Semua Bab Wanting His Father; Daddy Dom/ LG Forbidden Romance: Bab 101 - Bab 106

THOMASI sit in the chair by the window, the afternoon light filtering through half-drawn curtains in golden shafts that warm the bare skin of my thighs. Iris sits across my lap, her weight pressing down deliciously, the heat of her body seeping through the fabric of her dress.Her scent fills my senses – something floral and musky – and my cock hardens against her core, throbbing with each subtle shift of her hips. I reach up, my fingers threading into the silken strands of her hair, cupping the back of her head with both hands to draw her closer. Our mouths meet in a slow, searing kiss that ignites like fire catching tinder, her lips parting under mine with a soft moan that vibrates straight through me.Tongues slide and tangle, wet and insistent, tasting the sweetness of her breath as I deepen the kiss, sucking on her lower lip before claiming her again with hungry urgency. Arousal builds in waves, my erection straining against my pants and pressing into the damp heat of her pussy,

IRISI jump so violently that my knees knock against the frame of the heavy wooden cutting table. Daddy bursts into a sudden, clear laugh."Don't laugh!" I say, pressing a hand to my pounding heart."I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he says, holding up his hands, though he isn't trying very hard to hide his amusement."I still forget we even have that damn thing installed now," I mutter, staring at the landline phone sitting on the small side table by the door. It feels like an alien object in a room dedicated to needles and shears.The telephone rings a second time, shrill and demanding.Daddy steps back, making an expansive, sweeping gesture toward the door with one hand. "Go on, then, baby girl. Your empire awaits.""My empire currently consists of a single client, a mountain of uncut wool, and an obnoxious piece of brass wire," I say, smoothing down my shirt as I walk toward the jangling phone."Every great empire begins somewhere."I take a breath, steadying my trembling hands, and pick up

HELENThe morning light filters through the floor-to-ceiling sash windows of the breakfast room, laying pale yellow ribbons across the polished parquet floor. Outside, the park reposes under a thin shroud of silver mist, pristine, quiet, and completely undisturbed.I sit at the head of the long mahogany table, wrapped in a heavy silk dressing gown the color of crushed plums. Before me rests a porcelain cup of black coffee, steaming gently, beside a crystal bowl filled with precise cubes of papaya, melon, and blood orange. I pick at a piece of fruit with a small silver fork, turning it over, entirely without appetite.My attention is elsewhere.The morning paper lies open beside my plate, folded cleanly to the social pages.There I am.I study the photograph with the cold, practiced eye of a woman who has spent almost forty years navigating the relentless glare of the high-society press. The lighting from the Harrington Gallery’s entrance floodlights was merciful; it flatters the high