by Aria Ford
“Jackie,” I whispered as I kissed her neck. Her skin was so sweet and warm under my lips. I sucked it gently and she laughed, a small, happy sound. It made the blood flood my loins. I reached down and locked my arms around her, lifting her so that she was in my arms.
I carried her to the bed, laughing and protesting. Put her down on it. My own body was so aroused now I wasn’t sure if I could slow it down. But I had to. I wanted to make this a night to remember.
I held her against me while I reached behind to unfasten the dress. My fingers were trembling so much I could barely lift the little loops of silk off the small, round buttons, but I managed. While I worked I kissed her neck. She was giggling as my lips tickled her and the sound was setting me aflame.
I kissed her back onto the bed and slid the dress forwards over her arms. Worked it down over her feet where it slid away. I stared at her.
Wearing bridal lingerie, she was unbelievable. My cock throbbed angrily, a warning that I had to do something now or I was in danger of spending myself just looking at her. I went to the bed, fumbling with longing, blinded fingers for the laces of the corset. I managed to work it off and stared at her hungrily. It was like unwrapping Christmas gifts. Everything I took off revealed something amazing.
I did it slowly, kissing her left breast and then the right one as I slipped the bra off. My body flooded with heat as I felt that warm roundness with my hands. I pushed her back onto the bed and slowly, so slowly, slid her panties down. My eyes feasted on her lying there.
My bride. My wedding.
I sighed. She was smiling at me. “You also need to get rid of something, there.”
I smiled. “I suppose I do.”
“Yes,” she purred. She sat up and fumbled with my buttons. I felt my heart melt as she undressed me too. I gathered her in my arms when she’d taken off my shirt, longing to feel her silk skin pressed against my chest.
We sat like that for quite a while, her body pressed to mine, my face buried in her warmth. I couldn’t quite believe the depth of feeling that ran through me. Love, joy, amazement. Wonder. Happiness. I choked. I couldn’t quite believe it.
Then, as she moved in my arms, longing rose again to overwhelm me. I shifted and finished what she’d started until we were both naked on the bed.
Then, slowly, as slowly as I could, I parted her thighs and felt her wetness. She was as ready as me! I gasped.
Trembling, I knelt between her thighs and slid inside. I gasped as I filled her, feeling the sweet, warm welcome that only she gave me. I couldn’t believe how amazing it felt to be inside her. I pulled out and in, slowly, trying to find the ways that pleased her most. When I found the spot that made her cry out, I stuck with it.
In, out. In, out. In, out. Faster and faster and faster. My eyes were closed, breath gasping.
She was moaning and then she cried out, a ragged scream. Then it came. Crashing over my head like wildfire. I gasped and moaned and it kept coming. The biggest, strongest orgasm I had ever felt. I was pumping in her, my body spending itself.
I collapsed into her arms and we lay like that, my mind a featureless blank, until she moved.
She ran her hand down my back and into my hair, stroking me. I sighed and moved closer, kissing her neck.
“I love you,” I whispered in her ear. “Thank you, dearest.” I couldn’t find words to describe how incredible I felt. I had to thank her.
She smiled. Her face was so bright it seemed as if all the candles in the room had sparked there. “Thank you too, dearest.”
We lay there, our bodies pressed together, sharing the warmth of skin and the drowse of release until I rolled off her and held her in my arms.
We kissed, then, and, kissing, began to feel our desire kindling again. It was going to be a long night, I thought with some rising excitement. A long night, and a long morning. It was our night.
Our wedding night.
I still couldn’t quite believe it.
When I woke next morning, with Jackie in my arms and the scent of her in my nose, looking at the sweet smile on the curve of her mouth, I did start to believe it.
“Good morning, wife.”
She giggled. “That’s nice.” She opened her eyes. “Good morning.”
We rolled into each other’s arms, and it was a long time before either of us left the bed. When we did, drowsy and sated, we looked at each other—both, I think, a little awed.
“I love you,” I said, staring at her where she stood in the hazy daylight filtered through the curtains.
“I love you too,” she said.
We kissed.
Epilogue
It wasn’t that hard to convince Dad to move with us when we finally moved. Scott had put so much thought into everything. Found the perfect housing estate for all three of us—Dad and ourselves. It was outside of the city, set in leafy greenness. He was ecstatic.
So was I. The place was beautiful. A classic style with high ceilings and rooms bright and sunny, with room for a nursery for Stella and a big bedroom and a generous kitchen. It couldn’t have been more perfect if it had been made for us.
It was another three months of gentle debate about the decor before it was finally ready for us to move in. During that time, Scott’s dad had forgiven him. He had reinstated him in the will and even agreed to meet me. It had been tense, but worth it. Scott loved his dad and I was pleased to see them back together. The renovations wore on, and our plans reformed and grew. And I was glad we’d waited for it all to be redone before we did.
Now I stood in the kitchen, looking out of the long, french windows onto the terrace and our lawn. Dad was out there—he lived next door now and looked amazing—and with him was Stella.
