Page 17 of Mountain Daddy (Broken Boss Daddies #1)

NIKOLAI

T he kid moves like me.

I watch from across the small town square. Chleo's chasing pigeons near the fountain, arms outstretched like he's trying to fly with them.

But it's not the running that gets me. It's the way he stops. Sudden. Complete. Like someone flipped a switch. Like he tried amusement and decided there are better things in the world to focus on.

That's pure Vetrov.

My father used to do that. I do that. Maksim's commented on it a dozen times—how I can go from motion to absolute stillness in a heartbeat.

Chleo tilts his head, studies the carvings on the water fountain, traces his fingers along the edges. God, his intensity. His focus.

He’s a serious kid. Too serious for five years old.

Just like I was.

Lilly sits on a bench twenty feet away, reading something on her phone. She’s probably working, that woman.

Always fighting to keep her head above water.

She doesn’t see me. Doesn’t notice I’m watching her kid.

Chleo, with eyes just like mine.

With hair just like mine.

With expressions just like mine.

She doesn’t see it. Doesn’t notice the way Chleo’s brows pull tight when he’s focused. The little crease that forms—same as mine—when I’m planning something sharp.

It’s there. Right between his eyes.

My mark.

The kid now charges after another cluster of birds. This time, he laughs when they take flight. Pure joy.

That laugh? That's all Lilly. Sweet and infectious.

Maybe that's why she ran. Maybe she saw the monster in me and decided her son, our son , deserved better.

She was right.

But being right doesn't change biology. Doesn't change the fact that the boy carries my DNA, my expressions, my instincts.

Doesn't change the fact that I want to know him. Want to teach him things. Want to be the father he's been asking about.

Want to give Lilly everything she needs so she never has to worry about rent or suppliers or whether the bakery will survive another month.

Which means I can't keep dancing around the truth.

It’s time to force the issue.

Eight-thirty p.m. Sugar and Spice goes dark.

I wait across the street until Lilly flips the sign to "Closed." Until Rosa takes Chleo and disappears around the corner. Until it's just Lilly inside, counting the day's receipts.

Then I cross the street.

Within seconds, I'm inside.

Lilly looks up from the register, and her face goes from surprise to scepticism.

"We're closed.”

"I know."

I lock the door behind me. Flip the deadbolt.

Her breathing quickens. "What do you want, Nikolai?"

Straight to the point. I've always liked that about her.

"The truth."

"About what?"

"You know what."

She finishes counting the bills in her hands. Sets them down slowly. Buying time.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Lie. Obvious lie. Her hands are shaking.

I move closer. Slow steps that eat up the distance between us.

"Chleo," I say simply.

Her face goes pale. "What about him?"

Another step. "He's mine."

"No." Too fast. Too defensive. "He's not. His father?—"

But she stops. Can’t finish her sentence.

"His father what? Where is he?"

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

"I..." The word comes out as a whisper. "I can't..."

"Can't what, Lilly? Can't tell me the truth? Can't admit you've been keeping a secret from me for five years?"

"You don't understand?—"

"Then make me understand."

I keep moving.

Closer.

Close enough to feel her body heat.

Close enough to smell her skin.

Close enough to feel my mouth water.

"He's... his father is..." She swallows hard. Tries again. "His father isn't in the picture."

"Because his father doesn't know he exists."

It's not a question.

Her silence is answer enough.

"Jesus, Lilly." My voice comes out rougher than intended. “You gonna lie to my face again?”

She squares her jaw, but her voice cracks.

“Chleo’s not yours.”

There’s that look—flushed cheeks, glassy eyes, fists clenched at her sides. Everything in her screams the truth, even as her mouth fights to bury it.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

But her voice is a whisper.

And mine is a growl when I say, “Then why can’t you look at me when you say it?”

She doesn’t move.

Doesn’t blink.

Doesn’t breathe.

Just stands there. Silent. Fragile. On the edge.

So I close the gap.

Not because I believe her. But because I don’t. Because if she won’t give me the truth, I’ll take something else. Something real. Something I can feel.

“I don’t believe you,” I murmur.

