For Daddy Read online

  I take what I want without remorse.

  My hand sneaks into the back of her bra and snap the clip off. Aria shakily breathes as she knows this process. Everything needs to be bare before my eyes so that I can get the precise measurements, and she gets adorably shy when it happens.

  I show her mercy every day, and it’s my good deed for the day as she pulls the shirt out just a bit for me to wrap the tape around her body.

  My fingers graze her hard nipples, and she mewls softly, and I honestly wish the fabric of my massive shirt would burn away. It’s hard to focus when I have a delicious dessert in front of me that needs to be devoured, but I wouldn’t be a multibillionaire if I can’t be professional.

  The iron hold over my emotions has been my strongest suit, but Aria makes me weak with one look. And it’s the expression she’s giving me now with her teary blue eyes and trembling pink lips, silently begging me to be kind to her.

  How I wish to be kind, but I can’t.

  “Little girl,” I growl, watching her small legs shift her body away from me.

  We have been through this. Every day is a repeat as I let go of the tape around her round tits.

  My fingers flex under the shirt to resist squeezing her softness. I have fought this battle for an entire year, and I question myself how I have survived the first time.

  “You have to be still for Daddy.”

  Chapter Three

  Aria

  “What did you have for dinner?” Mr. Simone asks and virtually demands that I answer.

  Looking him into his eyes is harder than ever when he had suggested that I call him something that I never thought I would ever call anyone.

  He wants me to call him Daddy.

  He has been calling me “little girl” for months, and I can see where that nickname comes from. I’m only twenty-two with a small frame while he’s a man in his thirties and dominates me in size.

  This came out of nowhere, and my brain is slower than a snail, but I try my best to avoid that topic, and Mr. Simone is not having it.

  “Dinner…?” I tell him.

  His brows furrow, “Are you asking me?”

  I shake my head and swallow the dryness in my throat. He makes me nervous even after working for him for a year; there is something in his demeanor that warns me to run away when I still have the chance.

  Fumbling with the edges of the shirt on me, I pull up the collar that’s been finding purchase on my shoulder a lot. It’s clearly not a shirt meant for me, but I can’t fathom a reason as to why Simone would let me wear his clothes.

  His company makes clothes for a living, and I’m sure there are spare clothing somewhere in this place that is deemed to be less than perfect.

  “I mean, I had dinner. Nothing special.” I clear my throat, taking a step back from his strong body.

  He smells too good. Some people look like they smell good, but then they don’t while some look unpleasant and they would smell surprisingly good. Simone is one of those fortunate people who smell just as good as they look.

  I’m not that lucky. I’ll be happy if I smell like the shampoo that I used last night, but I’ll probably smell like rain because of this morning.

  Oh goodness. My eyes are burning up again at the thought of my ex-boyfriend and the sight that I found him in. That’s wrong; it was the state of his mistress that broke my heart. I can’t say that I was in love with him because I have never been in love before, but I felt something for him even if it’s not close to love.

  It’s that, or else my heart wouldn’t be hurting.

  Or I could just be a really sensitive gal.

  “What did you have?” he asks, stepping closer to me.

  Simone isn’t giving me space and the room to breathe. He is adamant about letting my lungs be familiarized with his scent, and I’m not trying hard enough to deny that I want to stuff my face into his muscular chest again.

  He was being nice. I have to keep reminding myself of it.

  I can lie and tell him that I had a balanced meal with vegetables, protein, and carbs. It’s best if I don’t attempt that path. I’ll never know what Simone would do if he finds out that I’m lying over dinner.

  “Ravioli.”

  There was only cheese inside, but it was something, and I didn’t want to make a thirty-minute meal if I really wanted a balanced meal. That is too much work when I can just throw the packet of cheese ravioli with the frozen cubes of sauce in one pan.

  I hate doing dishes, it’s worst than folding laundry, and I find throwing panties into a drawer is fine.

  “And?”

  If Simone is expecting more, then he is going to be disappointed. I didn’t have water with it either since I had to chug down the bottle of opened black tea that was waiting in the refrigerator. It was one of the reasons I had trouble sleeping last night.

  Wasting food is not good, and I have grown up viewing food as a blessing. I will never toss away food nor will I pour drinks down the sink because I can't drink it anymore. Unless it is absolutely bad for my health, I’ll finish it with a full belly and digestive problems later on.

  Maybe the palm reader that had practically cursed me to bad luck had said that I was going to die young because I didn’t give her a chance to read my future.

  I have never seen someone so aggressive about my fate as if they are the one in my shoes.

  “And the end,” I say with no confidence in my voice at all. “Then, I went to sleep.”

  That’s half a lie. I didn’t go to sleep until it was quarter past four because of the caffeine in the black tea. I still got some sleep, but it’s not the most desirable amount when I have the city starting to become lively.

  I’ll just take my nap after I quickly shove a simple lunch down my throat. Sleep is much more important than eating. I can survive on an empty stomach longer than I can stay awake with little sleep.

  “I have specifically told you to eat healthily,” he grunts.