“…and these ones will grow and flower in the springtime,” he was telling Stella. She toddled beside him, looking up with big trusting eyes. She was nine months old now, and starting to walk.
“Jackie?”
Scott called me as he came out of his office. It was the weekend and we were enjoying the time together. He stood with me and we looked out into the garden together.
“She said it again this morning,” I said.
“She did?”
“Yes.”
We stood and watched Stella as she followed my father around the garden trustingly. The look in his eyes when he looked down at her still made my heart ache. She meant the world to that guy.
“I haven’t heard her.”
“Wait,” I said, turning to kiss him. “You impatient man, you.”
His grin did all sorts of things to my body. “Yes,” he murmured. “I am impatient. When I want something.”
“Scott…” I murmured, drawing his hard, firm body against my own. “I want you too.”
“Shall we go upstairs?” he whispered.
I was going to reply, and in the affirmative, too, when the door opened.
“Hello, you two,” my father said. “Returning one small girl to her home…”
Stella was beside him, clinging to his hand. I smiled down at her. I looked at Scott. He was looking down at her with the awe and tenderness that never failed to bring a lump to my throat.
I helped my dad up the steps while Scott went to talk to Stella.
“Would you like tea, Dad?” I asked him as he cleaned his boots and walked slowly into the warm, spacious kitchen.
“That sounds good,” he agreed genially. At that moment, Scott made an urgent sound.
“She said it! She did! She did.”
I smiled. Went to join him. He was holding Stella and lifted her gently so that she was between both of us.
“Say it again, Stella,” he whispered gently “Who am I, Lovey? Hey?”
She looked up at him, big gray eyes solemn. “Da,” she said.
I blinked back tears and saw that Scott was crying. Unashamed, big tears rolled down his cheeks. He was smiling, too, and then we were both laughing.
Stella joined in the laughter and I heard my dad chuckle as he rattled with
the tea things in the sink.
“Yes,” I whispered to Stella, my voice too tight for speaking now. “That’s right.”
Scott was her Da. And we were a family. There was so much love in that house that I was surprised the walls didn’t break, showering it everywhere like a thousand shimmering sparks. Because sometimes your wildest dreams can come true. All you have to do is trust. And follow your heart.
The End
DADDY'S TEMPTATION
Prologue
“Oh! Oh…”
I groaned as he pushed inside me, his hard cock pulsing and shuddering as he came. I arched my back, and my arms drew him against my chest, pressing him against my rounded breasts. I drew him closer, gritting my teeth as he pushed into me.
He shivered in my arms, pumping deep inside me. Each thrust rubbed over my places of pleasure, sending little shivers down to my toes. I had already came twice, but I felt myself almost coming again. Just then he let out a deep, throaty growl. I felt the full force of his release. I sighed and felt a deep satisfaction as he collapsed on top of me. His weight was warm and firm on my body.
When I woke again, he rolled off me. Lying beside me, he gave me a weary grin.
“Oh, baby,” he moaned, “that was fantastic.”
I smiled and nestled against him as he held me close. “Thanks,” I said. “It was.”
Then he turned into a monster.
I screamed. The face looking into mine was hideous. His flesh was ragged and decomposing. He was a terrifying distortion—an awful mask. I could smell the scent of corrupted flesh and feel the wetness of it. He grinned at me, and I screamed.
I sat up, eyes open, still screaming.
I blinked and discovered that I was looking up at my own ceiling and then into my own cupboard-sized bathroom, where I had fortunately left the light on.
Collapsing back on to the bed, I sighed.
It had been a dream.
“Nightmare, more like,” I said to myself.
I was used to these dreams. It had been a year since I left Mike, but I still had nightmares about him and about what he had done to me. So suave, so kind. He had slowly turned into the kind of abuser that was accurately represented by the vile thing of my dreams. Not that the dream-monster was the same every time, but each time it was horrible. I imagined that’s how he really looked behind the mask.
“Whew.”
I leaned back on the pillows and let reality slowly sink in. It was warm in my room. The duvet was tucked up to my chin, and yet I did not feel warm or safe. I missed closeness. Even Mike, as cruel as he was, was something.
Now I am all alone.
I sighed. I knew two o’clock in the morning tended to do things like that to someone. In the morning I would surely feel better.
Come on, Emma, I told myself. Yes, you are twenty-eight and single. But so what? That isn’t really so terrible, is it? So nightmarish?
Maybe it isn’t, I thought wryly. But tomorrow might be that scary. Tomorrow I started work again, and it wasn’t just any old job.
Since I left college seven years ago, my jobs had varied from being a writer to a teacher. I left my teaching job at Redwood Kindergarten following a bout of depression and started working as an au pair. I was going to work on my first assignment tomorrow.
And what an assignment. Whew.
The universe really knows that I like a challenge. So instead of starting off on some easy task, like helping out some stressed-out single mom, I got Alexander Carring, a stunning, reclusive billionaire.
