Page 123 of Double Daddies (Dirty Daddies Anthologies #8)
Chapter Seven
Avery
Her mouth was still open several hours later, frozen in an exclamation of shock.
Clay, the asshole, had known what he was doing when he dropped that Double Daddies bombshell on her. She’d just stared at him, unable to comprehend the sudden leap from one Daddy to two in a heartbeat, with her vocal chords noticeably silent.
He’d tucked Daddy Deer—her reindeer—back into her waistband, his fingers stroking her skin briefly, before telling her to be at The Nursery by nine. It was another order, not a request, and she’d learned her goddamn lesson about taking orders from him.
She could fight, she could throw the mother of all tantrums, she could physically assault the man…
but she would never be able to beat him.
That thick underlayer of dominance beneath his skin was integrated so deeply, she wasn’t sure if he was two halves of a whole like her, or just one utterly dominant man.
And as for Tristan…
She still wasn’t sure about him. The cockiness he’d exuded in the bar hadn’t been present in the restaurant.
In fact, he’d almost been dumbstruck when she introduced herself at Clay’s behest. He’d actually kissed her freaking knuckles before he and Clay left her standing there in the restaurant, like she was some kind of fancy lady.
Apparently, now she was stuck with them both, all because she’d agreed—in a weak moment when the other half of her, the crazy and irrational half, stupidly admitted—that she needed a Daddy Dom.
She’d broached the subject of Littles with a few submissives who enjoyed that kink, and it was difficult to deny she possessed some—okay, a lot —of the same tendencies.
When she admitted she had an obsession with SquishMallows and shown them photos of her collection, the brief conversation she’d intended to have soon turned into a long, in-depth discussion on which stuffies were the absolute best , and which just didn’t cut the mustard when it came to Little standards.
Callie and Sierra had sympathized with her when she confessed she was prone to temper tantrums, and that she had no control over them. There’d been a great deal of sympathy, but they’d both said the same thing.
You need a Daddy, Avery .
Christ on a crutch, if she heard that thrown at her one more time, she was going to have it tattooed on her ass so she could moon the next person who dared speak those cursed words.
Carefully, she slid her half-decorated cake onto a shelf in the refrigerator and closed the door, breathing a sigh of relief. Every minute her creation was out in the open, she anticipated a disaster striking, and she didn’t have enough time to start again if something terrible happened.
Honestly, the thought of anything bad befalling this project made her want to throw up and hide under the covers for a week. Her first big, solo commission needed to be perfect down to the last layer of fondant.
It was almost eight, which meant she had an hour to get back to the communal staff cabin, shower, change, and drag her tired, tender ass back outside rather than falling into bed.
Maybe she’d just blow Clay and Tristan off.
Her bed was calling her, telling her it was too long since they’d last been together, and she was in full agreement. The 3 am starts were brutal, but she loved the peace and quiet of early morning when she walked through the dusky dark, watching the sun break over the horizon.
By this time of night, however, she was flagging.
Passing through the kitchen, she waved goodnight to the dinner crew and slipped out the back door, ignoring the lingering smell of someone’s breaktime cigarette.
She followed the path that cut through the forest to the staff quarters—a path monitored by security cameras and wasn’t accessible to club guests.
The direct route saved her a twenty-minute walk.
The heat, after a long day in the bakery, made her itchy and irritable. She wanted to drown herself in a warm shower, wash away the day’s sweat, and tumble into cool sheets.
Operative word of the day: cool .
It was rude to cancel on the Doms, but she wasn’t going to be any fun to be around if she was face down on a flat surface, fast asleep. Besides, she didn’t know what they liked so much about her, but she couldn’t switch what they wanted on and off at will.
No, shower and bed was far more appealing.
Hurrying along the path, Avery finally came to the clearing where three long cabins, different to the guest accommodations, where nestled picturesquely into the trees.
It was lovely to wake to the sound of birdsong, to watch squirrels darting up and down the massive trunks and scurrying across the ground.
Her apartment in Denver was quickly becoming a forgotten memory.
