6. GAVIN
GAVIN
Jones leans against the doorframe of my office, arms crossed. The muscle in his jaw ticks—the only tell that his news is about to piss me off.
"Still nothing on Ellen Dennings. Woman vanished like smoke."
My fingers drum once against the desk. Once is enough to convey my displeasure. "Keep looking."
"We've checked every known associate, every hole she's crawled into over the past year. She's either dead or gone underground with help we haven't identified yet."
"Then dig deeper." The edge in my tone makes Jones straighten fractionally. "I want her found. She doesn't get to sell information that puts my operation—puts Georgie—at risk and walk away clean."
Jones nods, understanding the weight behind that second name. News travels fast in my organization. Everyone knows by now that Ellen's daughter is living under my roof. Most are smart enough not to comment.
"On a better note, shipments have been clean since we took out Volkov's crew. No one's stupid enough to make a move right now."
"Good. Keep it that way." I glance at the clock on my desk. Almost time to pick her up. "We done?"
"Yeah." Jones shifts, then pauses at the door. "The girl?—"
"Is none of your concern."
He raises both hands in surrender. "Just making sure you know what you're doing, boss."
"Get out."
The door clicks shut behind him, leaving silence that does nothing to settle the restlessness under my skin. Three days. That's how long Georgie's been in my house, in my bed, wrapped around me like she was made to fit there.
Three days of her soft cries, her breathy "Daddy" against my neck, her tight little pussy clenching around my cock like she never wants to let go.
Three days, and the obsession has only gotten worse.
I should feel guilty. She's young enough to be my daughter—actually is my stepdaughter, technically, even if that marriage to Ellen lasted all of six months two years ago. Should feel something other than this bone-deep satisfaction every time she looks at me like I hung the fucking moon.
But guilt is for men who give a shit about propriety.
I stopped being that man a long time ago.
Campus is packed when I pull up to the gate.
Students pour out of buildings in clusters, backpacks slung over shoulders, phones glued to their faces.
My presence draws stares—always does. The blacked-out SUV, the tattoos visible despite my rolled sleeves, the way I carry myself screams danger to anyone with half a brain.
Most scatter. The smart ones, anyway.
Georgie emerges from the humanities building right on time, reddish-brown hair catching the late afternoon sun. She spots the car and her entire face transforms—that bright, genuine smile that makes something in my chest constrict.
No one has ever looked that happy to see me.
She jogs over, curves bouncing in ways that make my hands tighten on the steering wheel. The little sundress she wore this morning rides up her thighs with each step. Possessiveness surges hot and vicious through my veins at the thought of anyone else seeing what's mine.
"Hi." She slides into the passenger seat, already leaning across the console to kiss me. Sweet and eager, tongue darting out to taste my bottom lip before she pulls back. "Missed you."
"Missed you too, baby girl." Truth. Every damn minute she's not within arm's reach feels wrong somehow. "How were classes?"
"Boring." She wrinkles her nose, buckling her seatbelt. "Professor Hendricks spent two hours explaining basic accounting principles I learned in high school. But at least Craig wasn't there today."
My jaw clenches at the name. That piece of shit who thought he could crowd my girl. "He better stay away."
"He will." She sounds certain, satisfaction curling through her voice. "Pretty sure you scared him straight. Literally. I heard he switched to a different section."
Good. Saves me the trouble of making his disappearance look accidental.
"Oh, before we head home—" Georgie touches my arm, fingers warm even through the fabric of my shirt. "Can we stop at the bookstore? I need to grab a couple books for next week's assignments."
"Which one?"
"The one on Main. It's like five minutes from here."
I nod, pulling into traffic. Her hand stays on my arm, thumb rubbing absent circles that probably aren't meant to be distracting but are anyway.
Everything about her distracts me. The vanilla scent of her shampoo.
The little humming sounds she makes when she's content.
The way she fits perfectly against my side when we sleep.
The bookstore is small, independent, tucked between a coffee shop and a vintage clothing store.
Parking is shit but I manage to find a spot half a block down.
Georgie bounces out before I can come around to her door, already heading toward the entrance with that energetic stride that makes her hips sway.
