Chapter 10
Layla
My heart swells at his compliment, and I know exactly what I’m doing when I say softly with a real blush, “Thank you, Daddy.”
When Goldie told the Granny’s Girls about Daddy’s Rules —the sexy ones Davis made up for her—and Dolly confessed to a similar dynamic with Wyatt, I went down the rabbit hole of books and videos online regarding the kink and discovered something new about myself—though I don’t think I’d enjoy being spanked like they do.
It’s a kink I never in a million years would have explored with Steven, but I think I want to with Russell. Only with Russell. Because, after all these years, I think I can trust him with something like this now that he’s opened the door to it. And also because he’s the sexiest man alive. Gruff, yet oddly extra-sweet in his own way…when he’s not lecturing me, that is.
Russell’s nostrils flare, the tips of his ears turning red, which tells me he likes it when I call him Daddy , too. So I do it again after walking my knees out, giving him a view of the V of my thighs. “Did I do a good job cleaning the house, Daddy? ”
When his right shoulder dips down and up repeatedly, I realize he’s finally touching himself—though I wish the pillow wasn’t in the way. My show of arching my neck and back worked.
“Oh, darlin’, yes. You always do such a good job.”
His husky praise fills me with warmth. It’s been so long since he told me I was a good girl at the diner, which is something that’s played on a loop in my head ever since, hoping to hear it again.
I tilt my head to the side, though, picking at the frayed edges of my shorts along my inner thighs. “How do you know? You didn’t watch me clean.” The disappointment in my voice is unintentional but very real.
Russell groans. “Did you want me to watch you?”
I’m telling the truth when I say, “I kept looking over my shoulder, wondering if you eventually would.”
He holds his breath, his arm going still. “Did I upset you by staying in the living room instead?”
“A little.”
“I’m sorry.” He swallows. “Next time, I will.”
I walk my knees out wider, toying with the button on my shorts, drawing his eyes downward. “It’ll be a long time ‘til you need another deep cleaning, but we can set up an appointment. Same time next month?”
“Tomorrow,” he demands.
I smile, puffing out a small laugh. “I have to work, but I can fit you in next weekend, though you’ll have to give me something else to do, Daddy.”
Russell shudders, releasing a harsh exhale, his shoulder moving up and down again, faster now, the pillow jerking up. “I can do that. ”
“Let me get my phone so I can make a reminder.” I lean forward and brace my hands on Russell’s knees to help myself up.
“Oh, darlin’!”
I suck in a ragged breath when the pillow falls to the side, his large hand moving fast over his shaft to jack it, his body visibly vibrating. I squeeze his knees, leaning forward, my eyes locked on his wet, swollen crown. “Oh my god, Russell, I knew it would be huge.”
Russell groans deep and low when I can manage to look up, our gazes colliding. He yanks the sides of his flannel out of the way and angles his cock up, pumping his shaft even faster, his hips lifting off the couch. His powerful thighs flex when I skim my hands up his legs, feral with lust when he asks, “You knew it?”
I nod, licking my bottom lip. “You’re so big and thick, I knew your cock would be, too, Daddy.”
Russell throws his head back. “I can’t believe my little darlin’ just said that to me.”
My little darlin’ .
Never in my life have I heard anything so special and beautiful directed toward me. It brings tears to my eyes, and I scoot closer, forcing him to spread his knees, my face so close to his lap. “I’m your little darlin’?”
He grips the side of my neck possessively with his free hand, rubbing his thumb across my lower lip. His voice is deep and full of gravel when he says, “You’ve always been my little darlin’. My good girl. Mine.” I watch with rapture as his cock erupts, cum painting his chest and abdomen, breathing so hard that his whole body visibly buzzes.
I stay frozen, kneeling, intently focused on his face and euphoric expression. I also, for the first time in my life, am not sickened by the idea of giving a man a blow job, though of course I can’t do that or it would make me so much more than a kinda, sorta stripper, which would be illegal.
When he’s done, his big body loses its tension, relaxing back into the couch, watching me through half-lidded eyes.
“Stay right here,” I whisper, finally getting to my feet and moving toward the kitchen on unsteady legs to wet a paper towel, grinning like crazy with my back turned.
When I return, I brace an arm on the back of the couch so I can bend over him while slowly cleaning the cum from his body. I dip and whisper in his ear, “Is it warm enough for you, Daddy?”
He fists his hands on his thighs so as not to touch me. His heavy, spent cock lying against his stomach starts to harden again the longer I linger as I wipe him down, my hand drifting lower toward it.
“Maybe it’s not right to ask this of you, since you just started this business, but I want you all to myself, darlin’. No cleaning ,” Russell stresses with an edge to his voice, “for anyone else.”
My gaze snaps to Russell’s swirling blue eyes, my hand stilling as I’m slapped back to reality. Right. He’s a client. This is transactional. Merely role-playing. It’s not real. Not for him.
My head pounds, tears hot and heavy behind my eyes when I quickly step away with my back turned so I can dispose of the paper towel. I shove my feet into my boots and wrap my robe around me, in too much of a rush to get out of here to attempt putting on my bandana top. After dumping everything in my tote bag, I sling it over my shoulder and hurry to the front door.
“Layla?”
