All Chapters of Daddy's Forbidden Little Pet: Chapter 241 - Chapter 250

David was asleep by 10:20.Wine and a long day and the easy trust of a man who thought the guest room held only his brother.Celeste lay still until his breathing went deep.Then she got up.David’s shirt. Nothing else. The same one she had left on Evan’s floor and found folded on her pillow like a dare.The hall was dark.The guest door was unlatched.Celeste pushed it open.Evan was awake in the chair.No shirt. Sweatpants low. The lamp off. Only the streetlight cutting across his chest—David’s chest, almost, and not at all.“Took you long enough,” he said.Celeste shut the door to a crack. Not closed. The risk left breathing.Evan stood.He didn’t kiss her first.He turned her to face the bed, bent her over the edge, and shoved the shirt up.She was already wet.He checked with two fingers, groaned, and replaced them with his cock in one stroke.Celeste bit the duvet.Evan fucked her quiet and deep, one hand on the small of her back, the other covering her mouth when the wet sound

Sixteen hours. That was all I lasted.I showered in the morning and flinched when the water hit the bruise on my hip. Thumbprint. His. I put a dress over it like clothing could make me a person who had not bent over a neighbor’s counter and asked for it. At work I sat through a meeting with my underwear already a problem. Every time I crossed my legs I felt last night. Every time someone said my name I thought about how I had said his.I came home, dropped my bag, and listened.His door opened at 7:12. Keys. The heavy quiet of a man who lives alone and does not perform for the hallway. Then nothing. No TV. No shower. Just the knowledge of him one floor under me like a hand on the back of my neck.I changed into a thinner shirt than last night. Dark. Short. No bra. Underwear I could take off without a speech. I stood at my own door with my palm on the wood and thought about locking it the way good women lock things.I didn’t.The stairwell smelled like detergent and old heat. Second-fl

I left for work with the door cracked and spent the whole day wet about it.That was the new disease. Not just wanting him. Wanting the *possibility*. Eight hours of emails and polite nodding while my body sat in a navy dress and thought about an unlocked apartment and a man who did not believe in knocking. I crossed my legs in a meeting and felt last night’s bruise answer. I ate lunch without tasting it. On the bus home I kept my bag in my lap like it could hide what I was.6:40. Keys. Hallway. The wreath on 2B still crooked. 2A shut like a held breath.My door was already open wider than I had left it.Cole was in my kitchen with a glass of my water, sleeves shoved up, looking at me like I’d arrived late to something he had started without me.“That’s my trick,” I said.“You invented it. I’m better at it.” He didn’t come to me. He looked at the clock. “Lock’s been open since morning. You went to work like that.”“You told me to.”“I told you to leave it. I didn’t tell you to spend e

The first three days under his roof were an exercise in controlled proximity.Victor kept to his study in the mornings. I kept to the guest room and the garden, pretending the ordinary rhythms of the house — coffee, the newspaper folded the way he had always folded it, the sound of his footsteps on the stairs — were not rearranging something fundamental under my skin. We ate dinner together each evening at the small table near the window. The conversations stayed practical on the surface: the length of my lease, the state of my car, whether I needed anything from the store. Underneath, every glance lasted half a second too long. Every time his sleeve brushed mine while reaching for the wine, the contact lingered in the air after he withdrew.On the fourth night the rain returned, heavy and sudden, turning the garden into a dark, wet blur beyond the glass.Victor cooked without asking if I wanted to eat with him. He simply set two places and poured the wine. I sat. The pasta was simple

By seven the house had gone quiet in the particular way it did when Victor finished his last call and closed the study door behind him.I was already in his bedroom.The room was larger than the guest room, darker, the bed a wide expanse of white sheets that smelled faintly of his cologne and clean cotton. I had showered again, left my clothes folded on the chair, and waited as instructed — naked, sitting on the edge of the mattress, the residual evidence of the morning still slick between my thighs because he had told me to leave it.Victor appeared in the doorway and stopped.His eyes moved over me slowly, thoroughly, the way he used to look at a report card he intended to sign. The protective godfather expression was long gone. What remained was open, possessive, and completely uninterested in residual restraint.“Good girl,” he said quietly. “You waited.”He closed the door. The soft click landed like a final rewrite of every rule the house had ever held. Victor crossed the room,