Make Me Yours, Daddy

-007-

—•TRISTAN•—

I’m not someone who enjoys going to clubs.

In fact, I can’t stand them.

I hate everything about them, from the deafening music that makes coherent thought impossible to the press of bodies and the stench of cheap perfume that clings to the air like smoke.

The only reason I ended up in one two weeks ago was because my mate Sammie practically dragged me there by my trousers, going on about how I needed to let loose, which, if I’m honest, didn’t make much sense to me.

When I got to the club that night, it took every ounce of willpower not to turn around and leave immediately.

I made every effort to avoid talking to anyone.

Honestly, I don’t much like people, especially women.

Most of them are only interested in what they can get from me.

Sammie, on the other hand, loves women—quite a lot—which didn’t surprise me in the slightest when he immediately got tangled up with some ladies as soon as we arrived.

As you’d expect, he’s a proper flirt.

If flirting were a brand, Sammie would be the founder, no question about it.

He could charm the clothes off a nun and have her thanking him for it afterwards.

"You’re thirty-five, running one of the largest media companies in Vegas, and you can’t even remember the last time you had fun,” he had told me that night, his voice carrying that particular tone he uses when he’s decided he’s right and nothing I say will change his mind. “You need to let loose, Tristan. Just for one night.”

I didn’t agree with him, but I didn’t argue either.

In twenty years of our friendship, I’d learnt it was far easier to humour him than to argue with him, and that was the only reason I followed him to the VIP booth and decided to have a drink.

Sitting there with a glass of Macallan 25 in my hand, I ignored every woman who dared approach me.

I wasn’t in the mood to engage in any conversation or entertainment, especially with the women at this club.

They always acted desperate, like predators hunting prey.

Especially wealthy ones.

Seeing it all play out again and again, I was tired of the way their eyes lit up and how eagerly they tried to speak to me the moment they realised who I was.

Keeping to myself, I watched Sammie work the room like the professional flirt he is.

After three drinks, the music seemed a little less offensive and the crowd a little less unbearable, but I still needed to leave.

I had far bigger fish to fry than watch my mate make a fool of himself.

Just as I was about to stand up, Sammie appeared beside me, a woman hanging off each arm.

"Hey, mate, look at you sitting here like you’re at a funeral. Find yourself a hot girl and have some fun for once.” He grinned. “I bet your d**k’s probably forgotten what a v****a feels like. "

I ignored him. I had made up my mind. I was leaving, and he was not going to change my mind this time.

I had bigger fish to fry than getting my d**k sunk in some p***y, even though my c**k had been begging for release for weeks now.

I wasn't giving it that satisfaction.

Not tonight.

Standing up, I left the VIP booth, and as I reached for the exit, my eyes landed on her—the woman who ended up being the highlight of my f*****g night and sent my plan flying straight out the window.

She was seated by the bar, drinking herself into a stupor and laughing to herself, but there was a sadness in her eyes, and something in my chest stuttered.

She wasn’t wearing anything remarkable, just a simple blue pair of jean shorts and a red crop top, her auburn hair falling in waves around her shoulders.

Yet there was something about her.

Something that pulled at me from across the room and sent blood rushing straight to my groin so fast I felt lightheaded.

My c**k swelled in my trousers so suddenly that I actually glanced down to make sure I hadn’t burst through the fabric.

I hadn’t. It was a miracle.

Before I knew what I was doing, my legs were moving.

I don’t remember crossing the room.

I don’t remember deciding to approach her.

I just remember standing in front of her, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, close enough to catch her lavender and vanilla scent.

The need to tease her overtook me.

I don’t know why. I don’t do that.

I don’t play games with women.

But something about her shattered every rule I’d ever made for myself.

When she kissed me, a ripple ran down my spine, sending sensations straight to my c**k and it grew even harder.

She kissed me as if she needed it, like f*****g air to breathe, and I savoured every second.

I wanted more.

Then she asked me to f**k her, practically begging me, which sent my c**k into overdrive.

I was caught utterly off guard by her request.

Yet I was ecstatic, eagerly anticipating every moment of what was to come.

