A Daddy for Mother's Day

by Natalie Knight

  I watch her struggle. I watch her gag. But with every pump of my rock-hard dick over her tongue and down her throat, no matter how brutal or how vicious, she takes it.

  It’s making me lose my fucking mind. You don’t hurt a girl like that. You marry her.

  Christ, listen to me. Look who’s gone stupid with orgasm now.

  I pull out just in time, stroking my cock to a finish while I hold her wrists over her head and pump rope after rope of my hot cum onto her beautiful face.

  She looks ruined now, with my cum dripping down off her eyelashes and her tongue snaking out to lick up whatever stray drops of my seed she can find.

  “Have you had enough yet?” I ask her.

  She blinks, and I do her the favor of wiping the cum away from her eyes with my thumb. I let her suck it clean before she replies.

  “No,” she says, her chest heaving. She looks up at me with the most gorgeous gaze of adoration I’ve ever fucking seen. “I want more…if you can handle it.”

  “Oh, I can handle it,” I growl, pulling her to her feet. “The question is, Jenna…can you?”

  I haul her to the elevator, a million and one ideas flashing through my head. The hard part isn’t going to be coming again, I know.

  The hard part is going to be deciding how I’ll use her next.

  Jenna

  The elevator doors spread open, and Braden tugs me through them by the jumper cables tied around my wrists like a lead. I stumble forward in my heels, naked and dripping with rain and Braden’s cum.

  There’s something smug about him right now. He’s self-satisfied, like he’s conquered me and now he can take whatever he wants. Braden won his race and now, he thinks he’s won my body too.

  And maybe he has. There’s no denying that I want him, more than I’ve ever wanted anything or anyone. Maybe I just don’t want to admit it to myself.

  I like being used. I like being fuckbait for all of Braden’s dark little desires.

  I like the way he makes me whimper, the way he makes me beg, the way he makes me come. Over and over again, past the point of rationality or reason, and beyond whatever limits I might have set for myself. Whatever limits I previously thought my body couldn’t be pushed past.

  Orgasm after orgasm after fucking orgasm.

  Even sex with Braden Masterson is so decadent it ought to be a sin.

  Call me a sinner then, I guess.

  “Champagne, Jenna?” Braden says, chuckling darkly at the bottle sitting in an ice bucket on the kitchen counter. “My staff must have heard about the win.”

  I look around nervously. Of course he has staff. His money might be self-made, but I can hardly imagine Braden scrubbing toilets and washing dishes himself.

  You wouldn’t have to do it either, I think greedily. If you were his, he wouldn’t make you lift a fucking finger.

  “Don’t worry,” Braden reassures me, though with that grin on his lips it’s hardly effective. “They’ve all gone home for the night. Can I tempt you?”

  He plucks the champagne bottle out of the ice and holds it up for me to take a look at. I don’t know my champagne. Having tastes as expensive as Braden’s is well above even my pay grade, but even Braden’s mere presence is intoxicating enough for me.

  The atmosphere only serves to make it that much more intense. The storm is raging on just outside the window. His apartment is as dark and broodingly sensual as he is.

  “I think you’ve tempted me plenty tonight, Braden.”

  And I need to keep my wits about me if I want to stay head over water for whatever he has planned for me next.

  He yanks the cables wrapped around my wrists, and I stumble against him, my tits pressing into the still-damp T-shirt clinging tightly to his chest. Braden wields the icy, dripping bottle of bubbly like the sadist he is, running its cold glass exterior over my hip all the way up to my waist.

  “Jenna.” He smirks. “You’re shivering.”

  No shit, Braden.

  “Why don’t we get you warm,” he suggests as he moves the bottle around my back, tracing up my spine.

  My entire body shudders at the sensation. All of my cells are already on high alert from the rain, the cold, and so many fucking orgasms.

  He’s wearing me out, I realize. He’s breaking down my barriers, one by one, until I don’t have any fight left in me. Nothing left to push back my feelings for him, nothing restraining me from giving myself over completely.

