Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 35304 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35304 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
I reach over and brush my knuckles down her cheek. "How you doing, baby?" I grab the water bottle from my console, crack it open, and hand it to her. "Drink this. You're dehydrated. It has electrolytes. When we get home, I'm going to take good care of you. Okay, baby?"
She nods. "You've always taken good care of me, Uncle Rye."
God. Just hearing her say that is like a knife in my gut.
I tug the blanket down from her chest. She's still in the pink leather straps. God, she looks good. I could pull this fucking car over and mount her on my lap right now, but she needs a moment — probably more than a fucking moment. Her little dancer's body took every inch of my girth, my length. She didn't complain. She took it like a fucking champ. Pride swelled in my chest the first time she had an orgasm with me inside her. The reality of what's happening blackens the periphery of my thoughts.
She sips the water, then looks over at me as I hum the Mercedes down the interstate.
"I can't stay with you," she whimpers.
"What do you mean? You can stay with me. You will stay with me."
"No — listen. You're supposed to be pretending to be my dad, remember? And do you remember why?"
I stroke her hair, the entire fucked-up setup coming back to me. I'm supposed to be pretending to be my brother this week for her ballet thing. I can't fuck that up.
"Yeah, baby. Okay. I remember."
There's a burning in my chest, frustrated with all the fucking complications that surround us. But no matter what, I'll do right by her.
"We're going to stay at my place tonight. I'm going to take care of you. Tomorrow, back to your house. I'll play daddy. We're going to get you through this interview." I glance over at her. "How could they not want you? You're the best dancer in this whole fucking state."
She giggles as I expose her chest, her little tits bouncing with the movement of the car, those pink straps making diamond shapes around them. So fucking sexy.
"Why do they call you that in there?" she asks.
"Well. I may not have had my own girl. But I have a reputation. Things I've done. Bad things for the right reasons. If you want to know exactly why they call me that, all anyone has to do is put a finger on you. And they'll see. And you'll know."
She draws a shaky breath. "I'm so tired, but I'm so awake. It's so strange, these feelings. What's it called — what's it called when you come down after a BDSM scene? I can't remember."
"You're going to need water. You're going to need lots of cuddles, which I'm going to give you. You're going to need sleep and a bath. Your only job tonight is to let me take care of you."
"I'm seeing a different side of you. Many different sides of you." She pauses. "You were always nice to me. A little grumpy." She smirks.
I frown, hating that she might have thought my grumpiness was ever directed at her. It never was.
"You never made me grumpy, baby. That's just sort of a Scotch baseline."
Another smile. And I realize just how much her smiles have carried me through my life. Her smiles and making money. Those are the two things that have driven me. That, and taking care of the true underbelly of this world when it comes into my orbit. Something she doesn't need to know. Some of the things I've done. I want her world to be all pink and sparkly and everything she ever dreamed.
"Turn up the heat to 77," I announce as soon as I put Elodie's feet down inside the front door.
“Yes, Mr. McAllister.” The male system voice answers through speakers located throughout the whole house.
"Why do you want the heat up?" She tugs the blanket tighter around herself her eyes dancing around the foyer.
"Because I don't want you tugging that blanket around all day and all night. One of the great joys of a daddy is watching his girl walk around in whatever he wants her in. Which for me tonight is going to be almost nothing."
She gives a little snort and a laugh. "Your place looks different. I haven't been here in a year." She screws up her face. "Maybe two. It's all new. I remember over there" — she points to the corner of the living room — "there was nothing. You had like two chairs. Now it's full. There's art. I really like it, Uncle Rye."
It took me years to decorate this place. For a long time, I didn't care — I had a bed in my room, monitors in my office, a desk chair that fit me. That was all I needed. I ordered food. I have a cleaning staff, a groundskeeper. This house was merely a place to shower, shit, and shave. Work half the night, sleep four hours, get back up, do it again, feel guilty for beating off. The last year, since she turned eighteen — twenty times a fucking day thinking about her.