
And it’s only ten in the morning on a Tuesday.
“Of course not,” I say lightly, faking it hard, feeling my cheeks grow hotter by the second.
“Are you here all alone? Are you not worried something would happen to you? A cute little store like this? It looks like you have put a lot of hard work into it. A lonely girl like yourself. What if a big, bad wolf comes and huffs and puffs your house down?”
I interlace my fingers and lean on my forearm on the counter, toward him. “I know how to defend myself.”
“Do you now? And how would you do that? If someone were to take something of value to you, how would you defend that?” He reaches for me and pulls the tiara out of my hair.
It’s such a sudden movement, and I’m totally unprepared. I grasp for it, my heart shooting to my throat. “Hey! Give it back!”
He holds it up, out of reach, and turns it in his hands, looking it over. “Art deco. The roaring twenties. Pretty piece for a pretty printsessa. Where did you get it?”
I try to reach for his arm, unease crawling in my chest. “Give it back, please!”
“This is of value to you?”