Chapter 11
Layla
He’s just a client. A very big , very masculine , very sexy client. He’s just a client. With a huge cock to match his huge muscles . Dangit !
The front door is already open when I pull down the U-shaped driveway. Russell leans against the frame, this time wearing faded black jeans with a white T-shirt tucked behind his belt buckle.
My hand pauses on my door handle. Can I really do this ? Can I keep my emotions in check when he inevitably hands me another envelope stuffed with cash for a job well done? Keep my heart to myself instead of wearing it on my sleeve and pretend this is as much a transaction for me as it is for him?
My electric bill says yes . Also the fact that I took a leap of faith and quit my job at the bridal boutique. I was pretty sure Mrs. Larsen was going to fire me anyway since I’m terrible at talking people into buying wedding dresses they aren’t absolutely, one hundred percent, head over heels in love with .
My door pops open, startling me from my thoughts. “Are you feeling alright, darlin’?”
“Yeah, sorry. Just have a lot on my mind right now.”
“You’re not…” In a surprisingly bold move, Russell crouches and rests his palm on my lower belly over my robe, making my aching heart jackhammer against my ribs. “In pain, are you?”
“Oh, no. It’s not that time of the month.” And by that, I mean the pain isn’t at the higher end of the scale. I live with a chronic low-level amount no matter where I am in my cycle, but that’s mostly manageable.
My lips part when he rubs circles over my belly a few times, staring me right in the eye with a million thoughts running through his head.
He’s just a client .
With that mental reminder, I shift sideways to get out of my car, then lose my breath when Russell scoops me up, bumps my door closed with his hip, and carries me onto the porch.
“What are you doing?”
He grins. “Don’t want to get your slippers dirty.”
He’s just a client and not my husband carrying me across the threshold.
I squirm to be let down when he carries me all the way through to the kitchen, my abandoned cleaning supplies still set up on the table with an envelope of cash sitting atop a folded pale purple silky cloth.
After stuffing my heart down and counting the cash quickly, I shake out the garment, my voice pitched higher when I ask, “Is this what you want me to wear? A nightgown?” An itty bitty thin nightgown . My gaze catches on a piece of fabric that floated to the floor, which I stoop to pick up. “And a matching thong?”
“Only if you want to, you know, if you like it.”
“I do.”
He takes a massive, deep breath in through his nose, his barrel chest puffing out while his eyes flutter shut. “Good, good.” And when they open again, he sets my body on fire with the heat in his eyes.
He’s just a client , the voice in my head repeats as I get changed in the navy blue and gold hall bathroom. The voice grows smaller until it’s all but snuffed out when I finger the slits on the sides that travel up to the tops of my hips. With the thong, it looks like I’m not even wearing underwear, the sides of my thighs and cheeks on full display, the hem hardly longer than the cut-off jean shorts I wore last time.
The fabric glides smoothly across my skin as I walk back to meet Russell. He grips the sides of the butcher block island, his gaze traveling lasciviously up and down my body.
I shift on my feet, my fuzzy slippers tickling my ankles. “Where do you want me to start?”
He licks his lips. “My son is coming to visit next weekend. I’d like to air out the rooms and change the bedsheets in case he brings a friend. Need to refill the soap dispensers, fluff the towels, and all that.”
“I did everything except the sheets last time.” I tilt my head. “With as much as you’re paying me…you didn’t even check, did you? ” It’s amusing how red the tips of his ears turn. Even more amusing is how the color bleeds to his cheeks and down his neck when I ask, “Are you going to watch me this time, Daddy?”
He nods, and I rub my thighs together in anticipation.
Hiding a smile, I start up the curved wooden stairs, my smile growing wider with his heavier footsteps trailing behind me not a second later. On the right side of the light gray carpeted landing is the open-air game room with a half-wall balcony overlooking the main living room. Past it is a long hallway with two bedrooms and a larger full bathroom on the left. On the right are two bedrooms with a huge linen closet between them.
As dark as the house is, it makes sense that all the sheets are white, of which Russell has plenty. I heft a large stack of linens, peeking over my shoulder, enjoying the fact that Russell can’t keep his eyes off my butt when he lingers in the doorway of Paul’s bedroom while I strip the king-sized bed.
I know Paul was already in college when Russell built and moved into this house, yet he still has a complete bedroom set up, including his own ensuite bathroom, more furniture, and personal touches like his books, framed photographs, and high school football trophies. It’s an open-ended invitation to move in if he ever needs to.
I smother the prick of envy, pushing it deep down inside my belly as I remake the bed with clean sheets and pillow cases, then tuck the fluffy white comforter in around the sides once done. At the end of the hall, I drop the old bundle of sheets that need to be washed inside the laundry room that’s nearly as big as one of the spare bedrooms.
“One bed down, four more to go,” I say, carrying on to the next room.
