Page 18 of Bosshole Daddy

W hen I woke the next day, I knew I had been claimed. Every muscle sang with delicious soreness as I surfaced from sleep, legs tangled in sheets.

I stretched carefully, testing each ache like a treasured souvenir. My thighs protested the movement, inner muscles tender from how thoroughly he'd taken me. The sensation sent heat spiraling through my belly, a visceral reminder that last night hadn't been another desperate dream.

Damian Stone had called me his good girl. Had spanked me for breaking his rules. Had knelt between my thighs and taken me apart with his mouth before fucking me on his desk until I screamed his name—no, his title—for anyone left in the building to hear.

My feet found the cold floor, toes curling against worn hardwood as I padded to the bathroom. The morning light filtering through my one window was unforgiving, but I needed to see. Needed proof that I hadn't imagined the whole thing.

The bathroom mirror had that same crack running through it, but today it showed me someone I barely recognized. My hair was a disaster, tangled from his fingers. My lips still looked swollen, well-kissed. But it was the marks that made my breath catch.

Fingerprint bruises bloomed purple-blue on my hips, perfectly placed where he'd gripped me. I traced them with wondering fingers, pressing gently to feel the tender ache. Mine, he'd growled while leaving these brands on my skin. Mine to pleasure. Mine to deny. Mine to control.

I turned, craning to see my shoulder in the mirror's cracked surface. There—the imprint of his teeth, faint but unmistakable. Evidence of that moment when he'd pulled me back against his chest, marking me while I begged for release.

"Oh God," I whispered to my reflection, but I couldn't tell if it was horror or satisfaction in my voice.

Maybe both.

The pacifier waited on my nightstand when I returned to the bedroom, innocent-looking next to my bunny.

My fingers ghosted over both objects—the worn fur of my childhood comfort, the smooth plastic of this new surrender.

I felt like I was growing into something new, something more than I’d ever been before.

I dressed with more care than usual, hyperaware of every piece of fabric against sensitive skin.

The navy dress was perfect—high neckline to hide the beard burn, sleeves to cover the bite mark, length appropriate for the office while still being something he might approve of.

Professional enough for Isla James, assistant. Soft enough for his little one.

My hands shook only slightly as I pinned the gold ribbon in my hair. Such a small thing, but wearing it now felt like wearing his collar. A silent acknowledgment of what we'd become in the darkness of his office.

"You're being ridiculous," I told myself firmly, smoothing the dress over my hips. "You're still just his employee. Last night was probably a mistake he already regrets."

Hmmm. He wouldn’t be happy that I was talking down to myself.

I decided to stop. Could I believe that he really wanted me?

My body remembered the reverence in his touch.

The way he'd praised me, punished me, pleasured me with equal intensity.

The raw possession in his voice when he'd said mine to love.

He'd probably meant it differently. Heat of the moment. Endorphins and adrenaline making us both say things we didn't mean. By the time I reached the office, he'd have rebuilt those walls, returned to being the cold, demanding boss who'd humiliated me in front of the senior staff just days ago.

"Right," I muttered, grabbing my bag and carefully tucking my bunny inside. "Because billionaire CEOs definitely make a habit of eating out their assistants on company property."

The sarcasm felt hollow, defense against hope that hurt too much to hold directly.

The commute passed in a blur of practiced invisibility.

I kept my eyes down on the subway, convinced everyone could see what I'd become.

Property of Damian Stone might as well have been tattooed across my forehead.

Every jostle of the train made me aware of the bruises hidden under my dress, the lingering ache between my thighs, the way my body had been remapped to his specifications.

An older woman's gaze lingered on my ribbon, and I fought the urge to touch it, to hide it, to run back home and change into something that didn't scream “I let my boss call me little one while he spanked me.”

Grounded Coffee Co. appeared like a beacon of normalcy.

The familiar chaos of the morning rush, steam hissing from machines, baristas calling out orders in their practiced rhythm.

I needed this—needed five minutes of routine before walking into that office and discovering whether last night had changed everything or nothing at all.

The line moved slowly, giving me too much time to check my phone.

No messages from him. No acknowledgment of what we'd done, what we'd become.

Maybe he was giving me space. Maybe he was drafting my termination letter.