Her breath hitches and she meets my gaze at last. The world around us disappears. All I see is her heaving chest, her flushed cheeks, her parting lips and when she inhales a long, whimpering little breath, I know she feels it too.

This tension.

This pressure.

This hunger that never fucking dies.

I lean in and she stands taller. Tilts her chin. Lips brush against lips.

Soft. Barely there. Then again. And again.

Until softness isn't enough.

Until I’m gripping her waist, yanking her flush against me. She gasps. I take advantage—slide my tongue inside her mouth, war with hers.

She moans into me, hands clawing at my shoulders, anchoring herself. My hand finds the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair, tugging just enough to make her sigh. To make her arch.

And that sound?—

Fuck.

That sound undoes me.

My hands find the hem of her sweater, start to lift.

"We can't," she gasps against my mouth. "Not here."

"Where?"

She looks toward the back of the bakery. Toward the storage room where we fucked against the prep table weeks ago.

I don’t wait for an answer.

I grab her ass and lift her clean off the floor.

She gasps. Her legs instinctively wrap around my waist. God. I feel her pussy through all these clothes. Know she feels my cock.

I carry her toward the storage room like I own her. Like I’m a caveman and she’s mine. All mine.

Her breath is hot against my neck. Her nails bite into my shoulders. I kick the door open.

"The lights—" she starts.

"Leave them on. I want to see everything."

I kick the storage room door closed behind us. Set her down beside the prep table.

She's breathing hard, cheeks flushed, lips swollen from my kisses.

Beautiful. So fucking beautiful it makes my chest ache.

"Tell me you want this," I demand.

"I want this."

"Tell me you want me."

"I want you."

"Tell me you've thought about me every night since I left your bed."

Her eyes flash. "You first."

Fair enough.

"Every night," I admit. "Every morning. Every time I close my eyes, I see you spread out beneath me. Feel you wrapped around me. Hear you screaming my name."

Her pupils dilate. "Nikolai..."

"Your turn."

She swallows hard. "I touch myself thinking about you."

The admission hits like lightning. My cock throbs against my zipper.

"Show me."

"What?"

"Show me how you touch yourself when you think about me."

Her hands shake as she reaches for the buttons of her blouse. One by one, they slip free, revealing the black lace bra underneath.

"Fuck," I breathe. "You wear that to work?"

She shrugs.

Her hands slide over her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples through the lace. They peak under her touch, and I have to grip the edge of the table to keep from grabbing her.

"Is this how you touch yourself?"

"Sometimes." Her voice is breathy. Wanting. "But mostly I think about your hands. Your mouth."

"What about my mouth?"

"How it feels between my legs. How you make me come so hard I forget my own name."

Christ. She's going to kill me.

I sweep everything off the prep table with one arm. Flour. Measuring cups. Rolling pins. All of it crashes to the floor.

She gasps at the sound.

"Up," I command, patting the now-empty surface.

She doesn't argue. Just hops up onto the table, legs dangling.

I step between her thighs, push them apart wider. Her skirt rides up.

"Jesus, Lilly,” I groan and lean down, kissing her once again.

My fingers find the hem of her skirt. Slide up. Drag over skin so hot I nearly lose it right there.

She bites my lip.

I groan against her mouth.

“Still think I don’t have a right to ask?” I rasp.

Her answer is a growl—feral and needy—as she grabs my hand and shoves it under her skirt.

And I know?—

We’re past talking now.

My hands slide up her thighs, thumbs tracing the edge of her panties. She's already wet. I can feel the dark patch spreading through the fabric. I bite into her lower lip and she jerks, my finger digging into her panties.

God. I need more. My entire body is now tuned to hers.

Turned on for her.

I pull away. Stare into her eyes as I hook my fingers in the waistband of her panties. Slowly, I drag them down her thighs. Kiss the inside of her knees as I go. Make her wait until she trembles. Then, I let them fall to the floor.

I straighten and tower over her, my hands between her thighs as I push wider. "Spread."

She obeys. And fuck me, she's perfect. Pink and slick and begging for my attention.

She’s a wet little mess for me and I slide one finger through her, only to find it drowning in her warmth. She gasps, hips bucking.

"So wet already. What were you thinking about?"

"You."

"Be specific."

