Cleaning Lady for My Friend's Daddy

My best friend, Ellie, had sworn up and down that her widower father was never home.

"He's seldom there, basically a ghost," she'd said, shoving the crumpled job listing across our uni's cafeteria table when I complained about my overdraft fee. "You'll just be watering his sad little ficus and collecting stupid money for minimal effort."

For the first week, she was absolutely right. The penthouse was all cold marble and echoing silence, Nathaniel Hawthorne appearing only in brief, sharp bursts, leaving behind nothing but evidence of his existence like some corporate Bigfoot:

A half-drunk espresso abandoned on the sink. The lingering scent of his stupidly expensive cologne on discarded suits. A single sock that made me question whether billionaires actually dressed themselves.

Then comes today.

I'm halfway through alphabetizing his spice rack (who the hell needs three kinds of saffron?) when the elevator dings.

Hawthorne steps out, all sharp suit and sharper jawline, looking like he's about to fire someone just for fun. His gaze lands on me, the rogue dust rag in my hand, and the open cabinet where I've been aggressively pretending cardamom and cumin are interchangeable.

"You must be Grace," he says. "Ellie failed to mention you'd be... restructuring my kitchen."

I hold up the saffron like a peace offering. "I organized it..."

"Incorrectly." His jaw tics as he plucks it from my fingers like I'm a toddler caught with scissors. "This isn't some college dorm kitchen where you can just throw ramen packets wherever."

"Put. Them. Back." His voice cracks like a whip when he catches me mid-freeze. "By region. Then alphabetical within each section." A pause that makes my soul leave my body. "This isn't chaos, Grace. It's a system."

By the time I finish, my palms are damp, my neck prickling under his scrutiny. The rest of my shift passes in a haze of held breaths and stiff shoulders. Every task becomes a minefield. Too much polish on the forks; will he think I'm wasteful? Too light on the mop; does it look like I'm slacking? I might as well be defusing bombs blindfolded.

By the time golden hour bleeds through the penthouse windows, my nerves are frayed. I consider texting Ellie: Sorry, can't come back. Allergies to rich assholes.

Then I see it. An envelope, crisp and thick, propped against the fruit bowl, with my name scrawled in razor-sharp script. Inside: a $100 tip. No note. No apology. Just currency standing in for common decency.

Asshole.

I clutch the bills too tight, the edges biting into my palm. It's too much. It's not enough. And worst of all, I know I'll be back tomorrow because pride doesn't pay rent, and apparently, neither does common sense.

For seven blessed days, the penthouse stays tomb-quiet. Then on day fifteen, I find her walk-in closet.

Rows of designer dresses suspended in time, their colors muted under dust covers. The one at the very end calls to me: emerald green halter dress, backless, the silk whispering against my thighs as I pull it free.

Just for a second, I tell myself, already stepping into it. Just to see.

The silk slithers through my fingers like liquid, cool and heavy. The hanger clatters to the floor as I stepped into it, the fabric whispering against my thighs. The zipper catches halfway up my spine, but when I turn to the mirror, my breath stalls.

The halter neckline plunges just shy of indecent, somehow making my tits look like they belong in a Renaissance painting. I pile my blonde hair into a messy knot, daydreaming that he might walk in any second and ask me to the Met Gala.

I turn to admire the way the fabric flares at my hips in the mirror and--

"That," comes a voice like frozen whiskey, "doesn't belong to you."

I spin around and Hawthorne's in the doorway, sleeves rolled up with no tie and top button undone. He looks tired, pissed, and worst of all, completely awake as he takes in my little dress-up session.

At twenty-three, I suddenly feel like a kid caught raiding her mother's closet.

"I'm sorry," I blurt, my fingers stumbling over the zipper. "This was stupid. I'll put it back--"

"Stop."

But my mouth has officially divorced my brain. "I shouldn't have--Gosh, I'll resign, how stupid of me--I'll tell Ellie--I'm sorry--" My voice cracks under the weight of his stare.

His hand closes over mine, stilling my frantic movements. His skin is warm, his grip firm. And the way his gaze drags down my body? Let's just say the only thing pooling lower than my dignity is the heat between my thighs. When I finally gather the courage to look up, his expression is unreadable.

"You're not quitting," he says, voice low. "And you're not apologizing to Ellie."

I swallow hard. "I'm... not?"

"Tell me," he murmurs. "What do you want?"

I want the dress. Obviously. I also want his hands right where they shouldn't be, which, wow, bad idea alert. I also want Ellie not to murder me when she finds out. Priorities, right?

But what comes out is a shaky whisper: "I-I don't know."

Perfect. If awkwardness were a superpower, I'd be unstoppable.

"Do you want it? The dress."

I can't speak.

