Protective Daddy

by Lena Little

  Protective Daddy

  Yes, Daddy: Book 9

  Lena Little

  © 2020 by Lena Little

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Mailing List

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  Also by Lena Little

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  I shouldn’t want her. My life is way too dangerous, she’s much too young, and the cherry on top is the fact that this is my best friend’s daughter.

  But my feral need for her reminds me that there’s no way I can even try to rationalize not pursuing my dream, my desire, my everything, her.

  I can protect her from the illegal activities her dad and I are involved in. Hell, I already do.

  I know she’s untouched because I’ve made sure of it.

  I can be her protector and her Daddy. I can teach her all the lessons her father never did and much, much more.

  She will be mine. Daddy’s little girl.

  Mailing List

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  1

  Layla

  “She’s eighteen now. She can fend for herself while we’re gone. It’s only a few days,” my dad says, looking across the dinner table at the man who towers over him.

  Logan Steele.

  He’s been my dad’s business partner for longer than I’ve been alive, but right now his eyes narrow and darken and he clearly puts the fear of death in my father.

  “I don’t care how old she is. Someone needs to stay behind and watch over the girl.”

  He leans back in his chair, the heavy wood creaking from his six and a half foot frame covered in thick muscle. Taking a pull of his glass of whiskey he signals that this conversation isn’t up for debate, and his words signify that I won’t be seeing him for a while, at least not anywhere but starring in my dreams until he gets back.

  And that’s exactly where he’s always lived, in my dreams. Considering he just referred to me as ‘the girl’ it’s clear that’s where I’ll be staying, despite my desperation for him to see me as a woman. His woman.

  Logan’s thick fingers take hold of a single cigar tube, turning it vertically and tapping it on the table three times before removing the illegal Cuban that was likely payment for an arms deal or some other illegal activity he and my dad have recently participated in.

  He may think of me as a kid, but I grew up quick around these two, and I’m not so naive that I don’t know how my dad puts a roof over my head or how he affords a bulletproof Mercedes G-wagon.

  Logan cuts the end of the cigar off and then picks up a zippo from the table, turning the tip of the cigar over the amber flame as he slowly puffs, his cheeks pulling in as he lights his contraband.

  As his head turns to puff the first bellow of smoke away from the table, his eyes lock on mine and he freezes, his gaze throwing daggers in my direction.

  I freeze, realizing neither he nor my dad must have known I was standing tucked behind the entryway from the living room just now, eavesdropping on their conversation.

  “Get over here,” Logan calls, my dad saying nothing despite his best friend ordering around his daughter in his own home.

  My feet feel like they’re stuck in some of the same concrete that it’s rumored Logan puts his adversaries feet in before he tosses them into the rivers and lakes in the tri-state area. And that’s if, and only if, he doesn’t remove their toes, fingers, and teeth so there are no identifying markers.

  My trembling hand grips the doorjamb as hard as I can and I take a step forward on unsure legs, my knees wobbling as I move closer to the man my dad seems to think is more of an uncle figure to me than the man whose hands I want raking over my figure from head to toe all night long.

  I’ve been saving myself for him and only him since I first understood what a crush was about three years ago. But instead of crushing on boys my age I skipped right past that and developed a full-blown obsession, going so far as to draw pictures of him in my books in school, accidentally writing his last name instead of mine on my homework, and fantasizing non-stop about what it would be like to be claimed by this man, the most powerful I’ve ever known.

  Unlike my dad, who was a bit of a bumbling goof, Logan was a real man. My mom left us just after I was born so in a lot of ways I had to grow up fast. It’s one thing to have a single-parent home, but considering my dad was too focused on the business and watching sports to be a real father meant that there’s always been something lacking.

  Even when I acted out and did badly in school my dad did nothing. Logan, on the other hand, was the man whose iron fist I wanted to grab me and pull me in line. The man who’s deep baritone which resonated from his barrel chest could make my back go ramrod straight and straighten me out in the process. He was the man I needed, a real father figure who cared.

  When it came to my dad and Logan’s business Logan was clearly the muscle of the two, and darn near everything else. I think my dad got lucky and Logan was carrying him along for the ride, although I’m not entirely sure why anymore.

  Logan clearly doesn’t need my dad and without him, he’d be raking in all the profits. There was just something about his loyalty to the people who were close to him, and considering he and my dad have been friends since they were kids, that loyalty runs deep, thicker than the thieves they are.

  “Layla. I need you to go to your room now,” my dad says, talking to me like I’m fragile, made out of hand blown glass.

  “Come here, Layla,” Logan repeats, forcing me to choose between him and my dad.

