Page 4 of Daddies’ Dark Desires (Forbidden Fantasies #19)

HARPER

G od, why does Grant acting like my dad have to be so fucking hot?

I want him.

Like in a real fucking way.

Fantasies from far away are fine, but this shit has bloomed in full force.

The quiet, contemplative way Grant is looking at me…it’s not helping.

He doesn’t even glance at my legs when I put them on full display.

Although I did clock the one peek at my chest when I leaned over the back of the chair.

Yeah, his stare is different from all the other times he’s looked at me. It turns my flirt dial up a level.

Makes me a little brattier, too.

Ha, it makes him smile.

And why is he talking so softly?

Low and gruff like nothing I do or say phases him, even though I know it does.

It all lines up with the new budding fantasies I started writing about in my journal during lunch.

Pushing the boundaries with him is also a lot of fun.

Nothing but flaring nostrils as I lean over the edge of his desk to flash him my tits again.

He wants me to be safe.

I know he does.

But he’s got the same overprotective streak that Dad had.

Only without the authority and without the soft love that Dad always folded under.

Still, the strain on Grant’s face isn’t just his resistance to look down my shirt.

He wants me to let him send me home in a car.

But the walk helps me think.

I need to people watch and use my brain before it melts into a puddle on my shoulders.

He lets me go without a fight, but I know this isn’t the end of it.

As soon as I’m outside, the wind hits me, throwing my hair back behind me, and I feel the stress of the boring day start to dissipate.

The sidewalks are full with the after-work rush, and I love the feeling of disappearing into the crowd.

Being one of many.

I could be anyone.

I’m alone so much of the time that these short few moments are the most peaceful I’ve been since I lost my dad.

The train is crowded, but I squeeze in between two older couples.

A grandmotherly type pats my knee, and I smile at her.

Usually, I’m analyzing people by this point, noting every small detail and movement to identify what they do, who they are, where they’re going, and how their day was.

It’s the usual kind of practice that hones my skills. The kind of thing that settles my racing thoughts.

But my mind is already preoccupied.

Daydreams I was barely able to fend off on the walk here flood the forefront of my brain as soon as I sit.

Grant propped behind his desk, in charge, larger than life.

The way his palm smoothed over the polished wood like he might slide it up my knee, under my skirt, between my thighs.

His subconscious couldn’t be completely suppressed, even though he’s one of the most in control men I’ve ever encountered.

He puts my ethics professor to shame.

That man did not flinch.

Even when I almost fell out of my top during a presentation.

Iron will.

Grant, though…

He’s not immune.

And if he’s not immune…

I pull my journal out of my bag and settle both on my lap to scribble in a new entry.

Entry #2

He orders me to take a car home, and this time, he doesn’t take my no as an answer.

When I get up to saunter away from him this time, he meets me at the door, his big hand pressed into the wood above my head as he drops that soft, calm voice even lower.

It’s a grumble in my ear.

“Where do you think you’re going, baby girl?”

That sends a deep shiver through me.

My face tips up, assessing how he hovers behind me.

His body is so big, throws off so much heatr and power that it’s like a physical caress down my back.

“Home.”

My voice is more husky than I intended.

More needy.

And he has to clock it.

Grant is too smart not to.

“You’ll wait for the car to take us.”

“Us?”

His big hand closes around my bicep, the same way it did as he escorted me in, and he presses his thumb to the door to open it.

All secure and safe and wary.

We walk at a steady space—not slow and not fast.

Eyes follow our movement, just like they did when he escorted me into his office.

He parades me to the elevator and doesn’t release me once we’re inside.

We’re also not alone, or I would definitely make a counter move.

A bratty tug of war that would only make him hold onto me harder.

As it is, I shoot him a look, and he doesn’t even bother to acknowledge it.

Stable. Calm. In charge.

When my muscles in my arm tense, his grip tightens and so does his jaw.

I smile. Small. Smug.

We’re the last ones off.

Heading to a car waiting in front of the building, Grant pulls me in front of him, helping me into the car and following after.

I slide across the buttery leather seats.

I’m so small next to him like this.

With the car door shutting us in, and the dark divider closing in.

Two sets of two seats face each other.

It’s tempting to want to sit opposite him instead of so close.

Warring with eye contact is always my preference.

And he would pay attention to my face if I put the rest of me on display.

He’d already proven as much.

But Grant’s hand comes down on my knee, trapping me in place.

Heat drives up through me. I try not to fidget.

“You’re not my dad, you know.”

Finally, he peers down at me, and I glare at him.

“Yes, I know.”

Fingers dip into the flesh above my knee, and I can’t help but squirm this time.

I squeeze my knees together, trapping his hand there, and lean into his thick arm.

“Oh? Is that right? You mean you don’t want me to call you…Daddy?”

I let the last word come out as a whisper and watch it ripple through him.

His pupils dilate.

His nostrils flare.

Jaw clenches.

Muscles tighten.

Pressing my breasts harder against his arm, my own fingers traipse down his forearm to where he’s gripping my leg.

“And what is it you want to call me? A brat?”

He growls at me.

Low. Almost indistinct.

“Your brat?”

I know what they call me.

That they think I’m spoiled.

They’re not wrong.

“Get on your knees, Harper.”

I grin up at him.

Playing right into the hand he’s dealing me.

I lick my lips at him.

Grant sinks his big hand into my hair, tight enough that I gasp and desire burns deep.

“Your knees, baby girl.”

I scramble at his thigh, overwhelmed with the want to obey and rebel.

He guides me where he wants me, depositing me between his knees.

I’m salivating, waiting for him to take what he wants.

To punish me for pushing back against his orders.

For being a brat.

Having me service him the entire ride home makes me wetter than any other sexual encounter ever has.

He takes my throat, comes across my tongue, and hands over his power.

It’s the kind of exchange I like.

I submit.

And he gives me what I truly want.

Him.

Losing control.

Over me.