Russell doesn’t say a word, much less touch himself, as I repeat the process with the remaining bedrooms upstairs. The smile I’d been carrying fades as I descend the stairs to the first floor and make my way into the primary bedroom. Maybe he’s following me around— watching me—because he thinks that’s only what I want and isn’t necessarily what he wants. Maybe the heat I read in his eyes was simply what I wanted to see and wasn’t really there. Maybe last weekend when he touched himself was merely a one-off, and now he’s no longer—disappointingly—interested in exploring the Daddy kink with me.
Time to test that theory out.
I flap the sheet out over Russell’s bed, then bend over more than needed as I move to each corner, fitting the corners over the thick mattress, tugging them to smooth out any wrinkles—of which there are none. All it serves is to make my butt shake.
I get exactly the reaction I wanted when Russell moans breathily behind me, “Darlin’.”
I pretend not to hear him and, having saved the far left corner of the mattress for last, I climb onto the middle of the bed on my hands and knees, taking my time as I “struggle” to fit the sheet.
“Oh, darlin’, f—” Russell groans.
I peek around my shoulder, finding his gaze zeroed in on my backside, which my nightgown only partially covers. He moves closer as if I’ve tugged on an invisible leash, his dick hard, leaving an impressive bulge behind the material of his jeans. That’s more like it.
A naughty thrill thrums through my veins when I spread my knees wider for balance, my nightgown riding up higher when I finally hook the sheet over the corner.
Freedom . This is what freedom feels like. Russell may see what we’re doing as more transactional than I do, and it might not ever lead to any real, deep feelings on his end, but at least I have the freedom to tease and explore the boundaries of our strange relationship in a safe setting. Which is why I say, “Is there anything else you want me to do, Daddy?”
* * *
Russell
I tried to be a good man. Keep my hands to myself instead of acting like a pervert. But there’s no helping it, not with pretty little Layla on her hands and knees on our bed, wearing the nightgown I bought for her and those adorable yet sexy slippers, the thin strip of thong fabric taut against her pussy lips. I unbutton and unzip my jeans as I stumble forward, my knees knocking against the wooden bed frame, and take my cock in hand.
“Shoulders on the mattress, darlin’.” When she complies, I have to forcibly hold myself back from leaping onto the bed and mounting her like an animal. “Good girl,” I say, my balls drawing up. “You make Daddy so hard.”
I tighten my fist on my shaft, working it up and down at a slower pace so I don’t cum too soon as I stare at her pussy, almost in disbelief as the fabric darkens. Is she wet ? Surely not. I must be seeing things. But just to be sure…
“Are you wet for me, darlin’?”
She caresses her inner thighs with one hand, and I squeeze the F out of my dick so I don’t nut when her fingertips skim the fabric. She rocks her hips against her hand. “Yes, Daddy.”
“Oh f—come closer. Closer. Good girl,” I moan when she wiggles toward me, her slippers hanging off the edge, shoulders still flat on the mattress with her bottom in the air. “Now rock your hips again, back and forth as if—” as if I’m making love to you from behind .
Jacking my cock faster, I match the tempo she sets. Though I’m not allowed to touch her, I can almost pretend I’m sliding in and out of her with each repeat. I yank my T-shirt off, angling my cock to cum on my stomach, and at the very last moment, I lift a knee on the mattress between hers, press my cock against her thong, and cum with a guttural groan.
“Layla! Oh god, darlin’, yes!” I shiver as I wring as much cum out of me as I can, all of which lands perfectly in the center of her. I shudder, eyes locked on her pussy with the overwhelming desire to yank the fabric aside so I can stuff every drop of my cum inside of her.
I groan, another rope of cum working its way out of my shaft, landing on her slim fingers after she reaches between her legs with a gasp, swiping through my release. A well of possession makes it impossible to think of anything other than claiming my little darlin’ once and for all. Flipping the bottom of her nightgown up, I grab her hips to jerk her closer.
“Daddy?” She stares at me around her shoulder, her big doe eyes swirling with the kind of passion I’ve longed to see when I hook my fingers in her thong’s waistband and tug.
And in the next second, I yank Layla off the bed and flatten her on the floor, shielding her when one of the glass doors explodes.
* * *
I’m an idiot for not being more vigilant after the vandalism at BT and Granny’s. I have motion sensors all around my property line and house—all of which ping my phone. I had put it on Do Not Disturb since I didn’t want any interruptions, and I bet I have more than a few missed notifications.
I point to the closed door at the end of our short, private hallway. “Lock yourself in the bathroom. Now.”
Layla doesn’t argue, keeping low as she sprints away. The fear on her face just about does me in, and I’m murderous when I follow a pace behind her, swinging left into our closet with my phone in hand. I call Sheriff first, then Elliott, while punching in my gun safe’s code.
My first instinct when someone threatens my family is to hunt them down. But I won’t leave Layla alone, protected only by a flimsy lock, so I stand guard, peering around the mouth of the hallway with my shotgun aimed at the broken door, ready to shoot at the first thing that moves. Shattered glass litters the floor and the end of the bed around the large black rock taken from the landscaping around our pool.
I don’t lower my weapon when sirens grow louder in the distance—only when I hear the crackle of a walkie-talkie and Sheriff announces himself from around the corner, having told him to meet me at the back of the house.
