All Chapters of Wanting His Father; Daddy Dom/ LG Forbidden Romance: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

IRISI've never seen you look more like yourself.At his words, I don’t know where to look all of a sudden. I feel very exposed, very aware of his eyes and breath and heat and strength. I’m also feeling very turned on.I don’t know if it’s because of being so close to his body all day, or the sweetness of his words – or both, most probably it’s both, because it’s always both – but I want him to touch me. Pull me to him. Kiss me. I want him to stretch that huge body the full length of mine, and take me, just take me like he did last night, like he did this morning.My gaze focuses on his lips now, those lips that know my most intimate places and parts. God, the man can kiss, he kisses like the devil himself – and suddenly, I know that I’ll sell her soul right here and right now for a kiss from Daddy.Just one. What would one hurt?No, no, no. We still have work to do, and there are staff right outside the library door. No.“Baby girl,” he murmurs now, his voice lower than usual. “You’re

HELENWe meet in the small tearoom at The Gables, a place I’ve always hated, because every surface appears designed to reassure wealthy women that nothing terrible has ever happened in the world.Pale walls. Fresh flowers. White linen. Tiny cakes arranged with surgical precision beneath glass domes. It’s the sort of place one goes to pretend that grief is tidy, and perhaps that’s why women like me keep returning to places like this. The lie is beautiful enough to sit inside for an hour.Margaret is already here when I arrive, and that alone tells me something.In all the years that I’ve known her, Margaret has never been eager. Efficient, certainly, devoted to the Ashcroft family and home with an almost religious intensity, loyal beyond reason. But not eager.Today, though, she’s waiting with her hands folded neatly beside her cup, her face composed in that severe, careful way of hers, as though she has locked something behind her teeth and is deciding how much of it I deserve.She st

THOMASI look down at Iris naked on her knees before me, her wide eyes lifted to mine, those full lips already parted as she wraps her delicate fingers around the base of my thick cock. She looks stunning like this – submissive, eager, her curls spilling over her shoulders, cheeks flushed with that perfect and addictive mix of innocence and hunger. I thread my fingers through her hair, gripping just tight enough to hold her, to remind her who’s in control.She puts her soft lips around the head of my cock, and I feel that familiar surge of dark need tighten in my chest. The studio light catches the sheen of saliva already coating my shaft as she takes me deeper, her tongue flattening along the underside in that slow, deliberate stroke that I’ve taught her, swirling just beneath the ridge where I’m the most sensitive.Her hands rest on my thighs, not pushing away but holding on, her body trembling with need as she bobs her head, taking me deeper each time. I watch her throat work around

IRISThree days laterThe funeral is private, and that somehow makes it so, so much worse.If there were crowds, I could disappear inside them. If there were distant cousins and business acquaintances and polished society mourners murmuring condolences beneath black umbrellas, I could become one grieving figure among many. A widow. A shape in black. Something expected.But there’s no crowd. There’s only Ashcroft Manor beneath a low grey sky, the old family burial ground slick with rain, and the small, brutal circle of people who know too much.Thomas. Helen. Margaret. The day staff. Me.I realize that in my head, I’m calling him Thomas. I can’t call him Daddy today, not even in my own thoughts.I feel every pair of eyes the moment that I step outside, though nobody stares openly. That would be vulgar, and Ashcroft Manor doesn’t allow vulgarity, even in grief. But I feel the glances anyway, quick and sharp and gone before I can catch them properly. The widow. The girl. The woman sleepin

THOMASIris sleeps like someone who’s been taken from herself by force. There’s no peace in it, no real calm.The sedative has softened the worst of the trembling, drawn her down into a heavy, unnatural stillness, but even unconscious she doesn’t look restful. One hand remains curled near her throat, fingers half-closed as though some part of her is still trying to hold herself together. Her face is pale against my pillow, dark lashes damp, mouth softened by exhaustion. Every so often, her breath catches faintly, the smallest broken hitch, and each time it does something savage to my chest.I lie beside her without sleeping. I haven’t even closed my eyes, let alone tried to sleep.The room is dim, lit only by the low lamp near the bed and the weak blue-black glow of the rain beyond the windows. Somewhere outside, Edward lies buried beneath wet earth. Somewhere downstairs, the house has gone silent around us, respectful now in the way old houses become after catastrophe, as though Ashcr