บททั้งหมดของ FOR DADDY’S EYES ONLY!: บทที่ 211 - บทที่ 220

The days following the Situation Room clash dissolved into a haze of avoidance for Nia Prescot. She mapped her routes through the White House like a covert operative, timing her corridor treks to miss Vardo's prowling shadow.Mornings in the West Wing speechwriting bullpen, she hunched over her laptop, fingers flying across keys to craft Vince's next address, emphasizing multilateral talks, economic pressure, and the moral high ground of restraint.Every line poured out her admiration for him: his steady vision, the way he'd navigate crises without bloodshed. 'In the face of provocation,' she typed, 'we choose dialogue over destruction,' her words a subtle rebuke to Vardo's arsenal dreams.Vince reviewed drafts in stolen moments between meetings, his office door ajar, letting her catch glimpses of him—leaning back in his leather chair, glasses perched on his nose, a warm smile breaking as he murmured approvals. 'Nia, this captures it perfectly. Diplomacy as strength.' His voice wrappe

The side room was dim, lit by a single lamp, heavy drapes blocking the night. Bookshelves loomed, a leather sofa squat in the corner. Vardo released her with a shove, spinning to face her, chest heaving. 'You did this, didn't you? Leaked it to bury me.' His face twisted, rage boiling over, eyes wild. Nia backed against the wall, heart pounding, but fire met his. 'Me? You're delusional. This is your mess—shady deals blowing up because you can't keep your hands clean.' She jabbed back, voice low and venomous, stepping into his space despite the tremor in her legs.He loomed closer, towering, the scent of scotch and cologne invading her senses. 'Bullshit. You've been dodging me, whispering in Vince's ear, turning him against his own blood.' His hand shot out, slamming the wall beside her head, caging her. Heat radiated from his body, inches away, his breath ragged. Nia's pulse thundered, anger surging hot through her veins, but beneath it, that treacherous spark—the elevator graze, the d

Nia eased into her chair at the West Wing desk, wincing as her ass met the cushion. The suite encounter throbbed in every muscle—Vardo's dick had stretched her pussy raw, his thrusts leaving bruises blooming across her hips and thighs. She shifted, the soreness radiating deep, a constant reminder of how he'd pinned her to the window and filled her with his cum. Focus, she told herself, pulling up the draft for Vince's rebuttal. The leaked memo painted Vardo's arms deals as corrupt, tying them to foreign influences that could sink the administration. Her words needed to be sharp, deflecting blame while positioning Vince as the steady hand.The office buzzed with aides shuffling papers, phones ringing off the hook. Nia typed furiously, outlining Vince's defense: transparency, national security first, no room for family favoritism. But her mind wandered to the hotel, Vardo's mouth on her nipples, sucking until they ached like now. She crossed her legs, clit pulsing faintly against the se

Nia's phone buzzed on her nightstand, the screen lighting up the dim bedroom. She groaned, body still aching from the limo's brutal claiming—ass cheeks tender, pussy swollen from Vardo's fingers and the relentless spanking. Two days had passed since the fundraiser, her mind a whirlwind of Vince's warm praise and Vardo's possessive fury. The rebuttal speech had landed well, media shifting from scandal to Vince's resolve, but guilt gnawed at her. She'd drafted lines defending the administration while Vardo's cum had dried on her skin.The text was from the burner: Private jet. Dulles. 0600. Pack light. Negotiation awaits. Her pulse quickened. Arms exports—Vardo's latest pitch to skirt regulations, funneling weapons to allies under the table. Officially, she was there to represent Vince's interests, ensure no blowback. Unofficially, she knew it was a trap, his way of pulling her deeper into his web. She should refuse, alert security, end this madness. But her fingers typed Confirmed, bod

She draped herself across him, ass up, wrists pinned behind her back by his massive hand. The first smack landed hard, palm cracking against her right cheek, the sting blooming instant and fierce. Nia yelped, body jerking. 'For hesitating. For him.' Another blow, left side, harder, skin heating under the assault. He alternated, methodical, each spank echoing in the vast space—smack, smack, smack—building a rhythm that had her squirming, thighs clenching. Her ass cheeks flushed pink, then red, the burn spreading like fire, making her pussy drip despite the pain.'Twenty,' he growled, counting each one. By ten, tears pricked her eyes, ass throbbing, raised welts forming under his hand. She kicked lightly, but he pinned her legs with his own, unrelenting. 'You think you can play both sides? Lie to me?' Smack—eleven, twelve—her cries turned to sobs, the punishment blending pain with a dark arousal, clit pulsing emptily. At fifteen, she begged: 'I'm sorry, Vardo, please—it's you, only you.