  A part of me hears his voice with disappointment, and it physically hurts me to know that I’m not living up to his standards. I don’t want to disappoint him. Simone has always been someone I look up to after working here, and it’s not easy to please him.

  “I know!” I squeak out. “It’s just—I was tired…”

  And I was lazy, but whatever. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt me.

  My measurements have to have been off since he’s asking me what I had for last night. I know that I’m supposed to lay off the salt, but my pantries were empty save for cans of beans that I have had for a long time.

  Canned beans aren’t appetizing, but I got them when they were on sale, and I had no idea why I brought it. I guess it was the only section that no one had touched, and being the curious girl that I was, I brought beans.

  Sometimes I question myself for this behavior, and oftentimes, no answers would come.

  “And what of breakfast?” Simone changes the question.

  “I haven’t had breakfast,” I say as I shoot a glance towards the clock on the wall. It’s a stylish old clock that shows its age through the intricate gold mechanisms from the clear casing.

  It’s twelve right now, and I have been working with Simone for hours after that embarrassing measurement taking situation with my tear-stained face. My stomach isn’t growling for me to get food, but I can feel a slight hollowness in me that I should get substance in before I go on an eating binge.

  There goes the same disappointment shining in his black eyes. He drops the pencil on the sketching paper and turns to me while straightening his posture. We were leaning over the desk and discussing the details about the Winter style lingerie when he asked me about my dinner.

  Cheese has a lot of salt, and it was unavoidable that I got bloated.

  The smallest changes in my body can be detected, and I’m amazed at the attention to details from Simone.

  Slamming the pencil down, he hooks his hand over my elbow with a sense of déjà vu and drags me to the chairs by th
e window that oversees the city.

  It’s dark from the clouds as raindrops cling to the window in small splatters. It’s the afternoon, and it reminds me of the time near late evening when everyone is getting stuck in traffic for home.

  “Sir—” I start to stand up when he pulls out his phone.

  “Sit your ass back down, little girl,” Simone grits his teeth. “Daddy will feed you if I have to.”

  My lips seal together with metaphorical glue as my voice is stuck in my throat. The coward in me is intimidated by the anger rolling out of his muscles when he turns his back to me. His white shirt clinging to his rippling back shifts when he talks on the phone.

  His voice is too low for me to make out words, but he closes the phone soon after. Spinning around and dragging a chair closer to me, he traps my seat with the corner window and the one in front of me while blocking my exit with his cushioned chair.

  “It’s Daddy to you,” he hisses, glaring disapprovingly at my reluctance to call him that.

  I can feel the shame of wanting to crawl up my spine. It’s at the tip of my tongue from the trained obedience in me to please him, and calling him Daddy doesn’t sound too bad in my head.

  He doesn’t speak, only staring at me until there is a knock at the door. Simone barks out permission to come in while snapping his hand around my jaw that breaches the comfort zone of my neck.

  “Only look at me,” he commands, voice dripping with venom when my blue eyes flashback to him.

  The poor man who had delivered mouthwatering food set the tray down and get to pouring us drinks. It’s two glasses of water. A slice of lemon is neatly wedged on the rim of each glass before he bows and scurries out of the room as if he had witnessed indecency.

  At this point, it is rather indecent of us to be in an intimate position that will get the people in the company talking.

  I’m not going to be the walking cliché of romance novels about a girl sleeping with her boss, and I have no intention of becoming the woman who sleeps her way up to a higher position.

  Simone takes the lid off a plate and gives it to me. My hands promptly accept the plate of seafood pasta and a juicy lobster tail hanging out with the creamy sauce.

  I would have giggled if it wasn’t for the man’s eyes boring holes into my skull.

  “What do you say, little girl?”

  I lick my dry lips, “Thank you, Mr. Simone.”

  “What was that?” he sneers, fingers clenching on the plate.

  For the sake of the poor plate, I stammer out the one word that he wants to hear while my ears are roasting in humiliation.

  “Thank you, Daddy!” It comes out as a mortified squeak due to the lack of confidence, but I still can’t raise my head up to meet his eyes.

  “Good girl,” he praises, and my heart nearly overflows with fatal heartbeats.

  This man is not good for my health.

  The only sound that fills this massive office is of the forks hitting the plates of our food while I keep my head down. If I thought I was hungry before, then I can safely say that my appetite has shriveled up to a prune with Simone’s gaze burning on my skull.

  With a miracle, I finish my food, and it was the most delicious thing I have ever had. The lobster tail was so tender and juicy that it melted in my mouth. The creamy sauce with the noodles was perfectly seasoned that it coated the noodles elegantly.

  I’m not a food critic, but the personal chef of Simone does a brilliant job at making this dish in his kitchen, a kitchen that takes up one floor. I haven’t explored the building, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I found sleeping quarters in there too for those who work overtime.

  This is one redeeming quality of the ruthlessly cold boss that demands perfection; he gives his employees the best benefits as long as they bring him the results he is satisfied with. Not everyone can meet that standard, and I have never met his standards.

  At least he never told me I did or did not meet them.

  “I want you to look closely,” Simone says as he takes my plate with his.