  And I can’t let that happen. Not with the FBI breathing down our necks. Not with the kind of man I know Braden to be.

  Not without losing part of myself in the process.

  He pulls me into a kiss, and he’s so warm that I can’t help it. I press against his lips, needy and full of longing that it’s becoming harder and harder to deny.

  With anyone else, all these orgasms would have been some sort of release. With Braden, the wanting only intensifies with every throbbing, shivering, earth-shattering time he makes me come.

  “Let’s go to the bedroom,” Braden suggests, pulling me along like a captive savage.

  I trail behind me, biting my lip and wondering what dirty plans he has for me next. Wondering if I’ll be able to handle them.

  My heart is pounding in my chest as he guides me into his bedroom. His inner sanctum. And he closes the door.

  At first, I think it must be fear. But no—fear is something I might feel right now if he was anyone but himself.

  This is Braden Masterson in control of my body. He treats me the same way he treats his race car. He’ll drive me hard, dangerous, too fast, and too recklessly…

  But he always knows exactly what he’s doing. I trust him completely—and without that trust, we couldn’t have what we have right now.

  I’m not afraid. I’m excited.

  Braden’s breath is hot on my neck as he takes me by the elbows and pushes me up against the windows.

  Braden’s bed sits before a wall made completely of glass. From this vantage point of his top-level penthouse, I can see the whole city sprawled out beneath us. The only lights in the room are those of the city below, the occasional flash of lightning, and the orange-yellow neon glow of the alarm clock on his bedside table.

  A glance at the clock tells me that it’s even later than I thought it was.

  My mother always told me that nothing good ever happens past 2:00 a.m.

  As Braden presses my body up against the glass, I’m not sure if he’s about to prove her right…or wrong.

  “I’m going to break you, Jenna,” he says, wrapping an arm around my hips and pulling me hard against him.

  “I don’t break easy.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “We’ll see about that,” he growls.

  And it begins.

  Braden’s fingers find my clit. It’s not difficult. My clit is sensitive, slick, and swollen, and Braden knows the female body better than most men ever will.

  I feel myself coming close to orgasm immediately, but just as it begins—the heaving chest, the growing warmth, the blossoming of something gorgeous and dark and heady from my cunt all the way up into my womb—Braden backs off. He leaves me wanting.

  Then he does it again.

  And again.

  And again.

  And no matter how I whimper and wheel and buck against him, I can’t take it from him. I can’t force him to give me what I need.

  He’s edging me so dangerously close to coming that every time he flicks my clit between his fingers, I’m certain that this is the time. This is it. This is when he’ll push me over the edge.

  But he doesn’t. He fucking won’t.

  My whimpers turn into cries. My cries turn to desperate sobs.

  I want him. I want it. However he’ll give it to me, I don’t fucking care.

  I need him. His touch. His fingers. His tongue. His cock.

  I need release.

  And that’s how he breaks me. Little by little, then all at once.

  �
��Please,” I sob, shaking. From where he’s positioned me, it feels like the whole city can see my need.

  “Please what, Jenna?”

  “Please—anything!” I cry out.

  Like a slut. Like a fucking whore.

  Behind me, Braden places the champagne bottle between my thighs, nestling the dripping cold neck against my cunt.

  “Anything, huh? You must be desperate, offering something like that to a man like me.”

  “Anything,” I whine, trying to grind against the bottle’s neck.

  But I’m too slick. Braden has filled me with his cum and made sure that my cunt is keeping itself nice and wet.

  “I bet you’d let me fuck you with this bottle, even,” Braden muses. “If I wanted to. You’d fucking let me, wouldn’t you, Jenna?”

  I swallow hard, my mind racing.

  “Yes,” I gasp. “Fuck. Anything. Whatever you want.”

  Braden pauses, and for a second, I think he’s going to actually do it.

