Todos los capítulos de Daddy's Forbidden Little Pet: Capítulo 271 - Capítulo 280

The receptionist smiled like nothing in the building had been desecrated.“Dr. Vane is ready for you, Brooke.”I walked in. Elliot closed the door. Locked it. Took the glasses off. The sequence was already a ritual.“You left it last week,” he said.It wasn’t a question. I had. I could still remember driving home wet with him, sitting through a grocery run like a person with a secret between her thighs.“Yes.”“Good. Skirt off. Underwear off. On the couch.”I obeyed. The office looked the same — lamp, clock, box of tissues nobody was going to need for crying. Elliot stood over me and looked at what he had turned his fifty minutes into. Then he dropped to his knees, hooked my legs over his shoulders, and put his mouth on me.He ate me like the session had a billable objective. Slow strokes. Then tighter ones. Two fingers inside me while he sucked my clit until I had to bite my wrist to stay quiet. I came hard against his tongue, hips jerking, the white-noise machine in the hall coverin

The promotion put me on the forty-second floor.Glass. Quiet carpet. Assistants who spoke in lower voices. A kitchen that never ran out of the expensive sparkling water nobody actually liked. I had wanted this floor for three years. I had not wanted the man who occupied the corner office at the end of it.Dorian Crowe. COO. Forty-two. Ice in a tailored charcoal suit. He left at 6:00 on the minute, every night I had ever watched the elevator bank from two floors down. No lingering. No drinks. No interest in the people who stayed to prove they were hungry.On my second week upstairs, I stayed until 7:10.Not for him. For a deck that refused to balance. The floor emptied. The glass offices went dark one by one until only the corner stayed lit — a single warm lamp, not the overheads. I told myself not to look.At 7:22 his door opened.He stood there with his jacket off, sleeves rolled once, watching me like I had broken a rule I hadn’t been given.“Quinn.”“Mr. Crowe.”“Dorian is fine aft

The stand-up was at 9:00.I gave the unedited numbers with a straight face and Dorian’s come still slick between my thighs. He asked one question about the contingency line. I answered.He nodded once and moved on like he had not had me on his desk twelve hours earlier. The rest of the floor heard a COO and a newly promoted director doing their jobs.I heard the lock turning.He made me wait until Thursday.**Come.** 6:52 p.m.I locked the door. Dorian was already at the window. Jacket gone. Tie gone. He didn’t tell me to sit.“On your knees.”The carpet was thick and expensive. I sank onto it. He looked down at me with the same ice he used in budget cuts, then freed himself and traced my lower lip with his thumb.“Open.”I opened. He fed me his cock slow at first, then deeper, one hand in my hair, controlling the pace like a meeting agenda. I took him until my eyes watered. The quiet rule still stood. I made myself useful instead of loud. Dorian’s breathing changed. He pulled me of

Lucian Ward was the reason my firm put me in the room.Not because I was charming. Because I closed. Because I could sit across from a man who owned four hotels and a shipping line and not fill the silence for him. The account was worth more than my team’s combined salaries. Losing it would be a career event. Keeping it meant dinners that looked like work and felt like something with teeth.Tonight’s reservation was his choice. Dark booth. Low light. A steakhouse that did not print prices. I arrived first on purpose. He arrived eight minutes late on purpose. Forty-four. Charcoal suit. No tie. The kind of face that made waiters stand up straighter and made my pulse misbehave against my better judgment.“Giana.” He said my name like he had already decided how the evening ended. “You look like you came to negotiate.”“I came to keep your business.”“Same sport.” He sat. Ordered whiskey without looking at the menu. Ordered mine too — the same — and only then asked, “Unless you’d prefer th

Wednesday the address arrived at 4:06 p.m.A penthouse ten minutes from my office. No hotel gold. No key card. Just a door code and a line:8. Don’t eat. Don’t go home first.I told my director I had a late client call. It was the only lie that still felt like work.Lucian opened the door in a black shirt, sleeves rolled, whiskey already poured. The apartment was all stone and low light and windows that did not belong to a property he rented by the night. He looked at my dress, then at my mouth.“Jacket off. Dress off. You can keep the heels.”I stripped in his entryway. I had worn nothing underneath because the suite had trained me. Lucian’s eyes went dark. He walked around me once, unhurried, and dragged two fingers between my legs.“You came wet.”“Yes.”“Good. Kitchen.”He lifted me onto the island, spread my knees, and put his mouth on me like dinner had been canceled for a reason. He licked me slow, then greedy, two fingers pumping while he sucked my clit until I came with a bro