Page 13 of Bosshole Daddy

My phone buzzed with the delivery notification he'd set up, and he straightened, moving toward the door with that same purposeful stride.

"Thirty minutes," he said over his shoulder. "Think you can survive that long without passing out?"

The teasing note in his voice made my stomach flip.

"I'll try," I managed, my voice only slightly breathless.

His smile this time was full of promise. "Good girl.”

*

The food arrived in containers that looked too elegant for takeout—smooth white boxes that opened to reveal meals that belonged in magazines, not in my cramped kitchen with its water-stained ceiling and mismatched chairs.

Steam rose from the salmon, pink and perfect on its bed of wild rice, accompanied by vegetables so bright they looked painted.

A crusty baguette, still warm. A salad with greens I couldn't name, glistening with vinaigrette that smelled like summer.

He plated everything with the same precision he used in every part of his life—each component given its proper space, nothing touching, nothing chaotic.

When he set the plate before me, it looked like an impossible task.

A feast for someone who knew how to feast, not someone who'd been subsisting on toast and stubbornness.

"I'm not that hungry," I started, the lie automatic. My stomach chose that moment to growl, loud in the quiet kitchen, betraying me completely.

His eyes found mine, one eyebrow raised in that way that meant he saw through every defense I'd tried to erect. "Yes," he cut in calmly, pulling out the chair beside me with deliberate intent, "you are. Eat."

The command should have rankled. Should have made me bristle with the indignation of being ordered around in my own home. Instead, my body responded with that now-familiar warmth, that pull toward obedience that he seemed to trigger with just his voice.

I picked up the fork with trembling fingers, the weight of it feeling enormous.

The first piece of salmon I cut was too big, then too small, my hands shaking as I tried to perform this simple task under his watchful gaze.

When I finally managed to spear a reasonable bite, I just stared at it, my throat closing up with something that wasn't quite hunger but wasn't quite fear either.

The lettuce was easier to contemplate, safer.

I poked at it with my fork, moving pieces around the plate like a child trying to make it look like I'd eaten.

The vinaigrette pooled in the corner, golden and fragrant, and I focused on that instead of the way he'd gone still beside me, patience radiating from him like heat.

"Isla." He spoke so softly to me.

When I looked up, he was studying me with those gray eyes that missed nothing. The muscle in his jaw ticked once, twice. Then he reached over and plucked the fork from my unresisting fingers with the same authority he'd taken my keys.

"Open," he said, his voice dropping to that register that turned my bones to liquid.

My lips parted automatically, obedience bypassing conscious thought. He'd already speared a perfect bite—salmon with just a touch of the rice, balanced and careful. When he brought it to my mouth, his other hand came up to cup my chin, steadying me with a touch so gentle it made my eyes burn.

The first bite hit my tongue like a revelation.

Butter and herbs and something bright I couldn't name.

I'd forgotten food could taste like this, had been living on fuel instead of flavor for so long that the sensation was almost overwhelming.

I closed my eyes without meaning to, a small sound escaping that might have been pleasure or relief or both.

"That's it," he murmured, and the approval in his voice sent warmth spiraling through me that had nothing to do with the food. His thumb brushed against my chin, catching a drop of something—sauce, maybe, or just the overwhelmed tears that were threatening to spill.

I chewed slowly, swallowed carefully, hyperaware of his attention on my throat as it worked. When I opened my eyes, he was already preparing the next bite with the same deliberate care.

"Good girl."

The words hit me like a physical touch, sending electricity racing down my spine.

My thighs pressed together involuntarily, seeking pressure, seeking something to ease the sudden ache between them.

Because he'd said it the way he'd said it on the balcony, the way he'd said it when I'd called him Daddy, and my body remembered. God, did it remember.

I swallowed too fast, nearly choking, and had to grab for the water glass he smoothly slid within reach. My face burned with more than embarrassment as I sipped, trying to cool the fire he'd lit with just two words.

"Good girl," he repeated, gentler this time, like he knew exactly what he was doing to me.

His eyes had gone darker, pupils dilated in the dim kitchen light, and I realized with a start that this was affecting him too.

