18

Giselle slipped out of the room, the door softly clicking shut behind her. The hallway was quiet, morning light filtering through the windows.

She smoothed her clothes as she walked, still feeling the Chase's cologne on her despite how much perfume she sprayed on herself, when she spotted Amelia rounding the corner, balancing a silver tray with a steaming mug of coffee.

"Amelia," Giselle called, voice steady despite the turmoil inside. "Who’s that for?"

Amelia smiled warmly. "Good morning, Mrs. Giselle. Mr. Richard requested it. Black, no sugar, just how he likes it."

"Where is he?" Giselle asked, stepping closer, eyes on the tray.

"In his room, ma’am. Said he’d be down soon."

Giselle nodded, reaching for the tray. "I’ll take it to him. You go ahead and start on breakfast. Make it something hearty—eggs, bacon, the works."

Amelia hesitated for a split second but handed over the tray. "Of course. I’ll get right on it." She turned and headed downstairs, leaving Giselle alone with the coffee’s rich aroma.

Giselle’s heart pounded as she walked to Richard’s door. She knocked firmly.

The door opened, and there he stood, towering in a loose bathrobe barely tied, Calvin Klein briefs peeking out. His body was a wall of muscle, broad shoulders straining the fabric, chest hair damp from a recent rinse, thighs like giant tree trunks. She nearly gasped, her gaze dropping to the massive bulge outlined against the thin cotton. It wasn’t even erect, yet it was that big.

"Good morning," he said, voice deep and smooth, eyes crinkling with a smile. "Didn’t expect your company this early. I was just about to shower."

"I brought your coffee," she managed, holding out the tray, her voice huskier than intended. Her small frame felt tiny next to his enormity, desire flushing her skin.

He glanced at it, then back to her. "Put it on the table there. I’ll be down for breakfast in fifteen."

She set the tray down slowly, her mind racing. "Why go down when I’m here to serve you breakfast in bed?"

Richard chuckled, low and rumbling, turning to rummage through a shelf of books on the wall—a makeshift library of leather-bound volumes. "I don’t see any food in your hands, Giselle. Coffee’s a start, but..."

Emboldened, she placed the mug down and reached for the hem of her cloth. In one fluid motion, she stripped it off, tossing it aside. Her bra followed, breasts spilling free, nipples hardening in the cool air. Pants next, salaciously shimmying them down her hips, revealing lace panties that clung to her curves. She stood there, nearly naked, vulnerable and defiant.

Richard spun around, eyes widening. "What the hell are you doing? Have you lost your mind?"

"Do you remember me now?" she whispered, stepping closer, her bare skin prickling under his stare.

"Remember you? What are you talking about?" His voice dropped, confusion following something darker as he took in her body.

She closed the gap, launching herself at him, lips crashing against his in a hungry kiss. Her small hands fisted in his robe, pressing her soft curves against his rock-hard body He tasted like mint, she poured everything into it—desperation, lust, the memory of that night flashing through her minds eye.

He froze, then gripped her shoulders, pulling back gently but firmly. His eyes bored into hers, shock flickering there, and she felt it—the stir of his big dick against her belly, thickening through the briefs.

"Don’t you remember me?" she breathed, voice trembling. "I won’t blame you for forgetting. I’ve tried to pretend it was a mistake, bury it deep in my memory. But I can’t anymore. I need you daddy."

"Giselle, speak plainly. What the fuck are you getting at?" He adjusted his robe, trying to hide the growing erection straining his briefs, but it only drew her eyes lower.

"I was the naughty drunk girl you fucked in that hotel on Valentine’s night," she confessed, words tumbling out. "The one who begged for your dick, screamed daddy all through the night while you pounded me into the mattress."