His fingers skate my arm, not a caress, just contact, the kind that leaves nerve endings screaming. I turn without deciding to. My body's done thinking. His mouth is right there. Chapped lower lip. Breath warm with coffee and impatience.

I shouldn't. (Ellie's dad. Ellie's dad. But the math isn't mathing, the brain isn't braining.)

"Breathe," he orders when he feels me tremble. His hands lock on my hips and the noise he makes isn't gentle. It's the sound of a man snapping his own leash.

I gasp. His grip tightens as my chest rises. One sharp inhale and suddenly there's no space between us. No pretense. Just his forehead pressed to mine as we share the same shaking breath, his restraint unraveling in real time.

The first kiss is a question. The second is an answer, all teeth and claiming pressure. By the third, I'm bowed like a strung bow, his tongue in my mouth, his hands gripping hard enough to bruise, the thick ridge of his cock grinding against my thigh like he's already deciding how to ruin me.

No romance. No pretty lies. Just his hunger, my weakness, and the filthy fucking truth: I'd let him.

We don't so much stumble as combust toward the lounge chair. My knees hit the cushions, his hands already guiding my hips to bracket his thighs. Emerald silk spills around us like liquid as I settle atop him, the friction drawing a ragged sound from his chest.

His breath is unsteady as he watches me straddling him. But then my fingers find the halter tie at the back of my neck.

One slow tug. The silk slithers loose, exposing the bare tits underneath. His gaze drops before he forces it back up to my face. I see the way his throat works, the way his fingers spasm against my ribs, that fragile control unraveling as my already-peaked nipples meet his starched shirt.

"Fuck," he rasps.

One hand fists in the fabric at my back, yanking me flush against him. The other palms my tits, rough and claiming, his thumb brushing over the aching buds in a way that makes me gasp.

For a moment, he forgets to breathe when my palm brushes the hard length of his cock through his pants. A low, filthy curse tears from his lips, more shudder than word.

Then his hands are moving, rough and impatient. One slides beneath the emerald silk, fingers staking a possessive path up my inner thigh before catching on my lace.

A sharp yank, and the flimsy barrier gives way.

The other hand works his belt and then the hot, heavy weight of his cock springs free against my thigh. He doesn't waste time, hauling me closer with a groan that vibrates through my bones.

His teeth find my pulse point, not a tease, but a warning, before he growls, "Lift."

I obey. My back bows as I rise just enough for him to drag the swollen head through the desperate wetness of my pussy, the obscene glide leaving me trembling.

He drags me down in one brutal motion, and the first thick inch scorches through the lace still clinging between us, stretching me with a delicious sting that robs my breath. Then he's filling me completely, my gasp lost against his mouth as he kisses me like he's starving.

He doesn't stop there. His lips blaze a path down my throat, teeth scraping my collarbone before he takes one peaked nipple into that scorching mouth. The wet heat of his tongue wrings a whimper from me, my hips jerking against his in helpless demand.

One hand grips my ass beneath the silk, fingers digging into flesh as he forces me to ride him harder. The other claims my breast, thumb circling my nipple in cruel, perfect strokes that match each punishing thrust.

The pace turns ruthless. No finesse, just the relentless drive of his hips and the filthy slap of skin on skin. His breath saws against my lips, eyes black with possession as he watches me come apart above him.

"That's it," he rasps, voice shredded. "Let go."

His fingers dig into my hip, angling me just so, and, oh, fuck, the pleasure crests, sharp and blinding. My back arches, nails digging into his shoulders as I come apart.

Ellie's dad. I'm fucking Ellie's dad.

The thought should kill the high. It doesn't. Apparently, my body doesn't care about morals. And not just greedy, it's needy. As if I've been hollowed out just to be filled by him, like I've been waiting for this bruising grip, this perfectly filthy angle.

I cry out as my pussy convulses around his cock. God, the sounds I'm making. Who even am I right now? This isn't me. Except it is. It's me gasping his name, me clawing at him like an animal, me not giving a single shit that tomorrow I'll have to look Ellie in the eye.

I squeeze, vicious with the thrill of my own recklessness, and his control snaps. A guttural roar, then he's pistoning up into me before slamming home with a shudder. Heat floods me as his forehead collides with mine, our shared panting the only sound in the universe.

When he finally moves, it's to drag his thumb across my bitten-red lip. His eyes hold mine, dark with something that isn't regret, but isn't quite absolution either.

Say something. Joke. Scream. Fake your own death.

Instead, my throat clicks around a dry swallow. "So," I rasp, voice shredded, "...yep."

The words barely clear my lips when when the elevator chimes its cheerful death knell, and Ellie's voice cuts through the house like sunlight through a crime scene: "Dad? You home? I brought those tax papers!"

His fingers dig into my hips hard enough to leave bruises. My lungs forget their job description.