Feeding me, caring for me, watching me submit to his care—it was doing something to him that had nothing to do with charity and everything to do with the dynamic we'd been dancing around since that first "little one. "

The meal continued in a silence that felt anything but quiet.

Each bite he offered, I accepted. Each murmur of praise when I finished what he gave me sent fresh heat through my body.

His free hand had settled on my knee through the silk dress, not moving, just resting there with a weight that felt like an anchor.

"More?" he'd ask between bites, and I'd nod, unable to form words past the lump in my throat that was equal parts arousal and something softer, more dangerous. Care, maybe. Being cared for. Being seen as something worth caring for.

Three-quarters of the way through the plate, I finally hit my limit. My stomach, shrunken from neglect, protested against more. I turned my head slightly when he offered the next bite, a tiny rebellion that made his eyes narrow with interest rather than anger.

"Full?" The question was soft, assessing.

I nodded, not trusting my voice. He set the fork down with the same precision he'd used to pick it up, then turned his full attention to me. I must have looked a mess—lips shiny from the food, cheeks flushed from his proximity, eyes probably betraying every confused feeling racing through me.

"You did well," he said, and the praise made me want to preen and hide in equal measure. "Most of it gone. That's my good girl."

My breath hitched at the possessive pronoun. His good girl. Like I belonged to him in this too.

He reached for the napkin, dampening one corner in my water glass with careful deliberation.

When he touched it to my chin, I froze, the gentleness of the gesture at odds with the authority in every other movement.

He cleaned my face with the same focused attention he'd given to feeding me, wiping away the evidence of the meal with touches so soft they made my chest ache.

"There," he murmured when he was satisfied, one finger trailing along my jaw before dropping away. "Perfect."

But I wasn't perfect. I was a disaster of want and confusion, sitting in my shabby kitchen while my boss—my Daddy, that insistent voice whispered—took care of me.

"You, know,” he said, looking at me with his piercing gaze, “You're allowed to let someone take care of you," he said then, seeming to read my mind. The words were soft but carried weight and they took me by surprise.

My eyes burned with tears I refused to let fall. Not here, not now, not when he was being so careful with me. But he saw them anyway, of course he did, and his expression softened further into something that made my chest feel too small for my heart.

"Oh, little one," he breathed, and then I was crying anyway, silent tears that slipped down my cheeks before I could stop them. Not from sadness but from the overwhelming relief of being cared for.

He didn't try to stop my tears, didn't tell me not to cry. Just handed me a tissue with the same matter-of-fact care he'd shown with the food, then went about clearing the plates like it was perfectly normal to have his assistant crying at her kitchen table while he did her dishes.

*

I escaped to my bedroom while he worked in my kitchen, the domestic sounds of running water and clinking dishes following me like a lullaby. My hands shook as I peeled off the silk. The dress pooled at my feet like spilled champagne.

My softest sweater was buried in the bottom drawer—oversized, worn thin at the elbows, the color of fog on a winter morning.

It smelled like home, like safety, like all the nights I'd curled up in it pretending the world couldn't find me.

The leggings were just as old, just as soft, the kind of clothes you wore when you didn't need to be anything for anyone. When you were all alone.

Except I wasn't alone. He was here, in my space, washing my dishes. The thought made my movements clumsy as I pulled on the comfortable clothes, my body still humming from his touch, from being fed by his hand, from the way "good girl" in his mouth had rewritten my entire nervous system.

I padded back out in bare feet, my hair released from its pins to fall in waves around my shoulders.

The kitchen was spotless—cleaner than I'd left it in weeks.

Plates dried and stacked neatly on the counter.

Take-out containers disposed of. Even the ancient coffee maker gleamed like he'd attacked it with limescale remover.

He stood in my bedroom doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame, watching me with those eyes that seemed to catalog every detail.

"You're tired," he observed, not a question but a statement of fact.

"I'm fine," I tried, the protest automatic even as a yawn betrayed me mid-sentence.

His lips quirked at that, not quite a smile but close. "No," he said simply, pushing off from the doorframe with that fluid grace. "You're not. Bed."