RULE NO 1: DONT TOUCH DADDY!

CHRISTIAN.

The leather straps slide off the wrists of the blonde girl on my bed as my heart aches with disappointment.

Ten minutes. That’s all she lasts here. Ten minutes of her being pathetic and all irritatingly submissive.

At this point my cock is as cold as ice. Not even a twitch even if she is wearing that blue lingerie I like seeing on my woman.

You think it’s just because I am stressed or something? Nah… it’s not.

And I’m getting worse every fucking day.

“Get out.” My voice scrapes.

I tear open the drawer, shoving a wad of cash at her chest. She scrambles, her clothes half-buttoned, stumbling over her own heels to reach the door.

As she moves my eyes drag down—locking onto her ass.

Fucking fresh. Round. Perfect to bang on a doggy. But still, my dick stays dead and entirely uninterested.

The door clicks shut. And Ace walks in, wiping his hands on his jeans, stepping over the discarded ropes. “Didn’t work?” he asks.

“They always don’t work. I told you.”

“She was the best in the agency, man,” Ace mutters, shaking his head.

“I get it. But don’t bring me anyone anymore. I’m done.” I shove my hands into my pockets, dragging my clothes back into place.

I’ve got hands. I guess I'll just stick to helping myself like I used to.

“You can't keep going like this Christian. We have to find a way around this.” Ace insists.

“A way?” I scoff. “Nobody does it like Claire. Nobody can.”

I turn my back to him, jaw aching from how hard I’m biting down.

Claire is my wife. Or was— until the day they took her from me.

It took me years to find someone like her. And now she’s gone, and the proof of her absence is right here in my ruined, useless chest that no one else even registers.

Claire doesn’t have to beg or wiggle or put on a pathetic show to turn me on.

She just lies there, perfectly still, tied to the posts, and I lose my mind just looking at her.

Guess what? Even now, thinking about the scent of her skin and her silent obedience… my dead dick twitches.

“I told you to go see a doctor. Or a therapist,” Ace says, a concerned look laced on his face.

I turn to him. “So what do I tell the doctor? Christian De Luca owner of De Luca luxury cannot get hard because his wife who turns out to be his only turn on was killed and buried together with his sex drive?”

“Ok…that doesn't sound nice” he admits, picking up the leather straps away from the bed and putting them in place for me.

“Meanwhile, I came to tell you she’ll be here in less than thirty minutes.”

I frown, rubbing the bridge of my nose where a migraine is carving out a home. “Who?”

“Ivy.”

Holy fuck.

How have I managed to shove that detail into the back of some locked vault and throw away the key?

Ivy is Claire’s kid. My stepdaughter, though I refuse to use the word.

Because I hate children. I hate the mess, the noise, the way they ruin everything. Claire and I never had one because I wouldn’t let anything touch what we built. Children are distractions I can't afford

But here I am, dragging Claire’s daughter back here because it was Claire’s dying wish: “Make my daughter come back here. They may go look for her if she isn't here with you.”

“Have her place secured in a week.” I snap.

“Get her a place?”

I frown. “You don't think I was going to share my house with a kid do you?”

“I thought you said you wanted to protect her like her mom requested?” he presses

“I didn't say I was sending her to the street Ace. I said I want her away from here. Not from my protection.” I correct, glaring hard at him because he is beginning to get on my nerves.

“She’s just a kid. Don’t you think it’s nice you get to know her first? She’s practically yours by legal—”

“She is not my kid,” I bite out, stepping into his space. “She’s Claire’s. I’m doing this because of a promise to a woman I cherish. Seven days until she’s nineteen, and legal to own a house then she’s out of my hair permanently. I don’t do kids. You know it.”

“So how are you going to protect her from them?”

“I will do it from afar.” I retort.

Ace just rolls his eyes, walking over to the bed to scoop up the stray foil wrappers of the condoms I didn’t use. “Sorry, Christian. Can’t let these waste.”

“Suit yourself.”

Suddenly, a knock echoes on the door.

My gaze snaps to Ace. He pauses, drops the condoms, and jogs over to twist the handle. He exchanges a murmur with someone in the hallway, then looks back at me.

“She’s here.”

Oh..

“Want me to get her?”

“It’s your job.” I almost say. But the second the thought forms, my eyes trip over to Claire’s framed photograph by the nightstand.

That girl is her blood. I haven’t spoken to the girl since she was shipped off to America. Plus... The kid didn't even get to attend her mom's funeral.

This will be the second time I will be seeing her since I married Claire.

One week. If I’m going to host a stranger under my roof, I can at least pull my own weight out of this room to welcome her.

“Don’t worry. Just go get my ride ready,” I say, brushing past Ace before he can argue, stepping straight into the private elevator.

The moment the vertical doors slide open and I am about to step out of the elevator,

I freeze.

Claire.