"You bending me over this table. Taking what you want."

I slide one finger into her.

Her back arches.

A moan rips out of her throat.

"What else?"

I press harder on her clit and curl my fingers just right. Hit that spot over and over, relentless, brutal, tender. She’s gasping now.

Whimpering.

Trying to hold back and failing.

"Come for me," I growl against her throat. "Let go, baby."

She shatters. Her body goes rigid. Back arches off the table. A choked scream tears from her lips as she pulses around me, wet and wild and fucking beautiful.

I let her ride out her orgasm. I don’t stop until her whole body slumps forward, spent and trembling in my arms.

I pull my fingers free, soaked and sticky.

Bring them to my mouth.

Taste her.

Perfect.

"Good girl," I murmur, holding her against me.

"But we’re just getting started."

I unbuckle my belt. Shove my pants and boxers down.

Her eyes widen at the sight of me. Hard and ready and desperate for her.

I position myself at her entrance. The head of my cock slides through her wetness, making us both groan.

"Look at me," I command.

Her eyes meet mine.

"I want to watch your face when I fill you up."

I push inside slowly. Inch by inch. Watching her expression change from want to wonder to pure bliss.

When I'm fully seated, we both freeze. Adjusting. Remembering.

"Fuck," she breathes.

"Feel good?"

She nods and whimpers.

I start to move. Slow, deep strokes that make her moan with each thrust.

"That's it," I growl. "Let me hear those pretty sounds."

She's not quiet. Never has been. Each thrust punches a new sound from her throat—gasps, moans, my name whispered like a prayer.

"Harder," she begs. "Please, harder."

I grip her hips, change the angle. Drive into her with enough force to make her breasts bounce out of her bra.

"Dear God!" she screams.

The sound of skin slapping skin fills the storage room. Her nails claw into my shoulders, a delicious sting that makes my cock throb harder inside her.

Good. I want her marks on me. Proof that this isn’t a dream. That I’m here. Inside her. Claiming her.

"Feel that?" I growl against her ear, dragging my teeth down her neck. "Feel how you squeeze me?"

"Yes," she moans, breath hitching.

"This cunt was made for me. Made to be fucked by me."

She moans, walls clenching around my cock. Every thrust feels like lightning ripping through my spine. She’s hot and perfect and so fucking wet, I swear I could lose myself in the way she clenches.

"You like it when I fuck you like this?" I grit out, voice low and ragged.

"Yes."

"You like feeling me stretch you open?"

"God, yes."

Her words pour gasoline on the fire already tearing through my control. My hands grip her hips and I slam into her harder—relentless now. Hungry.

"Tell me what you want," I demand.

"Want you to fuck me harder. Want you to make me come."

"That’s right." I change the angle, grind deep, hit the spot that makes her entire body jolt. "You want to come for me, don’t you?"

"Yes—"

"Then fucking do it."

Her hand slips between us. Fingers on her clit. And I feel it—that flutter, that pull—her body going taut like a bowstring before she breaks.

And when she does? It wrecks me.

She screams my name, her whole body shaking, spasming around me. The walls of her pussy clench so tight I see stars.

I lose it.

My head drops, my body locking as I push as deep as I can go, groaning her name like I now worship her. The orgasm crashes through me, white-hot, violent, and so goddamn good it’s blinding.

I empty into her with a raw, aching sound I couldn’t hold back if I tried. It feels like peace. Like release. Like fucking home .

We collapse together. Sweat-slick. Breathless.

Spent.

But in my arms, she still feels like mine.

And that’s the real problem because she’s keeping a big secret. Reality creeps back in.

She slides off the table, starts looking for her panties. I watch her button her blouse with fingers that still shake slightly.

"This doesn't change anything," she says without looking at me.

"Doesn't it?" I ask in a bored tone.

I pull a napkin from the dispenser on the counter. Write my address in sharp, precise letters.

"If you're gonna lie to me," I say, holding out the napkin, "at least do it to my face next time."

She takes it. Stares at the address like it might bite her.

"I'm not going anywhere," I tell her. "And neither are you. So we might as well figure this out."

I leave her standing there, clutching my address, looking at it like she’s seen a ghost.