Being nanny to Alexander Carring’s children was not just a challenge. It was a task to scare even the most confident. And after a year with an abusive partner, I was far from that.
All I wanted at this point in life was peace. As I lay there in the darkness of the two o’clock morning, peace seemed like the one thing that eluded me. I would just have to wait until tomorrow.
Chapter 1
Emma
I let my off-key voice fill the small kitchen in my bedsit as I put the coffee on. Singing always made me feel better. I needed it this morning. This was the morning I would start my job.
I put the kettle on and then went upstairs to dress. This was the bit that always scared me. Ever since Mike, I had thought of myself as frumpy, unattractive, and graceless. I had no idea if I could even make a good impression anymore.
Well, if you don’t try, you don’t know.
One thing I still had was my tenacity. I went to my cupboard, opened it, and pulled out a pinstripe blouse and some blue slacks. Let’s try this, then.
They were both an nearly identical shade of blue, the blouse from Gant, a present from a friend who always looked cut. I pulled them on. The slacks fit well, and the shirt was a nice loose, one that draped beautifully. I shook out my honey-blond hair over my shoulders—Mike always liked it wild and un-brushed. I glanced at myself in the mirror.
There.
The girl looking back at me was tall, neither super skinny nor super-anything-else, with a long oval face and hazel eyes. Her lips were a natural brown and her skin was clear, slightly freckled over the nose. The blue actually suits me. A color somewhere between Slate and Prussian, it was very pretty. I drew on some navy shoes with a slight heel and turned to the mirror, viciously arranging my hair in the mock French roll I thought was suitably severe.
Giving myself a critical squint, I went through to put on makeup and thence to see if the demon coffee machine could be persuaded to give me a second cup.
Breakfast was hasty. The clock was ticking, and I had agreed to be there by eight thirty so I could meet my employer before he jetted off somewhere. Then I was on the road.
Life either likes you, or it doesn’t. This morning, it seemed to violently hate me for some reason.
“For pity’s sake!” I shouted out of the window as the traffic backed up in front of me. The workday rush seethed and hooted and gathered round me, hemming me in with the scent of exhaust fumes and the rising pressure of a thousand tempers, loosely held. I put my head on my steering wheel and practiced the ancient art of screaming quietly.
After about a minute of that, I felt better. I looked up and looked around. We were still moving, if just. I let myself roll forward the next inch or so, and decided to turn on the radio. At least if I had to be stuck, and I was destined to be late for my first job in four months, I might as well have music.
“Non…regrette…rien!”
I was shouting along with an Edith Piaff song on the radio as I finally rolled into the car park at my work. The Reliance Au Pair Agency was on the fifth floor of the massive building that reared up ahead of me. Edith Piaf had put me in a great mood, and I was ready to go. I ran up the short flight of steps with perhaps a minute to spare. I could make it. I really could! I collapsed into the lift, panting.
The man in the lift with me insisted on going all the way down to the basement, but I was exactly on time as I fell out of the lift on the top floor. I ran down the hallway, clutching my bag, keeping my balance just on my heeled shoes.
“Watch out!”
I shouted it exactly as I ran into the tall, dark-suited man in the corridor ahead of me. He staggered back, and I went down hard.
I was hissing in agony when I stood up. One of my ankles had twisted, and my shoes insisted on twisting and compressing my little toe wickedly.
“You might have minded out of the way!” I said quite loudly at the tall man. My hair had fallen loose, too, and it flowed over my shoulders, a mass of honey-dark curls down to my shoulders. “You might not be late, but I am!”
I glared at him and pushed my way past. As I did so, he turned toward me.
“If you are late, I presume you are Miss Blunt?”
I stared at him, mouth open. “What?”
“I am Mr. Carring. You are assigned to work for me?”
Brilliant. I would have passed out. I swear I would have. If my blood pressure was slightly lower, I would have been lying unconscious on the tiles at th
at moment. Life is what it is, though, so I was left standing upright to face my tormentor.
“Yes,” I said.
“Oh.”
He said it thinly, a thread of a word. If he had been even a fraction ruder, he would have sniffed as he said it. As it was, he looked me up and down. I flinched. I imagined I must have looked a sight, with my slacks now dusty and my hair all loose about my shoulders. I bit my nail and met his gaze.
He was, as I noticed earlier, taller than me, his body lean but well muscled, his hair cut severely, his eyes a shade paler than his black hair. His face was thin, cheekbones sculpted in a way that would make Michelangelo proud, mouth sensitive and full. I knew I was staring, but I couldn’t help it. I cleared my throat and looked hastily away.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
I resolutely looked at the wall. He had a beautiful accent—an impeccable British voice. This was the owner of Carring Solutions, an investment bank that had steadily rolled in funds for the last decade or so, making its sole owner, Alexander Carring, a cool billion. Whatever he has in the bank, I told myself, he still doesn’t have the right to look at me like he discovered me in his soup.