For one breathless second, my chest pounds hard. It’s Claire, she’s standing right in front of me.

Same face, same eyes, same… my eyes drop to her lips. Same full lips..

But the body.

It’s not the slender woman I married. This one is fuller, heavier in all the right places, squeezed into a dress that hugs hips and dips over breasts that look heavier, softer—

My dick violently swells, throbbing hard enough against my zipper to leave me dizzy.

It’s Ivy. Claire’s daughter. The little girl I barely glanced at the first night I dropped her mother off from a date.

But now, she’s standing right here, and a filthy image from nowhere flashes behind my eyes with terrifying clarity: her, tied to the frame in my private room, legs forced wide, my hand wrapped around her throat while I sink deep into her—

What the fuck.

My stomach drops into a bottomless pit.

Holy hell, Christian. Get a grip. She’s a little girl.

Except… she isn’t so little. Not like this. Not with the sharp pink hair framing her face, and a nose ring. Claire would have choked on her own spit before letting a piece of metal anywhere near her face.

Claire’s hair was soft brown, spilling over the pillows while I drove my cock into her. This girl is entirely different. Just with the same face.

“Are you going to step out of the way and show me my room, or are you just going to stand there and drool?”

The voice is razor-sharp.

I blink again. Hard. The passage tilts to the side.

“Huh?” I manage, the word sounding stupid in my throat.

“‘Huh-uh’?” She tilts her chin up mockingly, her eyes narrowing with a look that doesn’t have an ounce of submission in it. It’s biting. Daring. “You’ve been standing there for three minutes staring at me like I’m a ghost. Christian…”

Fuck she calls my name like Claire.

My cock throbs again, heavy and aching, straining against the tight fabric of my trousers. Madonna mia! I’m insane.

“It’s my first time seeing you… like this. Forgive me if I stared,” I confess, the words dragging out of me before I can choke them back. She looks too much like her mother, and yet nothing like her at all. “You… remind me of your mother. Striking.”

She rolls her eyes. “People keep saying that. I'm still deciding if it's a compliment.”

She just holds my gaze, unblinking. “Now that you’ve confirmed it’s me, can you show me my room? I’ve been standing in airport terminals all day, and I don’t plan on turning into a statue for your viewing pleasure.”

Sharp mouth.

My blood runs hot, pooling straight between my legs. God. An eighteen-year-old—technically still too little to me and she’s looking at me like I’m an inconvenience.

I look down for the first time, and I see the heavy grey backpack behind her legs.

“This way.” I gesture in the hallway, stepping out of the elevator.

She picks up her bag, and leads the way, and… my eyes drop, against my will, tracking the curve of her ass as she shifts her weight.

I can swear that was enough flesh to fit my palm perfectly if clutched onto. It’s too much meat for a girl her age.

God forbid Christian. You are not fantasizing about your dead wife’s daughter. My third mind yells!

Jeez. I need to wank. This is what sexual starvation does to a man’s brain—burns out the circuits of sense and leaves you wandering foolish.

I point to the designated door.

“This is your room, Ivy,” I say, trying to drag some crumbs of authority back from the bin of filth. “Feel free. Whatever you need, Nancy is downstairs. She’ll take your orders.”

She turns slowly to face me.

“Thank you so much, Christian,” she says.

And this time, I notice the silver in her mouth. Her tongue is pierced too.

I swallow hard and nod. “I will be leaving now. Nancy will bring you the house rules. Take care of yourself.”

But then her eyes flicker down. Just for a second but I see it. She glances straight at the tent in my trousers, acknowledging the mess she just made without even touching me.

“Mmm, I will” she murmurs, her gaze sliding back up to meet mine with a wicked little pull at the corner of her lips. “And you too.”

She doesn't wait for me to move, she steps inside, and slams the door right in my face.

Rude.

I should get angry.

But instead, the rudeness only makes my third leg so hard it aches.

I turn on my heel, every step back to the elevator feeling like a war zone. The second the doors close and lock me inside my own floor, I can’t hold it back another second.

My fingers tear at my belt, ripping my fly open. I pull my cock out, already stroking, heavy gasps tearing out of my throat as my hips snap forward.

“Yes, Claire—ohh, fuck—tsssss…”

The image hits me—hard inside my brain. Not Claire.

But… the pink hair. The nose ring. The tongue with a bead of silver dangling.

“Ohh…., yes—”

I slam my forehead against the cool wood of the elevator wall, my hand moving faster, the friction burning. In less than two minutes, the climax rips through me so violently my vision whites out, a hot, blinding rush that leaves me shaking from head to toe, I spill thick white against the wall.

I stay there, panting, my forehead pressed against the wood, staring blankly at the creamy mess splattered against the clean surface.

Did I just…?

My stomach churns.

Did I just cum to the image of Claire’s daughter?

God. Christian. You need therapy. And you need it fast!

What the hell!