She lived in the second cabin with a group of women who were… standoffish wasn’t quite the right word. Apparently there’d been some big turnovers of staff in the opening months of the club, and the original crews were leery about making lasting friendships.
So far, the women had been friendly toward Avery, but no one had extended a branch.
Then again, neither had she.
Her hours were unsociable, and she was not only part of the kitchen team, but a solo flyer as she’d heard some of them say. Classified as part of one department, yet belonging to nothing. It seemed she was destined to lead a solitary existence wherever she landed.
Trotting up the wide steps, she pushed through into what she now considered her home.
The communal area was open and welcoming, furnished with soft carpet, heavy curtains, and several big, comfy couches. A widescreen TV took up part of one wall, and there was a DVD player and a whole library of DVDs for anyone who wanted to spend their evenings relaxing.
Funnily enough, the other women were mostly hired in the housekeeping department, yet the skills for which they were employed were noticeably absent here—someone’s bra was tossed over the back of a couch, a pedicure set was laid out and abandoned on the large coffee table.
Books were stacked in a disorganized heap by an armchair across the room, and several mugs of cold coffee were left in random places.
Another reason why Avery didn’t hang out with them much; she wasn’t going to be the idiot who spent all her time picking up after people who were more than capable of doing so themselves. She’d done enough of that with Adam, thanks anyway.
Rolling her eyes at the chaos, she skirted around the edge of the room, passing the kitchenette on her left. All meals were supplied by Allan, but if anyone wanted a midnight snack, the facilities were available.
Knocking on the door opposite, Avery listened patiently, then opened it. The large, tiled room was empty, but there was more evidence of her roommates’ presence in the form of open makeup bags and someone’s tampon wrapper on the counter.
Ick .
The air was warm and damp, suggesting the others were out taking advantage of their club benefits. They were probably in the bar, eyeing up all the available Doms and flirting like shameless peahens. If they got lucky, they’d return home on wobbly legs, but if not…
Avery scowled.
The last time none of them had hooked up, they’d staggered into the cabin at almost 2 am, escorted by one of the security teams. Drunker than a raccoon trapped in a barrel of whisky, noisier than elephants in clogs, they’d brought her out of a dead sleep and almost given her a fucking heart attack.
Please, God, not tonight. She was too tired.
Checking each of the four shower stalls for cleanliness, she chose the one least contaminated by plastic shower gel bottles and disposable razors. One even had what appeared to be a wig blocking the drain, formed from several different hair lengths and colors.
One of the perks of living here was the housekeeping service—no cleaning, no laundry—but the actual housekeepers who lived here apparently liked to play roulette with who pulled the shift for cleaning up their own shit. Either that, or they figured they may as well get paid on company time.
Stripping off her clothes, Avery tossed them in the hamper with the cabin letter and her room number on it.
She flicked on the water, raising the temperature so warmth would pummel her aching muscles when she stepped under the spray, then crossed to the sinks, pulling a towel from the cupboard beneath.
She wasn’t the tidiest person in the world, she knew that. Sometimes her brain just perused her heaps of disorganization and skipped over it. Other times, it couldn’t rest until everything was in its proper place.
But these bitches were just gross.
Avery hung the towel on the hook outside the cubicle, then slid under the water with a moan of appreciation. Tepid water pattered heavily over her skin; the bosses hadn’t skimped on water pressure.
For a few long, wonderful seconds, she let it flow over her, washing away the stress of the very long day.
As her thoughts flickered toward how much progress she’d made on the cake, how much she had left to do, the image of the final piece wavered into faces she had no business daydreaming about in the shower.
Of course, morality was negligible in her own head, wasn’t it?
Both Clay and Tristan were two attractive men, although she doubted there was a similarity between them.
Clay was country, through and through—he probably bled greener than the fields his beloved cows grazed on, while Tristan was the picture of wealthy, spoiled socialite, primped and polished, with the scent of money all over him.
Still, that didn’t stop the fantasy rolling through her head. Fantasies of hands cupping her breasts, squeezing them, lifting them to soft lips and hard teeth to be worshipped.
A golden head between her legs; a thick cock pressed against her ass…
Bad girl, Avery. Bad, bad girl .