DDD: Daddies Dirty Desire のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 71 - チャプター 80

The building felt hollow after midnight—fluorescent lights dimmed in the hallways, security desk empty, only the low hum of the HVAC keeping the silence from being absolute. Riley stayed late “helping” with files—another excuse, another hour she could steal. She wore the same short gray skirt from earlier, white blouse tucked in tight, top two buttons undone because the air conditioning never reached the archives. Hair pulled into a messy ponytail, strands already escaping. No bra again—nipples faintly visible when the fabric shifted.Victor waited by the elevator bank—suit jacket off, sleeves rolled, tie loosened but still knotted. He didn’t speak when she walked up—just pressed the down button. Doors slid open. They stepped inside. The car was empty, mirrored walls reflecting their reflection back at them—her flushed cheeks, his dark eyes.The doors closed. Elevator started its descent—smooth, quiet.Victor reached past her—hit the emergency stop button between floors 18 and 17. A s

The office tower stood dark against the city skyline—only a few scattered windows glowing on the upper floors, security lights casting long shadows across the empty lobby. Riley’s father left for a month tomorrow—extended trip to Asia, private jet fueled, suitcase already in the car. Tonight was the last real chance before the building locked down tighter, before the cameras got recalibrated, before everything snapped back to normal distance.She waited until 2:03 a.m.—long enough for the night guard to finish his rounds, short enough that the cleaning crew had moved on. Trench coat belted tight over nothing—bare skin against the wool lining, nipples hard from the cool night air. She rode the elevator up alone—mirrors showing her flushed cheeks, loose hair, red lips still swollen from earlier that day when she’d “accidentally” brushed past him in the hallway.The 42nd floor was silent. Victor’s corner suite door stood ajar—soft desk lamp spilling warm gold into the corridor. She pushe

The morning after felt like walking on live wires.Alex arrived at 7:55, coffee in one hand, tie still crooked from nerves. He kept his head down through the open-plan floor, dodging good-mornings and pretending his lips didn’t still feel bruised. Damian was already in the glass-walled conference room, running the 8 a.m. strategy huddle like nothing had happened. Crisp white shirt, charcoal vest, sleeves rolled again. When Alex slipped in late with the updated deck, Damian didn’t even glance up—just flicked two fingers toward the seat beside him.But every time Alex looked over, he caught it: Damian’s eyes sliding sideways, dark and unreadable, lingering on Alex’s mouth for half a second too long. Then back to the screen. Professional. Controlled.It made Alex’s skin burn under his collar.The day dragged. Meetings bled into calls bled into emails. Damian never said a word about last night. Not in the hallway, not over lunch trays, not when he dropped a stack of files on Alex’s desk a

Friday dragged longer than any other day that week.The team-building dinner had been on the calendar for months—some overpriced rooftop place with forced small talk and too many cocktails. At 4:47 p.m., the email hit everyone’s inbox: Canceled due to unforeseen scheduling conflict. Have a great weekend. No explanation. No apologies. Just gone.Alex stared at the screen, stomach already tightening. He knew exactly whose “scheduling conflict” that was.At 6:03, his phone buzzed once.Top floor conference room. 6:15. Don’t be late.Alex deleted the message immediately, heart hammering. He waited until the floor was mostly empty—lights dimming section by section—then took the service stairs up two flights to avoid the cameras in the main elevators.The top-floor conference room took up half the level. Floor-to-ceiling glass on three sides, city lights glittering like spilled diamonds behind the blinds. The long polished mahogany table stretched down the center, chairs pushed neatly in. D

I’ve known Mr. Hayes since I was twelve. Back then he was just “Uncle Ryan”—the guy who grilled burgers at every backyard barbecue, tossed footballs with us in the yard, always in faded tees that showed off arms still ripped from his construction days. Now I’m twenty-one. He’s forty-five. Still built like he could bench-press me without breaking a sweat. Still has that easy laugh. Still looks at me sometimes like he’s seeing something he shouldn’t.His daughter—my best friend Mia—left for a weekend music festival at noon. She hugged me goodbye in the driveway, yelling, “Don’t let Dad bore you to death while I’m gone!” Then she was in her Uber, gone.I stayed. Told her I’d help her dad fix the leaky faucet in the guest bathroom. Bullshit excuse. We both knew it.The house went quiet after she left. Just the hum of the AC and the occasional creak of old wood.I found him in the kitchen. Shirtless. Sweatpants low on his hips. Wiping his hands on a dish towel after rinsing a glass. Broad