I follow, cataloging exits and potential threats out of habit. The shop is mostly empty—good. Just some college kid behind the register who takes one look at me and decides the floor is suddenly fascinating.
"Where are the business management texts?" Georgie asks him.
"Back left corner." He doesn't look up from his phone.
She weaves through narrow aisles packed floor-to-ceiling with books, trailing her fingers along spines as she goes. The overhead lights cast warm shadows across her face, highlighting the freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks.
"Here we go." She stops in front of a shelf, craning her neck to read titles on the top row. "Of course they're up there."
Before I can reach for it, she stretches on tiptoes, dress riding dangerously high. My hand shoots out to grip her hip, steadying her.
"Which one?"
"The blue one—no, the navy one. Next to it. Yeah, that one."
I grab the book and hand it to her. She flips it open, skimming the table of contents with a small frown of concentration. Then her expression shifts. Just slightly—a tightness around her eyes, the way her breath catches.
I know that look.
"You feel full?" My voice drops low enough that it won't carry beyond our little corner.
"I'm fine." But she shifts her weight, pressing her thighs together. "I can wait until we get home."
"Bathroom. Now."
"Gavin—"
"Not a request, baby girl."
Her pupils dilate, breaths coming shallower. She nods, setting the book aside before leading me toward the back of the store where a single-stall bathroom sits tucked behind the storage room. The door swings open easily. I usher her inside and lock it behind us.
The space is cramped—barely room for a toilet and sink—but it'll do.
"Dress off."
Her fingers tremble slightly as she reaches for the zipper at her side. The dress pools at her feet, leaving her in just a white cotton bra and matching panties. Already there are small wet spots darkening the fabric over her nipples.
"Fuck." The sight makes my cock throb against my zipper. "Come here."
She steps into my arms, already tilting her face up for a kiss that I give her—deep and possessive, swallowing the small whimper that escapes her throat. My hands slide up her ribcage to cup her breasts, thumbs brushing over peaked nipples through thin cotton.
She gasps against my mouth, body arching into the touch.
"Sensitive?"
"Yes. Daddy, please?—"
"I've got you." I unhook her bra with practiced ease, letting it fall away. Her breasts spill into my palms, full and heavy, nipples tight and already beading with milk. Beautiful. Absolutely fucking beautiful.
I lower my head and seal my mouth around her left nipple, sucking firmly.
The first pull releases a warm rush of sweet milk across my tongue. She cries out, fingers diving into my hair to hold me closer as I drink from her. Each draw sends more warmth flooding into my mouth—rich and perfect, uniquely hers.
"Oh god." Her hips roll forward, seeking friction against my thigh. "That feels so good."
I switch to her other breast without warning, teeth grazing the sensitive peak before I suck hard. She keens, nails scraping my scalp as her whole body trembles. The bathroom fills with her breathy moans and the wet sounds of me nursing from her swollen tits.
When I finally release her nipple with an obscene pop, both breasts glisten with moisture. The ache should be gone from her expression, but instead she looks desperate, pupils blown wide with need.
"Better?"
"I—yes, but—" She squirms, face flushing deeper. "I need?—"
"What do you need, baby girl?" I back her against the sink, hands gripping her waist. "Use your words."
"You. I need you to touch me."
"Where?" My palm slides down her stomach to rest just above her panties. "Here?"
"Lower. Please, Daddy, I'm—I'm so?—"
"So what?" I hook my fingers in the elastic and drag them down her thighs. She steps out of them, legs spreading automatically. "So wet? So needy? So desperate for Daddy's fingers inside this tight little cunt?"
"Yes."
I press two fingers against her entrance and they slide in effortlessly, sinking knuckle-deep into slick heat. She's drenched, inner walls already fluttering around the intrusion.
"Fuck, you're soaked." I pump slowly, watching her face as pleasure makes her eyes glaze over. "This all from me milking these pretty tits?"
"Yes—oh—yes, Daddy."
My thumb finds her clit and circles the swollen nub in firm strokes. She bucks against my hand, chasing the friction with desperate little rolls of her hips. The position is awkward—her back pressed against the porcelain sink, one leg hitching over my forearm to give me better access.
But the way she takes my fingers, the way her pussy clenches rhythmically around them, makes any discomfort worth it.