  Slide the cork of the champagne bottle into my wet, dripping slit and make me come around it. Make me drink it after. Pop the cork and let it foam all over my breasts while I lick the bubbles and my honey off the rim.

  Instead, he sets the bottle down. My body heaves in relief—but not for long.

  “What about your ass, Jenna?” he growls, pressing the head of his cock between my ass cheeks. “Will you let me fuck this tight little ass of yours, here at the top of the city where all of New York can see?”

  His cock is nestled just against the pucker of my asshole.

  I’m so wet, my pussy has managed to lube that hole up as well. And I fucking want it. I want his cock inside me, however he’ll give it to me, if he’ll just let me come…

  I’m done fucking around. I force myself backwards, impaling myself on his rock-hard rod. Braden doesn’t miss a beat. He wants this just as bad as I do, and I can feel it. In the way he grabs my hips, fucking me hard and fast and with total abandon.

  His fingers pinch my clit, working the hood up and down over it until I’m coming for him with all the force of a clap of thunder.

  The spasming in my cunt makes my ass even tighter around his throbbing shaft. I feel his thighs tense up, and then he’s coming as well, flooding my ass with his cum as the sky explodes with lightning and the rain streams down the windowpane and I collapse against the glass.

  He takes me in his arms after. He unwraps the jumper cables from my wrists and peels off what’s left of his clothing and joins me in bed, a glass of champagne for each of us.

  The warmth of the alcohol in my stomach mingles with the warmth of Braden’s body around mine, the weight of his blankets, and the cool linen of his sheets.

  “You didn’t break me,” I mumble sleepily against his chest.

  “Sure I didn’t, honey.” He chuckles. A low rumble, just like thunder. “Whatever you say.”

  Braden

  I pull open the door of the refrigerator and pull out the carton of eggs, a bunch of fresh mixed herbs, and a block of gruyere cheese. The coffee is finishing brewing, but I fill a mug with hot water and let it sit for a minute to warm. Then I turn the stove’s burner to low and place a copper saucepan over the flame so it will heat slowly.

  I’m trying to impress her. I realize this with a shock. I run my fingers through my hair, keeping my back towards the counter island where she’s sitting, looking delicious and rumpled in my old t-shirt and a pair of my boxer briefs.

  I inhale deeply and realize that her smells are all over me—the creamy notes of her cum mixed up with the sweet musk of her own scent. I release a low growl—like a caged animal I pace towards the coffee, dump the water warming the mug, and pour in the black liquid.

  I can’t remember the last time I did this morning ritual for an audience. I can’t remember the last time I brought anyone to stay overnight or cook for them. Not before Jenna. It feels intimate, personal, intimidating and sexy.

  Like Jenna.

  I turn my head slightly, so I can catch a glimpse of her sitting at the large island in the kitchen. She’s fingering the paper I laid out for her. She’s nervous—I can tell by the way her finger is tapping and playing with the collar of the white shirt—but she’s also glancing over the front page with genuine interest.

  I bring the coffee and set it down in front of her. She lifts her head and smiles at me. Her expression is open. For the briefest moment, it feels like we’re just two normal people, and the mess with the FBI and the races feels very far away.

  “How do you take it?” I ask, gesturing at the coffee.

  She leans forward on the stool, resting her elbows on the island, and putting her hands around the mug. She’s not wearing a bra, and the shirt is loose enough that I glimpse the roundness of her breasts for a moment. She’s not wearing makeup, but somehow looks more striking than ever.

  Her hair tumbles around her face in waves. I stare as she moves her mass of dark curls to one side; I can feel the pulse in my neck beginning to race.

  She catches me staring and I watch her blush slightly, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue before answering me.

  “I’d like it with a little cream if you have it, but black is fine if you don’t,” she says.

  I nod. This is a quiet moment. That personal exchange of information, which has nothing to do with racing or the industry or betrayal. That has nothing to do with our fucking or sucking, and being pulled towards each other. She just told me how she takes her coffee.

  And it feels like the beginning of something.

