Page 11 of Daddy Protector (Night Ops Daddies #1)

Cole

“Damn, that was… interesting,” I say as I shut the bathroom door behind me and quickly strip out of my clothes.

The combat training with Richie certainly worked well enough to keep his mind off Hunter.

And the boy’s got some natural ability too.

I’ve got no doubt that Hunter will have schooled him over the years in the basics, but there’s something extra there with Richie.

He has a feel for movement, a natural instinct for when to engage and when to slip from a hold.

It’s impressive, there’s no denying that.

As a Night Ops Guard I’ve worked with clients and tried to improve their self-defense skills and been met with everything from bored indifference to a total lack of coordination that even a Ninja Master couldn’t improve.

This boy is on a different level though.

Richie’s no ordinary client. That was obvious from the start, and it’s becoming more and more prominent the longer this situation goes on.

But as engaged as Richie was in the training, there was something else going on too…

I mean, I can’t lie to myself. The boy is hot.

He might be a Little, but there’s no doubt in my mind that Richie has a sex drive that would put anyone to shame. And I’m pretty certain that Richie felt the exact same energy as me when we were in the closest, sweatiest, most entangled moments together out on the lawn.

“He’s a firecracker,” I mutter to myself as I turn the shower water on and watch as it powers down from the head and onto the tiled floor beneath.

And as the small bathroom begins to steam up from the hot shower water, I don’t even need to look down to know that my cock is hardening at the prospect of what Richie and I could get up to with one another.

Briefly, Hunter is out of my mind. And so are his problems.

Hell, right now I don’t even feel like a Night Ops Guard… which for me is a rarity that’s all too uncommon.

All I can think about is the boy.

“Richie…” I say, stepping underneath the water and allowing my hand to travel down toward my thick, hard cock as it bounces and twitches to thoughts of his naked body, in here with me, his slim but evidently pretty strong legs wrapping around me as we kiss…

I can’t help myself as I imagine a naked Richie on his knees, stiff cock and open mouth, ready to serve me. I think about his peachy ass, so biteable, so squeezable. In this moment, all I can do is let my desire and imagination run wild…

It’s not long before I’m working my hand hard and fast, the shower’s spray a perfect lubricant as I tense my ass cheeks and thighs and feel my dick shoot its seed up into the water as it cascades down on me.

“Fuck. That wasn’t good,” I mutter, guilt instantly washing over me as I realize that I’ve just fantasized about my oldest, most loyal friend Hunter’s son. “Never again.”

But try as I might, I can’t get Richie out of my head as I wash my body.

He’s an adult, he knows what he wants. Surely that has to count for something? Damn, this is complicated. And it’s the last thing I need given the fact that his life has been entrusted in my hands.

What I need, and I mean really need, is to make some progress with helping Hunter.

If I can get some valuable information to him, no matter how big or small, it’ll mean that we’re one step closer to ending this.

And if I can do that, then I’ll be back living my Night Ops Guard life without the complexity that Richie is bringing to the table…

I’m at the kitchen table, my laptop open, its harsh blue screen cutting through the shadows, casting jagged reflections on my coffee mug.

I sip the black brew, its bitterness a sharp anchor as I wait for an encrypted message to upload, the progress bar inching forward with maddening slowness.

“Safehouse Wi-Fi…” I grumble, shaking my head in dismay as the progress bar seems to stall. “What year are we in, 1998?”

My fingers drum lightly on the table, a restless habit when the stakes are this high.

This message could be the break I need to unravel the threat against Hunter—my best friend, my brother-in-arms, the man who’s saved me more times than I can count.

My mind drifts as the laptop hums, pulling me back to a night off the coast of Haiti, years ago, when Hunter saved my life…

We were on a high-stakes op, extracting a diplomat from a cartel stronghold on a remote island. The mission was clean on paper—get in, get out—but our intel was bad, and we walked into an ambush.

The night was thick with humidity, the air heavy with salt, gunpowder, and the acrid sting of fear. Bullets tore through the darkness, shredding palm fronds as we fought our way to the shore, the diplomat trembling between us, his panic a dead weight.

I was younger then, cockier, my focus on the fight, not the cliffs above.

I didn’t see the sniper until the shot hit, a searing pain in my shoulder that sent me stumbling into the surf, blood swirling in the warm waves.

My vision blurred, the world tilting, and I thought that was it—my last mission, my last breath.

Hunter didn’t hesitate.

He grabbed me, his grip like steel, and dragged me behind a jagged rock, bullets pinging off the stone, spraying sand.

“Stay with me, Cole,” he growled, his voice a lifeline through the chaos.

Hunter ripped open a field kit, patching my wound with hands that never shook, even as the cartel’s shouts grew closer. The diplomat was screaming, begging to abandon me, but Hunter silenced him with a glare that could’ve stopped a hurricane.

“We don’t leave our own,” Hunter said, his eyes locked on mine, and I felt the weight of his promise—not just for the mission, but for me, his brother.

The extraction boat was late, the sea churning under a brewing storm, and Hunter held the line alone, his rifle a steady rhythm of death.