“Russell,” Sheriff says with his hands on his belt while his three deputies—Allen, Green, and Cooke—step into our bedroom, glass crunching beneath their boots, then fan out in the rest of the house. He nods to the hallway behind me. “Is Layla in there?” When I nod, he tells her, “You can come out now, honey.”
Though I’d prefer to keep her inside until we get the all-clear, she unlocks the door and opens it before I can tell her to stay put.
Sheriff’s brows lift to his cowboy hat when she steps to my side in her tiny nightgown—just one of the thirty or so I’ve purchased for her and have kept folded in our closet, longing for the day I’d see her wear them.
“Thought you said she wasn’t your woman.” Sheriff gives me a grin wholly inappropriate for this grave situation. I grin right back when Layla doesn’t correct him.
I step in front of her, blocking Deputy Allen’s sight, then Green’s and Cooke’s when they rejoin us in the bedroom.
Cooke gives me a shrewd look, then holds up her phone, showing a picture she took of Layla’s car. “Her windshield is caved in. Looks like someone stomped on it with a boot.”
Layla cries softly, her forehead pressed to my back. I want nothing more than to hug and comfort her, but not in front of our audience with her dressed the way she is.
Everyone except Deputy Cooke—even me and Sheriff—startle when Elliott appears out of thin air holding a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun. Cooke pulls her service weapon, aiming it at Elliott’s chest as she backs away toward the broken door. “Put the gun down, now!”
Elliott doesn’t so much as flinch.
“Put it away, Cooke,” Sheriff orders. “It’s just Elliott.” Sheriff chuckles. “Big scary bastard. Wish you’d taken me up on my offer to come work for me all those years ago.”
Elliott grunts. “You know why I couldn’t.”
Sheriff’s smile falters. “Right, right. Forgot about that.”
“Doubt he’d fit in a cruiser, anyway,” Deputy Green jokes, immediately going silent and poking the landscaping rock with his boot when Elliott fixes his disgruntled glare on him.
Joshua Green is a newbie, maybe a year or two younger than Layla, with tightly coiled, short black hair. Though he’s lived here all his life, he apparently doesn’t know much about Elliott. If he did, he’d know that no one wants to find themselves in Elliott’s crosshairs .
Cooke glances sideways at Sheriff for less than a second before returning to Elliott, visibly bewildered, still keeping aim. “Hand it over.”
“No,” Elliott says simply, though he does point it at the floor.
Cooke’s brows pinch, looking at Sheriff again. “That gun is illegal in Texas.”
“What gun?” Sheriff asks, scratching his temple. “Do you see a gun?” he asks no one in particular.
Allen huffs, and Green, perhaps trying to get back on Elliott’s good side, catches on and answers, “Nope. Not a thing, Sheriff.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Cooke finally holsters her weapon. “Bunch of old—” She clears her throat, stopping herself, earning one of Elliott’s rare half-smiles.
With Elliott here, I’m relaxed enough to let Layla out of the hall so she can pull her robe on—after, of course, asking everyone to turn around, even Cooke, to which they oblige. Then begins the tedious but necessary step of going through all my security footage, during which time Elliott disappears without a word. Since no one has been out to my place, whoever did this wasn’t familiar enough with the layout to avoid most of the cameras as the suspect did at BT.
“Different person this time, I think,” Sheriff says, zooming in on a still image. We can’t see much of their face below their baseball cap, but their build is different, slightly larger. “Look like anyone you know?”
Layla shifts in her seat at the kitchen table beside me on my left, my arm across her lap, my hand gripping her upper thigh. It’s not the first time I’ve held her there, but it is the first time while she’s awake, and I love that she doesn’t stop me .
“Hmm,” Allen taps his fingers on the table top while he’s thinking, squinting at the footage. “Maybe Joel?”
Tension tightens my shoulders. Joel is an older guy, one of Steven’s friends from BT I thought he’d lost. If it turns out to be him, then I was wrong. It had crossed my mind that the vandal who slashed our tires could have been employed at BT, either past or present, which means I potentially have two employees I need to root out.
Although we’re assured that Steven is still incarcerated and his recorded calls have been investigated, it’s not out of the question that he’s somehow communicating with his old buddies using code words or through someone else. That, or his friends have taken it upon themselves to get back at us. Whether or not it’s me or Layla who is the primary target, it’s clear we’re both involved, and Trace is the one who is collateral.
While I make phone calls to have Layla’s car towed so her windshield can be replaced and to have a contractor replace our broken door after the officers leave, Layla sets about cleaning up the broken glass. I stand as a shield between her and the open air, though I have an inkling Elliott is out walking my property, looking for any clues the officers may have missed.
Layla puts the broom away, covering a yawn with the back of her hand. “I hate to ask you this, but can you take me home?”
“I want you here with me,” I answer. Sensing her reluctance, I add, “We can stay upstairs, and you can have your own room.” Though I’ll be sleeping outside your door . “Or we can stay at your apartment. I’d…I’d feel better if I could keep an eye on you.” Every day and every night from now until the day I die .