บททั้งหมดของ FOR DADDY’S EYES ONLY!: บทที่ 201 - บทที่ 210

'Ohhh... fingering me clean... deeper... mmm!' She gasped, rocking into his hand, the soap making everything slippery, his touch probing gently, massaging her g-spot with feather-light strokes. Pleasure built slow, a simmer rather than blaze, her clit brushing his palm. 'Wanna... taste every part of you again. Lick your balls, swallow your load... or just lay with you, feeling your strength hold me.' Her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer, their bodies sliding soapily together. LeBron's eyes darkened, tenderness shifting as his finger thrust a bit firmer—'Fuck... you're perfect, saying that'—adding a second, scissoring to clean deeper, thumb circling her clit. 'But I wanna hear your wants too. This body—mine to use, but yours to explore.' He rinsed his hand under the spray, then lathered again, turning her to face the wall, soaping her back, ass cheeks, kneading the firm globes. Fingers traced her crack, dipping into her ass gently—'Here too... clean this tight hole'—pr

It was going to be another long night with nobody to warm her bed, Nia moaned in her mind.The bright lights softly shined in the West Wing office, casting a sterile glow over stacks of briefing papers and half-empty coffee mugs. Nia Prescot hunched over her desk, her fingers flying across the keyboard as she refined the final lines of President Vince Harlan's national security address. The clock on the wall ticked past midnight, but sleep was the last thing on her mind. Every word she crafted, she believed, carried the weight of the nation's gaze, and more importantly, Vince's voice—deep, resonant, commanding attention without effort. He had made it compulsory that she must write with the vigour and manner in which he talks.She paused, reading the paragraph aloud under her breath. 'In these uncertain times, we stand united against threats that seek to undermine our sovereignty.' Her pulse quickened at the image of him standing at the podium, his broad shoulders filling out the power

The chandeliers in the East Room glittered like captured stars they casted golden haze over the sea of tuxedos and gowns. Nia did not prepare for this gathering as she would ought to, But since Vince insisted, she had to obey her crush…sorry, boss.The White House gala was in full swing, a glittering affair for diplomats, donors, and the elite who pulled the strings behind the curtains. Laughter mingled with the clink of champagne flutes, and a string quartet played softly in the corner, their melody weaving through conversations about trade deals and foreign policy. Nia Prescot hovered near the edges of the crowd, a glass of sparkling water in hand—professional poise her armor against the opulence that always made her feel slightly out of place.She smoothed the silk of her gown, the fabric hugging her curves just enough to turn heads without screaming for attention. It was modest by gala standards, but the neckline dipped low enough to reveal the swell of her breasts, and the slit

Nia's desk was usually clustered by that time of the day. Stacks of briefing papers, speech drafts, and coffee mugs formed a chaotic fortress around her computer screen, where she typed furiously on revisions for Vince's upcoming address on economic policy.It was mid-morning, the hub of activity outside her door a constant reminder of the machine that never slept. Nia pushed a strand of dark hair behind her ear, her blouse slightly unbuttoned from the stuffy air, revealing a hint of lace bra beneath. She needed focus on how to write a speech that aligned with Vince's voice in her mind, the way he'd deliver her words with that commanding yet gentle timbre but somehow, every few minutes, Vardo’s harassing touch at the gala would sweep into her mind, his intimidating body frame would make her jerk a bit on her chair.A knock interrupted her flow. Her assistant, Mia, poked her head in, arms laden with a black box tied in gold ribbon and a chilled bottle in a velvet sleeve. 'Delivery for

The Situation Room beneath the White House thrummed with tension, the air was quite intense with the scent of stale coffee and printer ink. Maps of the Middle East flickered on wall screens, red lines tracing potential conflict zones around a rogue nation in the Persian Gulf—let's call it Zorathe for the classified briefings. Escalating tensions: drone strikes, oil tanker seizures, whispers of chemical weapons caches. President Vince Harlan sat at the head of the polished oak table, his jaw set, sleeves rolled up on his crisp white shirt, revealing forearms corded with quiet strength. Nia Prescot occupied a seat midway down, her notebook open, pen poised. She'd drafted the opening remarks for this session, framing a balanced approach: diplomacy backed by sanctions, not outright provocation.Vince's eyes met hers briefly as he scanned the room, a nod of approval that sent a familiar warmth through her pussy. She shifted in her chair, crossing her legs under the table, the fabric of he