8. Damian
DAMIAN
The aroma hits me before I clear the doorway—garlic, herbs, something rich and savory that has no business coming from my kitchen unless I've hired a chef. I didn't hire a chef.
I drop my briefcase in the foyer and follow the scent like a bloodhound.
Dusty stands at the stove, her honey-blonde hair twisted into a messy bun, wearing one of my dress shirts that swallows her petite frame. She's stirring something in a saucepan with the kind of intense focus she usually reserves for pastries.
"What's all this?"
She jumps, nearly dropping the wooden spoon. Those wide hazel eyes find mine, and her entire face lights up.
"You're home! I—I wanted to surprise you." She gestures at the dining table, where she's set two places with actual candles. "I found cooking videos online and thought maybe I could learn more than just baking. Is that okay?"
The uncertainty in her voice twists something in my chest. Like she needs permission to use my kitchen. Like any of this isn't already hers.
"More than okay, baby." I cross to her, tilting her chin up to claim a proper kiss. She tastes like whatever she's been sampling, sweet with an undertone of wine. "Smells incredible."
"It's coq au vin. Well, my version. I didn't have time to let it simmer for hours like the video said, but—" She nibbles her lower lip. "I just wanted to spend time with my daddy."
The simple honesty of it undoes me.
We settle at the table, and I watch her serve us both with hands that only tremble slightly. The chicken falls off the bone, swimming in a burgundy sauce that belongs in a French bistro. She's plated it with care—pearl onions, mushrooms, fresh thyme scattered on top.
"This is restaurant quality."
Pink floods her cheeks. "You're just being nice."
"I'm never just nice." I take another bite to prove my point. "Where'd you find these recipes?"
"YouTube mostly. Some cooking blogs." She pushes food around her plate, then meets my eyes. "Can I ask you something about yesterday? About the demonstration?"
My fork pauses halfway to my mouth. "What about it?"
"The encryption system you showed everyone—how does it actually work? Like, if someone wanted to decode messages, what would they need?"
Professional instinct kicks in, straightening my spine. "Why the sudden interest in cybersecurity?"
"I just—" She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I want to understand what you do. What makes you so brilliant that all those important people listen when you talk."
The explanation comes easier than expected. I walk her through the basics—public and private key pairs, how my system generates unique encryption for each transaction, the impossibility of breaking it without the master root key.
"So this root key," she says carefully, "where is something like that kept?"
The question lands like ice water down my spine. Too specific. Too focused.
"Secure location. Multiple layers of physical and digital protection." I set down my fork, studying her face. "Why?"
"Just curious." But she won't look at me now, suddenly fascinated by her wine glass.
"Dusty."
"It's in your office, isn't it? In that safe behind the bookshelf?"
Every alarm bell I own starts shrieking. She's not curious. She's fishing. And there's only one reason she'd need that information.
"Who asked you to find out?"
Her serious expression cracks like glass, transforming into a playful grin. "Gotcha."
I blink.
"You should see your face right now." She giggles, the sound light and genuine. "Am I learning fast? About keeping encryptions safe, I mean. You said I should understand your world if I'm going to be part of it."
The tension in my shoulders doesn't ease. Something sits wrong in my gut, heavy and sour despite the excellent meal. But her smile reaches those hazel eyes, no shadows lurking in their depths, and maybe I'm paranoid. Maybe she really was just testing what she'd learned.
"You're learning," I concede.
Dusty pushes back from the table, her bare feet padding across the hardwood. She circles behind my chair, and I track her movement until she reappears at my side. My shirt hangs off one shoulder, exposing the elegant line of her collarbone, the upper curve of her breast.
"I want you."
Three words that shoot straight to my cock.
She doesn't wait for permission, climbing onto my lap with practiced grace, legs straddling my thighs. Her arms wind around my neck, fingers threading through my hair.
The bad feeling evaporates like steam. My little girl never initiates. She responds, surrenders, submits beautifully—but she doesn't take what she wants. This confidence, this boldness, it's new. Intoxicating.
"Yeah?" I grip her hips through the shirt. "What brought this on?"
Instead of answering, she claims my mouth. Her tongue slides against mine, tasting of wine and something sweeter, something uniquely her. I let her lead, let her explore, my hands sliding up to palm her breasts through the thin cotton. No bra. Of course there isn't.
Milk seeps into the fabric.