I stop with my hand on the doorknob and nod without turning to face him, not wanting him to see the ridiculous tears in my eyes. The normalcy I force into my voice is as fake as the American cheese on my ham sandwiches when I say, “Exclusivity costs extra.” I don’t tell him that we would be exclusive regardless, knowing I’d never want to clean for anyone else after this.
“I’ll pay it,” he says with some confusion laced in his tone.
“Fine. Nine next week.”
* * *
Russell
I don’t know what I did wrong, and it’s driving me nuts trying to figure out what changed in the blink of an eye after Layla cleaned the cum from my body, then rushed out of the house when I told her I wanted her, thinking she wanted the same. I’m an animal, and this truck is my cage, parked beneath the oak at Layla’s apartment complex. Eating my feelings, I shove greasy french fries in my mouth for something to do as I glare at her front door with the maddening desire to kick it down, throw my little darlin’ over my shoulder, and drag her back to our den.
Hmmm. Maybe I wasn’t clear enough about what I wanted. Or worse, too clear, and she was letting me down easy by leaving before I could take things further, like pulling her onto my lap and making love to her .
I toss the empty fast food bag to the side when Layla slips from her front door and locks it behind her, catching a yawn with her hand as she climbs into her car shortly before five in the morning.
Twenty-eight hours . Only twenty-eight more hours of pure misery before Layla comes willingly to our front door for our next appointment tomorrow. Whether or not I let her leave afterward is still undecided.
The distance between our vehicles shortens as I follow her to the diner. She leans against her driver’s side door in the parking lot with her arms crossed, squinting in my headlights when I pull in and park between her car and Trace’s truck.
She bobs her head in greeting, her face tired and drawn. “Russell.”
I kick the gravel awkwardly, shoving my hands in my pockets when I come to stand in front of her, wishing she’d called me Daddy instead. “Layla.”
“Were you following me?”
I cough. Dang. I wasn’t as discreet as I thought I’d been. “Just making sure you didn’t get stranded again.”
“Sure.” A car door slams closed nearby. “Are we still on for our appointment tomorrow?” she asks with a hushed whisper when Old Freddy waves hello , sporting a mischievous grin on his way into the diner.
“Of course we are.”
“Right. Any special requests for the outfit you’d like me to wear?”
I rock back on my heels, rubbing my chest, dang near knocked sideways by her startling question.
“Slippers,” I blurt. “The fuzzy purple ones.”
A corner of her mouth twitches. “Anything else? ”
Since I can’t tell her I’d like her to wear her birthday suit, I impulsively say, “I have something you can wear if you’re open to it.”
She studies me, then finally nods, pushing off from her car toward the diner. I follow behind, reach over her shoulder to open the door for her, and gently guide her inside with my hand on her lower back.
Six of the stools are occupied, each old-timer facing the door expectantly. When Layla walks past them into the back employee area, Old Freddy raises a silver brow. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
He sighs with disappointment and slaps a bill in Pete’s upturned hand. “Put me down for one more week.”
“One more week ‘til what?” I nod to Trace, who is sitting with a few other employees in the back corner booth. He’s all smiles since I personally footed the bill to upgrade his new tires after he wrote a formal apology to Layla for his behavior and hand-delivered it to her.
“The bet is forfeit if anyone tells him, boys,” Pete grumbles, looking left and right as he takes more cash, folding and pocketing it after scribbling in his mini spiral notebook.
A series of pop pops from outside and squealing tires grabs ahold of everyone’s attention.
“What the fuck?” Trace jumps to his feet on the bench seat, his face a mask of horror as he stares out the window. “No! Little T!” He and his friends storm past us, rocking the trailer like a boat out on choppy water, shouting expletives as they race toward their vehicles.
Most of the early morning patrons follow on their heels, watching Trace wail, “No, no, no!” after whipping his bright white T-shirt off over his head, running around his truck like a mad man, wiping it down. His boots slip in the gravel when his jeans fall down his narrow hips, exposing his small, lily-white ass, and the crowd collectively, audibly cringes.
Layla appears at my side, fearful as I’m inspecting my truck and her car with the flashlight on my phone. “What happened?”
I drop an arm around her shoulders, curling her into me. “Someone shot up the lot with a paintball gun. Trace’s truck bore the brunt of it, though.” My truck is approaching twelve years old, and Layla’s car is on its last leg, so neither of us is overly upset about the pellet-sized dents and red paint, but Trace is actually crying this time.
“Poor Trace,” Layla murmurs. Despite the damage, I smile when Layla slips her arms around my waist that’s too large for her fingertips to meet, taking comfort within my embrace. “Do you think it could be the same person who slashed the tires at BT?”
“Yeah. I’m starting to wonder if this could have more to do with Trace and his buddies than us, and we’re just collateral.”
“Does it make me a bad person if I hope that’s the case?” She lays her cheek against my chest while I stroke the back of her neck, waiting for the cops to inevitably show up.
If she’s bad , then I’m downright villainous, my attention wandering to the trees at the edge of the lot where I’d jerked my cock. I sway, battling the urge to drag Layla into the dark, push her up against a tree, and make her feel good by licking her little pussy until she’s begging me to fill her with my cock and cum.
“Hey, Pete? Change my bet to three days.” Freddy says in my periphery with a chuckle. When we make eye contact, he says, “Actually, make that two.”