Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Does Taara have a little bit of a babygirl in her?
I aim to find out. I find a vacant bench and tug her over to it. I sit, and without preamble, tug her onto my lap. “Sit on Daddy’s lap, little girl.”
Her cheeks flush a deeper shade of pink, and she bites her lip between her teeth. “Yes, sir.”
I shake my head. “No, Taara. The correct response is yes, daddy.”
“Stefan,” she whispers, burying her head on my chest to avoid looking in my eyes. But I won’t have that.
I take her chin and draw her gaze to mine.
“You’ll do what I say, little girl, unless you want to find yourself over daddy’s lap?”
Christ, I’m fucking hard, my cock a steel rod against her ass just saying this. Everything about our relationship is wrong, so it’s an easy matter exploring this with her as well.
Fuck taboo.
“Yes, daddy.”
And then she drops her head to my chest again and buries her face, unable to look at me. She’s trembling. Through everything we’ve done, this is the most vulnerable I’ve seen her yet, and I instinctively know I’ve stumbled on something she didn’t anticipate.
“Good girl,” I whisper to her, and hell if this doesn’t feel right. “Such a very good girl for daddy.”
“Stop saying that,” she says, but it’s a weak plea, as if she has to say it but doesn’t really mean it.
“Who makes the decisions here, Taara?”
“You, sir.”
I clear my throat. “Try that again.”
“Oh, God. You, daddy.”
If Taara is a babygirl, I’ll have to treat her very differently than I have, but it excites me to know this about her. Seeing her naked made me hard. Having her between my legs, when I was on the cusp of punishing her with my cock between her lips, that was hot as hell. But this?
Fucking hell.
“Daddy” is an American word, and maybe that’s why it is easier for me to accept this as ours, a taboo power play that turns both of us on. To reach that level of trust with another, for her to be able to give this to me and for me to honor it, could strengthen our relationship.
But hell, is that what I want? Where will that lead us? Taara and I aren’t a couple. We’ve been forced together and now need to make the most of our situation. But if during our time together we find something that makes it easier, we could explore that avenue.
Nothing about this is right or normal, so why shouldn’t we do what we want?
We don’t speak for a few minutes. I hold her on my lap, her head on my shoulder. I use this time to observe the room, to listen in on the conversations around us, but it’s difficult from where we are.
“Stefan?” Taara lifts her head up and whispers. “D-daddy?” she flushes madly.
I nod.
She pushes herself up on my lap and weaves her hands around the back of my head, pulling my ear to her mouth. “Did you hear that?”
I shake my head. “Hear what?” I whisper back.
“The man at the bar.” Her voice is so low I can only make out her words with concentration. “He just said Moscow.”
I sit up straighter. Though it isn’t a dead giveaway that he could lead us to something we need, I can’t dismiss this clue without further examination. I keep my look casual, as if I’m just glancing about the room. He has no woman with him that I can see but stands with three other men that look as if they could be his brothers. And one of them is staring straight at Taara.
“Put your head on my chest,” I whisper, and like a good girl, she immediately obeys. Who is this motherfucker that’s looking at my woman? I know it’s my own damn fault for even coming in here, but it’s the quickest and most expedient way to find the information I need. Tomas said to look for Adam Numeros, the man who runs the auction. A friend to Tomas, his allegiance is to Boston above any other brotherhood, and he knows the inner workings of the slave trade better than any of them. In recent years, he’s stepped back from direct involvement, but Tomas promised me he would be aboard this ship.
I look about the room, but I’m aware of every set of eyes that looks toward us. I hate that Taara is dressed so scantily. Though anything more than what she wears would make her stand out, I underestimated the amount of attention this beautiful woman would draw. Christ, I want to cover her so only my eyes can see her. I want to take her back to the room and hide her. Why the fuck did I decide to do this? For one brief moment, I imagine her dressed in the burka of the most traditional Afghani people, and it’s the first time I’ve understood the purpose of such conservative garments. Hiding everything but her eyes sounds pretty damn good right about now.