  I clear my throat, take out the cream, and place it front of her. I’m careful not to touch her. I need to get my balance back.

  She might be the enemy, I remind myself. She might be my enemy. She could be the end of me; the end of this career I’ve built up through ingenuity and sheer force of will. She could be lying to me—and I’m lying to her.

  She might be on my side. This might be the beginning of something; it might be real. It might actually be the most real thing I’ve ever experienced.

  Being around Jenna, I feel like I’m behind the wheel of the most powerful machine I’ve ever driven. With her, I hear the constant purr of the engine. Anticipation floods my body, pushing my senses into overdrive. All I feel is adrenaline; all I think about is strategy. Being with her is like the pure excitement of a race, the feeling of barrelling into the future and leaving everything on the course.

  I smile to myself, because the only person who could get this would be Jenna. But we’re not there. I’m not ready to trust this, yet. I have to wait and see what she’s going to do.

  The pan is warm. I begin to move, cracking eggs into a bowl.

  “What do you think about an omelette for breakfast?” I ask.

  “That sounds perfect,” she says, taking a sip of coffee.

  “Bread? I have a fresh baguette delivered every morning I know I’ll be here,” I say.

  “Of course you do,” she says with a laugh.

  I can feel her eyes on me as I whisk the eggs and then tear apart the fresh parsley, basil, and thyme. I shred the gruyere and put it aside. I pour the mixture in the pan.

  “He cooks,” she says. I can hear her smiling. It loosens something inside me. I don’t know what it is, but it makes me laugh.

  “I cook,” I say, nodding. “I like the kitchen. I like being alone in here and focusing on my cravings as I try to create something simple to satisfy it. It’s like any other kind of inventing process. Just with cooking it’s finding the right combination of flavors to satisfy me.”

  “Is that what you feel when you’re tweaking the engine or playing with the design of the car?”

  I open my mouth to respond, and then consider my options. This could be, I realize, an opportunity to figure her out. Another exchange of information. I know now how she takes her coffee, she knows now that I cook. I know that she stole from me, but now will she find the words—or will I find the question—that will help me understand if she’s a
tool for the Feds or her team. And if she’s not, how and why did she get caught up in this?

  She asked a simple question. Do I answer it honestly, in the way of two people learning the contours of each other? In the way couples do at the beginning of an affair?

  I lower the heat on the burner and leave the omelette to cook a bit. Then I turn to her, leaning against the counter and we look at each other for a moment. Her green eyes are locked on mine.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’ve never really thought about it before, but I suppose there are parallels between cooking and the way I approach racing. I’m not sure if I can explain it—”

  “Try,” she says.

  I nod.

  “It’s never about driving, not really. When I race it’s about becoming enveloped in the machine or going so fast you feel one with the wind.” I shrug. “I don’t know how to explain it better than that. It’s not just about speed, but it’s about cutting through the world, whipping between objects so quickly it’s like you’re invisible.

  “It’s not like flying—I’ve never been interested in being in the air, I like the feeling of being connected to Earth, but so loosely, it feels otherworldly. A perfect drive is combining the grit of the earth—smell of gasoline, the black tar, sweat pouring down your back—all with the elegance of a dance.”

  “That’s what you’re doing with your ‘adjustments.’ You’re trying to streamline the dance?”

  “That’s a good way of putting it, yeah. But it’s also more than that.”

  I turn back to the pan and sprinkle the cheese over the bed of eggs, a pinch of salt and grind of fresh pepper. I fold the omelette perfectly.

  “Or, that’s the racing part, that’s what I’m craving. The other part to it is trying to mix things up to satisfy that craving.” I slide the omelette on to a plate, tear off the heel of the baguette, and place the plate in front of her.

  “Eat.”

  She breaks into the eggs, bringing a morsel to mouth. I watch her eyes close for a second. She’s smiling.

  “This is really good.”

  “I know,” I say. We’re both smiling. Then I say, more seriously this time, “I’m glad you like it.”