  Although the last thing I want to do is disrespect my dad’s authority in our home, even though Logan is the one who walks around it like he owns it, I just can’t do anything else. Something about the man pulls me to him like a magnet and I move closer, every muscle in my body shaking as I come up to his chair.

  “Closer. Don’t make me ask again,” he says when I think I’m already close enough, but apparently not.

  I lunge forward on one leg, knowing I have to just do it before I psych myself out. As I drag my back leg across the marble floor that was paid for by the two men at the table’s nefarious activities, I lose my balance.

  Logan’s hand shoots out from the side, grabbing my hip like a vice and he pulls me in toward him, my bottom finding his lap. Despite only being halfway down his thigh I can very clearly feel the steel pipe he’s packing in his pants poking me from behind. And oh my God is it big.

  “How long have your little ears been listening in on the conversation at the adult’s only table?”

  “I’m…” I begin, my heart hammering against my ribcage. “I’m an adult too.”

  He smirks, taking another puff of his cigar and blowing it in the complete opposite direction away from me before stubbing it out in the empty plate sitting in front of him. The same plate where a thirty-two ounce ribeye steak was sitting not ten minutes ago.

  “Little girl, you’re anything but. And because of you, I put out my cigar to protect those healthy little lungs of yours. Now,” he pauses. “How much did you hear?”

  “Dad,” I say, turning to my dad p
ractically begging for him to put his foot down and back me up on this one. But he just shrugs his shoulders and pulls his hands out from under the table, turning his palms skyward as he gives me a ‘what can I do’ look. It’s just at that moment I feel Logan’s grip tighten on my waist as he pivots me on his lap so I’m literally riding his thigh, facing him.

  “I asked you a question and I expect a reply, little one.”

  My face steams and I want to punch him, but something tells me doing so will just get this brute off, have him enjoy this little one-sided interaction even more. And the worst part is that I’d enjoy it too, too much. And I’m not about to show him that when he’s acting this way.

  “Long enough,” I spit, crossing my arms across my chest in defiance, and also to cover my pebbling nipples.

  “Good, so now you know not to plan any parties or try anything because one of us will be staying back to keep an eye over you.”

  Which is already a foregone conclusion because it will be my dad. Dad doesn’t have the stomach, nor the muscles or ability to think quick on his feet, to handle the tough stuff.

  “I’m eighteen. I don’t need anyone looking over my shoulder.”

  “Oh, I’m not looking over your shoulder,” he informs, keeping his gaze locked right on mine. “I’m keeping my eyes right on you, making sure you’re safe and I know where you are at all times.”

  “What, you put a monitoring chip in my backpack or something?”

  “That Kindle you constantly have your nose buried in would be a better place considering it’s always attached to your hand, but no. You know I don’t trust electronics. I trust my instincts.”

  “And what are your instincts telling you?” I question, feeling a surge of confidence and brattiness shoot through me.

  “Don’t worry about me, just worry about what I’m telling you…which is to get your little bottom up to bed before it gets spanked for being mouthy.”

  Oh, I want to be mouthy all right. I’ve dreamed of exactly that, and just as the visual hits my mind, the mental movie projector coming to life, I feel the exact thing I’ve imagined getting mouthy with jerk in his pants.

  His rough grip slides me off his lap to the point of almost pushing me, but he keeps his big mitt on me until my feet are steadied.

  “Now get,” he says, flicking his wrist and the back of his hand connecting hard against my Disney print pajamas.

  My ass cheeks tighten and my pussy clenches. Why don’t I have underwear on right now? And how did he put so much force behind a flick of his wrist?

  And how can I be bratty again to feel his power against my skin again? Knowing my butt is going to be red I’m faced with the option of trying to tempt him to spank me again or to run to my room and finally see something in my life that can be considered a sign of him marking me. I’ve imagined him marking me in so many ways, inside and out, and this is the first thing that’s even come remotely close. And the fact that my dad was close to the action the whole time, yet did absolutely nothing to stop it, only backs up the feelings I have inside for who’s really the father figure in my life.

  Who’s really my…Daddy.

  I swallow hard and bring my hands behind my body, crossing them over my butt and scurrying off toward my room, goosebumps covering my body and a smile as big as a Cheshire cat crossing my face. But I’m not about to let him see it, or know, that I liked what just happened.

  And I’d more than like for it to happen again.

  As soon as he gets back. But right now I need to get on my back on my bed and add some physical contact to the other side of my body, knowing my first two fingers are all I’m going to get tonight.

  But I can dream. Dream that Logan is exactly what he already is, whether he or my father knows it or not…my Daddy.