  His hand is around my wrist, tugging me up to the work table again to show me a design that he drew. I always love the intricacies and the beauty of his designs, and they become a work of art when they come to life in his hands.

  My eyes trail over the details and the unfinished marks that he had made to the side.

  “What is missing?” he tests, slinking his arms over me to lock me in position with him behind me.

  Having to concentrate to not fail his test, I take great pride knowing that I can somewhat ignore the scorching heat from his body on my back. Focusing on the paper, I skim over the details and run my fingers down the sketch to remember all the points.

  It’s a Summer design with my measurements on the side, so it means that this is meant for me. This ridiculously short nightgown is for me to wear, and I can’t foresee when I would be able to wear this.

  I’m too conceited. This can’t be for me. My cheap status cannot afford such delicacy. It must be for another woman who has the same body type as I do because this thin gown can cost from one million to more than that.

  I remind myself that I’m a mannequin for him to hang clothes on despite me not being the average height and weight of a fashion model. Simone is branching out, and he’s using me as a specimen of research to put it lightly.

  Summer is meant to be flaunting, and I point out some places that could be made more exaggerated. The laces on the bottom part can be shorter to bring attention to the model’s butt when she wears it, and it will make her butt rounded if it wasn’t round already.

  I’m following the style of interest of modern tastes, and this is why I will never be on the level of Mr. Simone. He thinks outside the box while I stay in the comfort zone and go with the flow.

  He takes in my point with consideration, “Is that what you want?”

  It isn’t about what I want rather than what will make him happy, so I just nod and keep my mouth shut. I hope that my answers aren’t immature to his more flourished experience in design. I didn’t join this company with fashion design in mind; I just thought that I got accepted in a data entry position.

  Simone presses his chest to my back. A rumble of what I could make out as a growl pulses through my veins when he dips his head down to my ear. A whisper in his low timber voice sends thrills down my weak knees. My knees would be knocking if my hands weren’t holding on the edge of the table.

  “Then, it’s settled,” he hums, and I think he kissed the tip of my ear.

  I can’t tell, or it could have been a fragment of my imagination.

  Simone brings his head down further and presses his nose to the column of my throat. A shuddering breath breaks free from my lips as he inhales deeply, purring huskily as he attaches his body to my back. The pressure on my butt is far too odd, and when I wiggle in instinctual reaction, he hisses with a hot breath of air curling on my pulse.

  “Bad girl,” he chides softly, “Daddy’s bad girl.”

  My cheeks bleed crimson as I stand still, unable to comprehend what is happening. Simone is being weird today; he has been touching me more frequently than other days, and he insists that he’s my Daddy.

  That is usually reserved for intimate couples.

  I guess one could say that Simone behaves for the rest of the day, but he gets angry when I don’t call him Daddy. The first slip up has my left butt-cheek throbbing with the shape of his hand, and the next slip up doubles the smacks.

  I’m glad that the thick pants protected my butt from his harsh treatment.

  It’s so inappropriate but so arousing as my panties are wet from his spanking.

  He treads carefully. I notice that he doesn’t go beyond smacking my butt as reprimands. I wouldn’t know how I would react if he went further than my brain is capable of accepting.

  “I’ll take you home,” Simone says, but it’s not an offer.

  It’s an order for me to follow him when he throws his suit jacket on my should
ers, the material is heavy as it lands on me while engulfing me in warmth at the same time. It’s nearly the end of spring and the beginning of summer, but nighttime is always colder than mornings.

  “It’s okay—I can walk!” I quickly catch up to him, and I see that Mrs. Lynch had gone home.

  Thank goodness that we worked later than others so they wouldn’t have to see the state that I’m in. Surely rumors will start that I’m sleeping with my boss, and oh gosh, imagine the scandals around the most eligible bachelor on tabloids.

  “Do not be stubborn,” Simone clicks his tongue, and the elevator takes us down to the garage.

  There is only one car there. It’s all black and shiny, and I look at my disheveled appearance on the reflection of the hood before Simone’s exacerbated sigh rings in my ear.

  “Get in the fucking car now, little girl.”

  There it is, the tyrant named Simone Bianchi. I swear he has ten different facades.

  Out of reflex and the dreadful Pavlovian conditioning from that specific tone of his voice, I stumble over my words.

  “Coming, Daddy!”

  His black eyes darken. His hand is about to cave the door in with his strength when I go around the hood to be by him. I almost throw myself into the car seat that smells of pure masculinity as I sit stiffly.

  He bends at his waist and clicks the seatbelt in place while the car door automatically lowers to shut itself. Simone gets to his driver seat, and he goes the extra step to bring his attention to see if I had gotten safely tucked in with the seatbelt.

  The car isn’t started with a key but a press to the engine button, and we’re flying out the garage as if he is in a race.

  If streetlights were a thing, then I didn’t see them based on the speed he was going. I would say he’s a lunatic, but he drives so safely that it contradicts the adrenaline coursing through my blood.

  I realize that I should tell him my home address, but he’s already parking the car in front of my apartment complex with a man sitting at the steps of my door.

  It’s my ex-boyfriend.

  Chapter Four