But, as they say, things don’t always go according to plan.

I’m still bloody confused why she slapped me and ran off, leaving her red panties on my bedroom floor like a f*****g souvenir.

What was she—Cinderella?

I went back to the club the following week.

Not for her.

That’s what I told myself—which, of course, was a damn lie.

I had searched every woman’s face in the club that night.

Every. Single. One.

But I didn’t see her.

Caught up with work, I couldn’t go back again.

I told myself it was no use searching for a woman whose name I didn’t even know, whose only trace was the red panties she’d left behind.

And then, out of nowhere, she walks into my office on her own two feet, like she owns the bloody place.

I don’t see it coming. Not in a million years.

Not that I’m complaining, though—I’m thrilled to see her.

My little man down there?

He's more than happy to see her again.

As she stands by my office door, I catch the fear in her eyes—and that tells me she remembers me.

Good.

She doesn't move.

Doesn't blink.

She just stands there, her gaze locked on me, and I watch the blood drain from her face.

Cute.

The anger I felt that night suddenly rises to the surface, and the memory comes back clear—the humiliation of being slapped and abandoned in my own penthouse, the frustration of being left with a throbbing hard-on so painful I spent hours trying to calm it down—it all flows through my veins and dictates my every move.

"Why are you just standing by the door?" My voice comes out colder than I intend, but I don't soften it. "When you come into my office, you close the door behind you. You don't stand there gaping like a fish. Are you employed here or are you just lost?"

She flinches.

Actually flinches, like I've physically struck her.

“I-I’m sorry, sir… I, um, I work here. I’ll, uh… I’ll close the door now,” she says quickly, fumbling to shut it behind her.

Leaning back in my chair, I let my gaze trail over her as she crosses the room and stops in front of my desk.

She looks Tired. Dark circles shadow her beautiful eyes.

Her hair isn't as perfectly arranged as it had been that night, and her blouse is wrinkled.

She also looks terrified.

"Emm, sir, I—" she stammers, unable to get the words out.

"Speak up," I growl, and she flinches.

That, of course, makes my c**k twitch in my trousers.

He’s a proper psycho.

"I came to deliver your coffee, sir," she says through trembling lips.

"But you’re not the one who brings my coffee. Where’s the girl who usually does it?"

"Sh-she said she, uh… she had to use the bathroom, s-so I, um… I helped her," she mutters.

Staring at her, I admire those beautiful honey-brown eyes, and for a moment I’m lost in them. I almost have to slap myself out of the daze.

"And you didn’t think to knock before coming in?"

"I'm sorry, I... I forgot."

My gaze falls to her lips while she speaks, and I swallow hard because of how dry my throat feels.

Those lips… bloody hell.

Remembering how they felt on mine sends a rush of heat through my veins.

"You forgot? If you can’t even manage basic office etiquette, how am I supposed to trust you can do your job properly?" I say, keeping my voice as cold as I can.

She stares at me, speechless, and I f*****g love it.

I love how easily I tame her with just my words.

"How long have you been working here?" I ask.

"Three weeks, sir."

Three weeks and I've never seen her here at all?

Fair enough. I don't even know half of the employees in my company.

"What department are you in?"

"The marketing department."

If I'm not mistaken, that department is on the same floor as my office, which means I'll be seeing her almost every day.

I suppose the universe really does love me.

"What is your name?"

"June."

June…

Nice name.

Staring at her, I notice the way her throat moves as she swallows, and I don’t miss the slight tremble in her hand.

"Drop the coffee on my desk and leave."

She quickly places the coffee cup down and bows, practically racing for the door.

Just as she’s about to reach it, I call, "June."

She stops in her tracks and turns to me. "Yes, sir?"

"Next time, bring my coffee on a tray, not with your bare hands. It's disgusting."

She nods quickly. "Okay, sir."

Turning, she walks out of my office, and I don’t miss the sway of her round, full arse as she moves.

Blood rushes straight to my c**k, and it takes every fibre of my being not to spring to the door, grab her, pin her on my desk, and f**k her until the only thing she can remember is my c**k.

Fuck! Pull your s**t together, Tristan.