All Chapters of Touch Me, Daddy: Chapter 121 - Chapter 130

"It was like... I don't sleep well, you know?" Ambrose grunts, still holding me tight. I shift my head until my cheek is mashed against his shirt. It's probably wrong, but I slide my arms around his waist too, hugging him close in turn."So, I'd be lying there in my dorm room, so tired but wide awake, and the girl next door to me snores loud enough to hear through the wall, and it was like that sound was mocking me. And I just–I'd just feel desperate all of a sudden, like I needed to escape, and if I didn't get out of that stifling, airless room I'd go mad."Ambrose slips a hand between my backpack and my t-shirt, rubbing circles over my shoulder blades. My throat aches, but I'm in this now. I go on."The floorboards are creaky in our dorm, and there's always someone in the common areas, even in the middle of the night. And I didn't want anyone to see me like that, all exposed like a raw nerve, so I climbed down the tree outside my window instead. It–it made sense. When I was that up

How many times have I pictured this? How many times have I closed my eyes and taken myself in hand and thought of Gardenia like this, splayed back across my therapist's couch, her lips parted and her eyes wide?Too many to count. And every time I thought of it, I was filled with shame. I hated myself for my weakness, my inability to resist my beautiful young patient.I'm not filled with shame now. As I drop to my knees, I feel only hunger. It's sharp and urgent, twisting inside me, and I blow out a steadying breath as I place one hand on her sneaker.Gardenia watches me, cheeks flushed, as I draw my hand over her ankle. Up her bare shin. Up, up, over her knee, her smooth thigh, the frayed hem of her shorts."Ambrose," she squeaks. My hand skates over her hip, then I swap to my left, tracing her waist, her ribs, the soft side of her breast, all through her baggy t-shirt. Gardenia lies there and lets me feel the length of her body, possessiveness pounding out a rhythm in my chest."You'

Ambrose's place is a fifteen-minute walk from campus, in a pale brick apartment building on the outskirts of town. Inside, it's a lot like his office. Clean and masculine, with dark wood furniture and lots of light. Green, leafy houseplants and thick, patterned drapes.But there's more of him, too–classic movie posters framed on the walls; bookcases filled with battered paperbacks rather than those leather tomes; a casually tossed remote and an abandoned empty mug."Be honest with me." I toe my sneakers off by the door. My backpack lands on the floorboards with a thump. "Did you clean before asking me here?"Ambrose huffs a laugh, leading the way into the living room. "Of course."He shows me the kitchen and a home office. Points at the door to a bathroom. Then leads me to his bedroom, but pauses at the closed door.I rest a palm between his shoulder blades. He's so tense, muscles rigid beneath his black sweater. "Show me, Ambrose. I really do want to see."The door swings open under

“You can run into me anytime, angel.”His chin is square; his nose straight. Dark hair is combed back above the mask, and it curls around his ears. His white shirt is open at the collar—no tie.And those eyes are hungry as they track up and down my body, but unlike those other men inside with their wandering eyes… this time, I welcome it. I want his gaze on me, lingering where my hard nipples press against my dress. Eyes and hands and lips and teeth—Who cares if this is a dream? Even if it is, it’s the best one I’ve had in a long time. I beam up at the stranger, my mask shifting against my nose. His is pitch black, while mine is ivory and lace.“Well, how will I find you to run into you again?”The stranger’s smile is crooked. “Don’t you think we’d recognize each other? After this?”And even though we’ve only been speaking for a minute or two, even though we’ve just met… he’s right. It’s instinctual, maybe. I’d know this man anywhere.Except…Something prods at the back of my brain.

Year 2A whole goddamn year, and no sign of my angel. Was she even real? I’ve scoured the whole city, searched the whole east coast, but found no sign of her. I’m starting to wonder if she was ever there at all.Maybe I hallucinated her. Conjured her up out of sheer longing—the woman of my dreams. Sweet and sexy, doe eyes sparkling with humor, her body arching against mine like she felt it too.The sense of relief at finding one another; the sensation of coming home. Maybe I invented it all.“Champagne, sir?”I nod and pluck a flute from the server’s tray, muttering my thanks. Lord knows I’ll need it. The masquerade ball always tests my patience, always drives me into the rose garden to get away from the crush of bodies and wandering hands, but this year…If I don’t find her again this year, I don’t know what I’ll do. Spiral into despair, I suppose.And maybe I’m fooling myself by exaggerating how perfect it was, how neatly we fit together, but either way, I need to find her. I need t