FOR DADDY’S EYES ONLY!

WARNING: 18+ ONLY!!

Dearest Reader,

The pleasurable act of sinning never felt so good. LMW presents to you a collection of all the sins you never had the courage to commit….

This book is an exotic collection of 30 different erotic stories, passionate romance, ecstasy, and a salacious manifestation of your darkest desires.

There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable, get ready to wet yourselves, dream, desire for more like I did and have fun!

Kindly note that FOR DADDY'S EYES ONLY contains absolutely filthy erotic stories that cut across dirty age gap romances, forbidden sexual intercourse, consensual and non-consensual rapey episodes, and hardcore taboo/young adult erotica.

If you are not up to eighteen, this book is above your age limit, for mature audience only.

Lila Monroe Williams

***

BLURB

I knew I was betraying my friendship with my best friend, Olivia, but I could not overlook the raging inferno of my own desires as her billionaire uncle, and godfather, Charles Davenport, violently fucked me.

I wanted it. From imagining what he looked like operating a faceless thriving brand with his level of accomplishments to the very first day I saw him in the flesh at Ybor City Cafe, and again at Tampa Fashion Week (TFW).

"Take this big dick, Take it!" He commanded, filling up my tight, wet inbetweens, his waist virulently grinding into me.

"Yes Daddy, rip me apart!" I cried, begging for more.

And more, he gave, every stroke digging deeper into me, every strike against my bare butt cheeks, was a near-death experience as he pounded me nonstop, not giving me any room to breathe.

I did not want anything else, just being his slut was a big deal, I was willing to die taking big daddy's dick than salvaging my 6 years old friendship with Olivia, unremorsefully.

_____________

Juliana Roberts, 23 years old, Fashion Blogger, falls in love with her best friend's uncle and Godfather, Charles Davenport who owns a fashion brand she's obsessed with. This is a steamy story of how one friendly night on the yacht led to several nights of passionate romance and sexcapades.

***

Chapter 1

I woke up this morning, finally coming to the conclusion that I should be flanged into a foster care home or something. As long as I dont have to worry about taking care of myself; and by this I mean; what to eat, when to eat, what to wear, when to shower, and the most painful reality of working to earn a living, I shouldn’t have to do that. I felt so tired.

But what choice do I have?

It’s not like I have an inheritance waiting for me somewhere. My parents barely survived on their modest salaries. It’s one of the reasons I left home for school far away, to run away from the reality that haunted me every day - that we were poor.

I had just freshly graduated from the University of Florida, self-sponsored with earnings from offering styling and consultation services on my fashion blog; The Sartorial Diary By Juliana.

The plan was to go back after school, but with the amount of job opportunities, there was no way I was back to life in the countryside.

Forward ever, Backward Never.

In addition to my feeling of tiredness and exhaustion, I was horny. Yes, you heard me right.

The fact that I had not been under a man thanks to my decision to turn celibate since my last relationship with Richard was not helping at all, my mental health was falling apart, and I needed to be gathered whole. It was almost as though my vagina had a mind of her own with the way she contrasted and clenched any time I came across an attractive man.

I just knew I needed to get fucked or fuck someone, but the men I have been meeting so far are broke and trashy, broke men don’t deserve this couchie.

Still laying on the bed with my eyes closed, the minute I opened my eyes, Tampa’s early morning sunlight nearly blinded me as it seeped in through the window, I honestly thought I had closed that window before going to bed I did not.

I rolled out of bed, landing on the floor with a thud, “fuck” I cursed under my breath as I tried to get up, I headed for the kitchen and stepped out minutes later onto my small balcony with a steaming cup of coffee in hand, watching as the dark clouds gave way for the blue skies, while the sun came alive.

It was another bright day in Tampa, Florida I didn’t want to be up doing anything — I didn’t want to just worry about how the day would go, but something inside me anticipated the most, it was a kind of exciting feeling I could not explain, the kind of joy that made my vagina jump for joy, yes that kind of excitement.

As a passionate fashion blogger with an eye for detail and a deep love for all things couture, I’ve always believed that style is a form of art that is not emphasized enough. You must really be a great artiste to make meaningful style combinations of your fits. I would be a hypocrite and a liar if I said I knew how to style myself.

Every day in Florida gave me a new opportunity to catch the pulse of fashion trends, and I cherished policing every street corner, boutique window and whispered creativity that Florida had to offer.

My worn-out leather-bound notebook, housed my sketches and observations, including my desire to tie Richard up in a chair and fuck him till the screws in his brains fell off, but that did not happen after learning about his cheating escapades. May God punish that man. The Men in Tampa were just as unpredictable as the weather I muttered shaking my head. Insufferable to say the least.

Just then I received a notification, who else? It was Richard: “Hey baby girl, can we hang out one of these days?”

I replied with an outstanding NO.

Moreover, I was going to be busy, the pain of getting over a dick I used to love to ride.

That morning, I felt particularly inspired to do something differently, something I have never done, but I was a crazy bitch and have done literally almost everything I set my mind to, what was aloof?

May be go somewhere fancy and blog all day cursing out the fashion blunders on Flori Fashion Week?

As I sipped my coffee, my thoughts drifted toward an upcoming event—an alluring pre-party for Tampa Fashion Week at one of Tampa’s chicest venues. A gathering of the one per cent of the one per cent of Tampa, you will never find the basics and the broke there, oh how classist that sounded, please, I rolled my eyes.

Judging myself and validating my I don't give a fuck status was something I did very often.

The event was hosted and proudly sponsored by Ivy Luxora, a fashion brand that has quietly ascended to cult status over the past few years. I think four to five years, or thereabout.

Ivy Luxora isn’t just a label; it’s a dream incarnate for anyone who adores fashion at its core. I’ve religiously followed every exhibition, dissected and deeply scrutinized each runway show, and debated the merits of every new silhouette they’ve introduced. My God, how were they so flawless, at some point I felt like I was giving them too much credit than they deserved but they found a way to wow me every single time.

My admiration often bordered on reverence, and I long not just to witness their live exhibitions and designs, but to be forever entangled with their brand story.

There’s also a twist to my admiration.

The visionary behind Luxora is Charles Davenport—a name often whispered with awe in both corporate boardrooms and chic salons across the city but nobody knew what he looked like.

You see the reasons why I’m crazy about the brand, the mystery around the convener was a debate that constantly left the brand enjoying the number one spot on the trend table of different social media platforms, especially on that talking bird app.

But he isn’t merely a faceless mogul behind the scenes; his story has always been tangled with my own narrative in a way that quickens my pulse. I was crazy over a Man I didn't know what he looked like.