Maybe he was already interviewing my replacement—someone who wouldn't call him Daddy with such desperate need.

"One americano, extra shot," I told the barista when my turn came. I didn’t have to wait long.

"Americano for Isla!"

The coffee shop door chimed as I pushed through it, Manhattan morning air hitting my heated cheeks like a wake-up call. I was three steps away when a voice cut through the morning chaos like a blade through silk.

"Ms. James. What a pleasant surprise."

I froze, my americano suddenly feeling like a lead weight in my hand. That voice—smooth and cultured but with something sharp underneath, like honey poured over broken glass. I knew who it belonged to before I turned.

Silas King stood close enough that I could smell his cologne—something aggressive and citrusy that made my nose itch. Where Damian's scent wrapped around you like warmth, Silas's announced itself like a declaration of war.

"Mr. King." I managed to keep my voice steady, clutching the coffee cup like it might protect me from whatever this was.

His smile revealed perfect teeth, the expression never quite reaching his eyes. Those eyes—darker than Damian's storm-gray, flat like a shark's—swept over me in an assessment that made my skin crawl. They lingered on the gold ribbon in my hair, and his smile sharpened.

"Please, call me Silas." He shifted closer, just enough to make me step back, my hip hitting the condiment station. "After all, we're practically family now. Damian must be so pleased to have found someone so . . . accommodating after Veronica."

The way his tongue wrapped around 'accommodating' made it sound like something dirty. Heat flooded my cheeks, but not the pleasant warmth Damian triggered. This was the burn of shame, of exposure, like he could see right through my dress to the marks hidden beneath.

"I should go." The words came out smaller than intended. "Mr. Stone expects me—"

"At a different time every morning, yes. He's particular about his requirements." Silas moved again, a subtle shift that somehow blocked my path to the door without seeming to. "Though I suspect you've learned he's particular about many things."

My stomach clenched. There was knowledge in his tone, suggestion in the slight emphasis. Like he knew exactly what kind of requirements Damian had imposed on me last night.

"I really need to—"

"Oh, but I've been hoping to catch you alone." His hand rose, hovering near my elbow, not quite touching but herding me away from the door with the threat of contact. "You see, I have some concerns about your . . . arrangement with Damian. Professional concerns, you understand."

Arrangement. The word hit like ice water, washing away the warm afterglow I'd been carrying. Because that's what it was, wasn't it? An arrangement. Not a relationship, not even really an affair. Just a business transaction with orgasms.

"I don't know what you mean." But my voice betrayed me, catching on the lie.

"Don't you?" His hand dropped, but he leaned closer, voice dropping to a confidential murmur that probably looked friendly to anyone watching. "A sudden engagement to a brand new assistant, perfectly timed for the Hartley acquisition? Come now, Ms. James. We're both too smart to play games."

"There's nothing—"

"Would you spare five minutes?" He gestured toward a corner booth, partially hidden by a potted plant. "Just five minutes. I promise I'm trying to help you."

Help me.

Like I was some damsel in distress who needed saving from the big bad CEO.

"I can't. I'll be late."

"Five minutes won't make a difference. Damian's in the Singapore call until eight anyway." His smile widened at my shocked expression. "Oh yes, I make it my business to know his schedule. Competitive intelligence, you understand."

He was already moving toward the booth, that shepherd's hand hovering behind me, guiding without touching. Every instinct screamed to run, to flee back to the safety of Damian's domain. But that word—arrangement—had hooked into my brain like a barb.

What if he knew something I didn't? What if this was all some elaborate game I was too naive to see? What if last night's intimacy was just another move on Damian's chessboard?

"Five minutes," I heard myself say, hating how weak it sounded.

"Excellent." Silas slid into the booth with predatory grace, gesturing for me to take the opposite seat. "I promise this will be illuminating."

I perched on the edge of the bench, ready to bolt, my coffee growing cold between us on the scarred table. The booth felt like a trap, the high backs cutting us off from the normal morning bustle. Silas had chosen it deliberately, I realized. Somewhere we could be seen but not heard.

He settled back against the leather, completely at ease while I sat rigid as a board. Everything about him felt wrong—the calculating eyes, the too-perfect appearance, the way he occupied space like he was measuring it for purchase.