She breaks the kiss, trailing her lips down my jaw to my throat.
Her teeth graze my pulse point, not quite biting, while her small hands work the buttons of my dress shirt.
One by one they come undone, exposing my chest. She traces the scar across my shoulder with her tongue, mapping the old wound like she's memorizing terrain.
"Want to serve my daddy," she breathes against my skin.
Fuck.
Her fingers find my belt, deft and sure. The leather whispers through the loops. She pops the button on my trousers, draws the zipper down tooth by tooth. I lift my hips enough for her to shove the fabric down, boxers following, until my cock springs free, already rock hard and leaking.
"Eager thing." She wraps one small hand around my shaft, stroking root to tip with a pressure that makes my jaw clench. "All this for me?"
"Always for you, baby."
She shifts backward off my lap, sinking to her knees between my spread thighs. The shirt rides up, exposing the curve of her ass, the shadows between her legs. Those wide hazel eyes lock onto mine as she lowers her head.
"Show daddy what that pretty mouth can do."
Her lips seal around the head, slick and warm. She sinks down inch by inch, eyes watering as she takes me deeper. When she hits her limit, she pulls back, then slides down again, establishing a rhythm that has my thighs tensing.
"Fuck, where'd you learn?—"
She pops off with an audible sound, spit connecting her bottom lip to my cock. "Tutorial," she gasps, then swallows me again before I can process.
Christ. My little girl watched instructional videos on sucking dick.
She works me with unexpected skill, one hand gripping my base while the other cups my balls.
Her head bobs steadily, taking me deeper each time, throat fluttering around my crown when she gags.
Saliva runs down my shaft, making everything slicker, messier.
Those hazel eyes stay locked on mine, watching my face for reactions, learning what makes my fingers dig into the armrests.
The wet sounds of her mouth fill the dining room. She hums around me, the vibration shooting straight up my spine. Her free hand slides up my abdomen, fingers splaying across my chest like she's anchoring herself while she services me.
"That's it, baby." My voice comes out strained. "Taking daddy's cock so good."
Pride flashes in her expression. She doubles her efforts, sucking harder, moving faster. Her tongue works the sensitive underside, tracing the thick vein while her hand pumps what she can't swallow. Drool drips onto her chin, down my balls, and she doesn't slow. Doesn't stop for air.
Heat coils tight at the base of my spine. My hips start to thrust, shallow movements that push me deeper into her willing throat. She takes it, eyes squeezing shut as she fights her gag reflex, determined to please.
"Fuck, Dusty?—"
The pressure builds, my sack drawing up tight. She feels it too, recognizes the signs. Her mouth goes liquid and hot, her throat relaxing to let me sink impossibly deep. One more stroke and I'll detonate down her throat?—
No.
I fist her hair and yank her off my cock. She gasps, confused, lips swollen and glistening. Before she can speak, I haul her up and stride toward the bedroom. My angry cock bobs with each step, furious at being denied release, slick with her spit and my precum.
"Daddy—"
"Changed my mind." I kick the bedroom door open, toss her onto the mattress. She bounces once, that oversized shirt riding up to reveal her bare pussy, already wet and ready. "If I'm gonna cum, it's not in your mouth."
I crawl over her, spreading her thighs wide with my knees. My cock throbs against her entrance, demanding entry.
"It's going deep in this tight little cunt." I notch the head against her opening, feel her clench in anticipation. "Gonna flood you with every drop until it takes root."
Her pupils blow wide. "Please?—"
I slam home in one brutal thrust.
Her walls strangle my cock, velvet heat that tries to drag me deeper with every withdrawal. I pull back until just the head remains, then drive forward hard enough to make her entire body jolt. The headboard slams against the wall.
"Mine." I punctuate the word with another brutal thrust. "Say it."
"Yours!" Her nails rake down my back, leaving stinging trails. "Only yours, daddy?—"
I set a punishing pace, hips pistoning as I claim what belongs to me. Her tits bounce with each impact, milk already darkening wet circles on my shirt where they press against my chest. The fabric clings to her swollen nipples, and I can feel the warmth of it seeping through.
"Nobody else gets this pussy." I hook her knees over my shoulders, changing the angle so I'm hitting that spot that makes her scream. "Nobody else puts a baby in you."
Her head thrashes on the pillow, honey-blonde hair fanning wild. "Just you—fuck—just you?—"