  2

  Logan

  I shouldn’t want her. My life is way too dangerous, she’s much too young, and the cherry on top is the fact that this is my best friend’s daughter…despite how much I want to pop that cherry of hers more than I want anything else on the face of the earth.

  And I know she’s untouched because I’ve made sure of it. When she was just a kid I put the word out to all the up and coming underworld figures that if they fucked with my best friend’s daughter they were dead. The last thing I needed was her being held hostage, used as a bargaining chip, or anything else that pulled her into the life her father and I chose.

  If anyone were to even think of hurting her I’d rip their fucking eyes out and feed their bodies to a barn full of underfed pigs, who would make quick work of their remains, leaving no trail of the violence I’m capable of carrying out when someone tries to involve a woman in a man’s world.

  But she’s not even a woman, or at least she hasn’t been all these years. She’s just been my buddy’s kid, but I swear something happened last month when she turned eighteen. It was a day I’ll never forget. The day her dad and I spared no expense, throwing her a lavish birthday party that would put Saudi royals with their oil money to shame, my entire world flipped on its head.

  No longer was she just a bratty kid who was always off somewhere in the house reading books, no she became so much more. She was a young woman in a pristine white dress, and one I wanted to see with a smear of blood the shape of a rose petal after claiming that sweet flower between her thighs.

  I didn’t even know what to do that day, leaving the party early after giving her all the things she’d asked for from the Disney store.

  Now I wanted to give her something much more adult, something that she hadn’t asked for but still something she needed more than all the money or gifts in the world could never compare to.

  A baby in her belly. Our baby.

  I was dizzy the whole day, just as I am now. The feel of her tight little ass on my lap and doing it all right there in front of her dad has my head spinning.

  What was I thinking? How in the hell did I let the animal in me almost come out right there in front of her father.

  And why is it that I feel like I’m the one who does a better job of watching over her, keeping her safe, being her real…Daddy?

  I jerk the wheel to the side and hit the breaks, skidding to a stop alongside the road.

  I’ve only had a single drink and at six and a half feet in height and two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle, that equates to nothing. Yet I feel more intoxicated than I ever have in my life.

  I’m in no condition to drive right now unless you consider driving my hips into hers.

  I grit my teeth and look down at my lap, my need trying to break through my trousers. If a cop pulled up alongside me right now he could arrest me for carrying a concealed weapon, and a deadly one at that. Although all I can think about doing with my rock hard cock is burying it so far inside her, coating her womb in my seed, that she’s claimed once and for all.

  By me.

  “Mine,” I growl, my hands gripping the steering wheel so hard the leather cracks underneath my fingers.

  But I need to get these thoughts out of my head because nothing is ever going to happen between us. Loyalty means everything to me, and I couldn’t risk my friendship with her father. I’ve got no family in the world with the exception of him and his daughter. Despite how much I want to start my own family, with her and only her, I can’t.

  Can I?

  What would Eric, her dad, even do?

  Probably nothing, but still…just taking his daughter like that right out from underneath his nose and not caring at all what he thinks would literally be like castrating the man in the town square, Roman emperor style.

  And despite how much I want Layla as my princess, I just can’t. At least not yet.

  But if not now, when?

  In my eyes, she’s always going to be too innocent, too vulnerable, and my thoughts about her are always going to make me feel like a dirty bastard for wanting her.

  But as she continues to fill out and become a woman will this internal dialog, this constant struggle, finally di
ssipate? When she’s curvier and older will it be right?

  What isn’t right is wasting another single day of my life, another breath, without making her mine. But considering I’m thirty-eight and she’s eighteen that’s just not a good look. Even though I know I can protect her from awkward glances and whispering gossip, no amount of blows or harsh words I send back for the criticism other people throw at her is going to make up for the way those words and looks would make her feel inside. As much as I want to lock her away and make her mine, I don’t want her living in a golden cage. She’s like a young bird and she needs to spread her wings and fly. I’m not here to clip her wings, I’m here to help her reach new heights, to soar to levels she may not even know she’s capable of…yet.

  That’s what a father figure does, right? And sure as hell her biological father isn’t offering that encouragement, support, or even interest in her life. At least not as far as I can see and my eyes are glued to everything Layla.

  I can protect her from the illegal activities her dad and I are involved in. Hell, I already do. But with her by my side, I need to go clean, give her the life she deserves and one she, and our children, can be proud of.

  I shake my head from side to side and check the side mirror, pulling back onto the road. I need to get home and blow off this excess energy that’s always ready to combust every time I’m in her presence. I need to throw fists at my punching bag or do something physical to keep my mind off the fact that I’m not doing anything physical with her.