Hunter dropped three cartel soldiers, their bodies crumpling in the sand, and when the boat finally roared in, he half-carried me across the beach, my arm slung over his shoulder, his strength the only thing keeping me alive.

On the boat, as the medic stitched me up, Hunter sat beside me, his face streaked with sweat and blood, and said, “You’re not dying on my watch, brother.”

I didn’t die that day because of him.

That night forged a bond deeper than blood, a debt I’ll carry forever—not just for my life, but for the trust he gave me, the kind you only earn in the heat of battle…

That memory burns now, a fire in my chest that drives me.

I’m not just here to protect Richie; I’m here to save Hunter, to fight for him like he fought for me that day – and many others too.

The truth is that each and every Night Ops Guard mission we went into presented a risk to our lives, and I know that Hunter was always willing to lay his life down if it meant protecting me.

I felt the same about him. It’s just the Night Ops Guard way.

Even so, I feel like I owe Hunter a special debt for that day in Haiti.

Hunter is out there, tangled in a threat I can’t yet name, and every second I’m not moving forward feels like a betrayal of that debt.

I think of Richie, his fire, his stubborn heart, and how he’s Hunter’s world. Keeping him safe is my duty, but it’s more than that—it’s personal, a promise to the man who carried me through hell.

The laptop chimes, the message finally uploaded, and I set my coffee down, my pulse quickening.

It’s from Hunter, encrypted with our old Night Ops Guard code.

I decrypt it, my fingers steady despite the adrenaline, and his voice crackles through my earpiece, low and urgent…

Cole, it’s me. Things are worse than we thought.

Marcus—one of my best—was shot and killed last night.

Clean hit, professional. Whoever’s after me, they’re closing in.

Stay vigilant. I’m working on things at my end but it’s been dead end after dead end.

Until I make a breakthrough, hold tight. Keep Richie safe. I’m counting on you.

The message cuts off, and I lean back in the chair, the wood groaning under my weight.

Marcus—dead. He was a rock, one of Hunter’s most trusted, a man who could walk through fire and come out unscathed.

And I know that any man who Hunter would deem worthy of being his best is in all likelihood going to be better than pretty much any thug or street soldier out there.

And this is what troubles me most. I’m beginning to see a bigger picture, and it’s not a good one…

A clean hit means this isn’t just a threat; it’s a calculated war, and Hunter’s in the target sights.

My mind races, piecing together a plan.

I need to contact Henry, cross-reference his intel with this, dig into Marcus’s last movements, maybe trace the shooter somehow.

Richie’s safety is my first priority, but I can’t sit idle while Hunter’s life hangs in the balance.

The safe house feels smaller, the walls pressing in, the faint hum of distant cars beyond the forest a nagging reminder that danger could find us here if I’m not careful.

I need to tighten security, maybe set up perimeter alerts, and brief Richie on staying low, though that’ll be a fight with his stubborn streak.

Footsteps break my focus, and I look up to see Richie storming in from the hallway, his hoodie slipping off one shoulder, his dark eyes blazing with that familiar defiance.

“I heard voices. What are you looking at, Cole?” Richie demands, his voice sharp, slicing through the quiet. “Is that about my Pop? Tell me, right now!”

I close the laptop with a deliberate click, my jaw tightening.

“It’s nothing,” I say. “A voice note from your father. He’s fine. Still working hard to resolve this. But that’s all I can say.”

“Bullshit!” Richie says, stomping his foot. “You’re lying to me about something. I know you are.”

He’s been testing me all week, pushing boundaries, and after the self-defense session—after the way our touches lingered, the heat that flared between us, his body pressed to mine—I’m on edge, my patience fraying.

The Daddy in me wants to guide Richie, to calm his fire, but he’s Hunter’s son, my responsibility, and I can’t let him distract me from the mission.

“Richie,” I say, my voice low and unyielding, “I’ve told you before—my work is private. You don’t get to stick your nose in. That’s the rule, and you’re going to respect it.”

Richie’s face flushes, and he crosses his arms, his pout deepening, all fire and frustration.

“That’s not fair! It’s my father! It’s Pop! I’m not some kid you can just shut out!” His voice rises, and he stomps his foot, the sound sharp against the floorboards. “I’m done with this, Cole. I’ll run away again, and you won’t stop me this time!”

My temper flares, hot and sharp, and I slam my fist on the table, the coffee mug rattling, the sound echoing in the room.

“Enough!” I snap, standing to my full height, my shadow falling over his. “I won’t warn you again, Richie. Behave, or you’ll face punishment. And you know I mean it.”

Richie’s eyes widen, a flicker of fear mingling with his defiance, but he doesn’t back down.

He stomps his foot again, harder, and snatches a cushion from the couch, tossing it across the room.

It hits the wall with a soft thud, sliding to the floor, and he glares at me, his chest heaving, daring me to react.

“Watch me walk out this door right now,” Richie snaps, turning and making his way out of the living area and through the front door. “Don’t even try to stop me! I’ll scream!”

I shake my head.

The boy has pushed me too far. And now he’s threatening to start screaming and alert anyone who happens to be in the forest – friend or foe – that we’re here.

Nope. Not going to happen.

It’s time to show this boy once again why it’s not a good idea to defy this Daddy…