"That's it. Fuck yourself on my hand." I curl my fingers to hit that spot inside that makes her eyes roll to the back of her head. "Show me how much you love it when Daddy takes care of you."
"Love it—love it so much—" Her words dissolve into incoherent moans as I thrust harder, faster, the wet sounds of my fingers working her cunt echoing obscenely in the small space.
Someone knocks on the door—three sharp raps that make Georgie freeze, eyes going wide with panic.
"Occupied." The single word comes out as a growl. "Leave."
Footsteps retreat quickly.
"Gavin, someone might?—"
"Don't care." I don't slow my pace, fingers pistoning in and out of her dripping pussy while my thumb maintains steady pressure on her clit. "You're going to come all over my hand, baby girl. Right here, right now. Let them hear how good Daddy makes you feel."
"Oh god—oh god—I can't?—"
"You can." I lean in close, lips brushing the shell of her ear. "Be a good girl and come for me."
That does it. Her entire body locks up, back arching as her orgasm crashes through her. She clamps down around my fingers with brutal force, inner muscles spasming in waves while her mouth opens on a silent scream.
I work her through it, prolonging each pulse of pleasure until she's shaking and gasping, thighs trembling so hard she can barely stand.
Only then do I slowly withdraw my fingers, bringing them to my mouth to lick clean. The taste of her—sharp and musky and perfect—makes my cock pulse with the need to bury myself inside her properly.
But not here. Not in some cramped bathroom where I can't take my time with her.
"Good girl." I kiss her forehead, then her lips, letting her taste herself. "So fucking good for your stepfather."
She slumps against my chest, boneless and sated. "That was..."
"Necessary." I help her back into her dress, zipping it up before handing over her discarded underwear. "Feel better?"
"So much better." She presses a kiss to my jaw, eyes still half-lidded with satisfaction. "Thank you, Daddy."
The gratitude threading through her voice, that absolute, unshakeable trust—something tightens in my chest. Not discomfort.
Recognition. This possessiveness that's been building.
She's mine. My responsibility, my perfect girl who surrenders so completely, lets me provide everything she needs. Every. Single. Thing.
After unlocking the door, I check the hallway. Empty except for distant footsteps somewhere deeper in the store. The kid manning the register finds something fascinating about the counter when we emerge, deliberately averting his gaze.
He heard.
Let him.
Georgie retrieves her book and handles payment while I position myself near the entrance.
Watching her complete this mundane transaction—counting bills, accepting change, tucking the textbook under her arm—creates this weird cognitive dissonance.
I just fingered her in a bathroom. Now she's buying school supplies like any normal college student.
Except there's nothing normal about us.
Should feel wrong, probably. Instead, everything slots into place like pieces of a puzzle I didn't know I was solving.
Outside, she threads her arm through mine, launching into complaints about her professors.
Something about Dr. Martinez assigning three chapters and a presentation due the same week.
Her voice rises and falls with animated irritation, occasionally punctuated by these little huffs of exasperation that make me want to pull over and kiss her stupid.
My attention divides naturally—half on her rambling about academic injustice, half scanning the parking lot, the street, that sedan idling two rows over. Driver's just on his phone. Waiting for someone inside.
Years of operating in the underworld don't evaporate because my current reality involves textbook shopping and stepfamily dynamics.
Traffic thickens during the drive home. Rush hour surge of office workers desperate to escape downtown. Georgie's hand finds my thigh, resting there with casual ownership. Sometimes her fingers flex, squeezing gently, like she's reminding herself I'm real.
The urban sprawl gradually thins. High-rises give way to residential neighborhoods, which eventually surrender to stretches of undeveloped land. My property sits isolated—strategic distance from prying eyes, but close enough that I can reach the city center quickly if business demands it.
Security perimeter activates automatically as we approach. Cameras pivot, tracking our progress. Motion sensors register our arrival. Guards I pay extremely well to be invisible and effective continue their patrol patterns throughout the grounds.
Nothing reaches this house without my explicit approval. Especially not now.
I guide the car into the garage. The engine's rumble dies. She's already working her seatbelt free, practically vibrating with eagerness.
"We're home."