DDD: Daddies Dirty Desire

Maya’s POV We fell into easy conversation the way strangers sometimes do when the whiskey is good and the night is young. Drinks kept coming, one after another, and with every sip, the edges of the world softened. Matthew had this way about him—self-assured without being loud about it, dry humor that landed just sharp enough to make me laugh, and eyes that watched me like he was already mapping every place he wanted to touch. I knew the game. I’d played it plenty of times before. But tonight it felt different. Hotter. More dangerous. I let my fingers trail slow circles around the rim of my glass, holding his gaze. “So tell me, Matthew Thompson… do you make it a habit of flirting with strangers in bars, or am I just lucky?” He leaned back slightly, one elbow on the bar, studying me with that lazy half-smile. “Depends.” “On what?” “On whether or not you want me to flirt with you.” I lifted my drink, took a long, deliberate sip, and let him wait. Let the silence stretch unt

Maya’s POV I woke up sore in the best way—muscles aching, skin still tingling where his hands and mouth had been. Sunlight sliced through the half-closed blinds, painting gold stripes across the rumpled sheets. The bed beside me was empty, but the shower was running, steady hiss of water telling me Matthew was still here. Still real. I stretched, wincing at the delicious pull between my thighs, and glanced at the clock on the nightstand. 8:47 a.m. Shit. Breakfast with Mom. 9:30 sharp. She’d texted me three times last night before I’d turned my phone off—reminders, emojis, that excited little “Can’t wait for you to meet him!!” I’d ignored them all while Matthew had me bent over the windowsill. No time to wait for him to finish in the bathroom. I scrambled out of bed, legs shaky, found my dress crumpled on the floor, and yanked it on. No bra—couldn’t find it, didn’t care. Panties were somewhere under the bed. I’d deal with that later. I shoved my feet into heels, grabbed my purse,

Grace stepped out of the Uber, the late-June heat clinging to her skin like a second layer. Four years at college in Boston had sharpened her edges—new haircut, sharper cheekbones, a body that finally felt like hers—but coming back to this quiet cul-de-sac in Virginia still felt like slipping into an old, too-small dress. The house smelled of charcoal and sunscreen the moment she pushed through the front door. Her father’s annual barbecue was already in full swing: laughter drifting from the backyard, classic rock thumping low, the sizzle of burgers and the clink of beer bottles.She dropped her duffel in the foyer and changed quickly—white tank top thin enough to hint at the black lace bra beneath, cutoff denim shorts that rode high on her thighs. Not for anyone in particular. Or so she told herself.The backyard was crowded with neighbors, her dad’s golf buddies, a few cousins. Grace accepted a cold beer, smiled through small talk about her degree in marketing, and tried not to feel

The first week after the penthouse, Grace told herself she could stop.She deleted the thread of filthy texts. She avoided driving past his building. She even went on a date with a guy from her old high-school friend group—nice smile, safe job, boring conversation. She let him kiss her goodnight on the porch. His mouth tasted like mint gum and nothing at all.She went inside, locked the door, and immediately pulled out her phone.Grace: I’m wet.Grace: And it’s not because of the guy who just dropped me off.Marcus’s reply came in under thirty seconds.Marcus: Send proof.She did. A photo angled down her body—thighs parted, fingers glistening, no panties in sight.He didn’t respond with words. Just one command:Marcus: My office. Tomorrow. 9 p.m. Door will be unlocked.That was how it began.Stolen moments turned routine faster than she expected. After-hours in his corner suite on the twenty-eighth floor—blinds drawn, her bent over the leather sofa while he fucked her from behind, one

The leak came quietly, the way poison spreads through water.A mutual acquaintance—some mid-level partner from Marcus’s firm who’d been at too many holiday parties—spotted them in the back booth of a dimly lit bar on the edge of town. Grace’s hand on Marcus’s thigh under the table. His fingers brushing her hair behind her ear. Nothing obscene. Just intimate enough to raise an eyebrow. The man didn’t confront them. He didn’t need to. He mentioned it casually over drinks with a colleague, who mentioned it to someone else, who mentioned it to Grace’s father.Tom found out on a Tuesday afternoon.He didn’t call. He showed up at Marcus’s office unannounced, face gray with rage. The receptionist tried to stop him. He brushed past like she wasn’t there.Marcus was at his desk reviewing quarterly reports when the door slammed open.Tom stood in the doorway, chest heaving. “Tell me it isn’t true.”Marcus didn’t pretend to misunderstand. He set the pen down slowly. “Tom—”“You were like a broth