Daddy's Secret Sin

The rain had been falling for hours, a steady, relentless drumming against the windows of Aria’s small apartment. It matched the hollow ache in her chest perfectly. She sat on the edge of the bed, phone still clutched in her hand, the screen frozen on the last message Maya had sent before the truth exploded. I’m so sorry, Aria. It just happened. It hadn’t “just happened.” Ryan and Maya had been f*****g for three months. Behind her back. In the same bed Aria had shared with him. On the same nights she thought he was working late. She had walked in on them an hour ago. Ryan’s pants around his ankles, Maya’s legs wrapped around his waist, the wet sounds of their bodies still echoing in her ears. The look on Maya’s face—guilt mixed with something uglier, something like satisfaction—had been the final knife. Aria had not screamed. She had not cried. She had simply turned around, walked out, and driven home in the rain with the windows down so the cold water could sting her face. Now the silence was louder than any shouting could have been. Her phone buzzed again. Ryan this time. Please talk to me. I love you. It meant nothing. She laughed, a broken, ugly sound, and threw the phone across the room. It hit the wall and clattered to the floor. The screen cracked. Good. She needed to get out. The apartment still smelled like him—his cologne, his laundry detergent, the faint trace of s*x that clung to the sheets even after she had stripped the bed and shoved everything into a trash bag. She couldn’t stay here tonight. The bar two blocks away was half-empty when she walked in, hair dripping, mascara smeared, wearing the same black dress she had put on that morning thinking she was going to a quiet dinner with her boyfriend. The bartender glanced up, took one look at her face, and slid a double whiskey toward her without asking. “Rough night?” he asked. Aria knocked the drink back in one swallow. The burn was welcome. “You have no idea.” She ordered another. Then another. The alcohol settled into her blood like a warm, dangerous blanket, dulling the edges of the betrayal until it was almost bearable. Almost. By the third drink she was no longer thinking about Ryan’s face when she caught him. She was thinking about how empty she felt. How stupid. How desperately she wanted to feel something—anything—other than this crushing hollowness. That was when she noticed him. He was sitting at the far end of the bar, nursing a glass of something dark. Older. Mid-forties. Broad shoulders under a charcoal suit jacket that looked expensive even in the dim light. Dark hair with a light dusting of silver at the temples. A strong jaw shadowed with stubble. The kind of face that belonged on a man who was used to getting what he wanted without raising his voice. Their eyes met. He didn’t smile. He simply looked at her, steady and assessing, as if he could see straight through the alcohol and the ruined makeup to the raw wound underneath. Aria held his gaze longer than she should have. Something low in her stomach tightened. She ordered a fourth whiskey. When the bartender set it down, she carried it over to the empty stool beside the older man and sat without invitation. “Mind if I join you?” Her voice came out huskier than usual. He studied her for a moment. Up close, his eyes were a sharp, intelligent gray. “Depends on what you’re looking for.” “Right now? Something that doesn’t hurt.” A faint, almost reluctant smile touched the corner of his mouth. “That’s a dangerous thing to say to a stranger in a bar.” “I’m not in the mood for safe.” She took a slow sip of her drink, watching him over the rim. “What’s your name?” “Victor.” Just Victor. No last name. She liked that. “Aria.” He nodded once, as if filing the information away. “Aria. You look like someone who just had her world set on fire.” She laughed again, softer this time. “Perceptive.” “I’ve been around long enough to recognize the signs.” He turned slightly on his stool, giving her more of his attention. The movement made the fabric of his jacket pull across his chest. He was solid underneath the expensive clothes—broad, powerful, the kind of body that came from discipline rather than youth. Twenty years older than her, easy. It should have made her hesitate. Instead it made heat coil low in her belly. “Want to talk about it?” “No.” The word was immediate. “I want to forget it for a few hours.” Victor’s gray eyes darkened. He understood exactly what she was offering. For a long moment he said nothing, just watched her, weighing something. Then he lifted his glass and drained the last of it. “All right,” he said quietly. “But not here.” Her pulse kicked hard. “Where?” “My hotel. Five minutes away. If you change your mind between here and the door, you walk away. No questions.” Aria finished her whiskey. The alcohol made everything feel softer, more possible. She slid off the stool, steadying herself with one hand on the bar. “I’m not changing my mind.” The rain was still falling when they stepped outside. Victor didn’t offer her his jacket. He simply walked beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, not close enough to touch. The silence between them was charged, heavy with the things they weren’t saying. His hotel was one of the nicer ones downtown—all dark wood and low lighting and quiet luxury. In the elevator he stood on the opposite side, watching her reflection in the mirrored wall. She watched him back. The age difference was obvious now. The fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the silver threading through his dark hair, the way he carried himself like a man who had already lived several lifetimes. Twenty years. It should have felt wrong. It only made her want him more. The suite was on a high floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the rain-slicked city. Victor closed the door behind them and shrugged out of his jacket, tossing it over a chair. Underneath he wore a black dress shirt, the top button already undone. “Last chance,” he said, voice low. Aria answered by walking toward him, stopping only when the tips of her shoes touched his. She reached up, fingers brushing the silver at his temples, then sliding down to the open collar of his shirt. “I don’t want a last chance. I want you to make me forget my own name.” Something fierce and hungry flashed in his eyes. Then his hands were on her—one at the back of her neck, the other at her waist—and he was kissing her like a man who had been waiting years for permission. It was not gentle. His mouth was hot, demanding, tasting of whiskey and something darker. Aria moaned into the kiss, rising onto her toes to meet him. His hand slid down her back, found the zipper of her dress, and dragged it open in one smooth motion. The fabric pooled at her feet. She stood there in black lace and heels, rain still damp in her hair, while Victor looked at her like she was something he intended to ruin thoroughly. “Beautiful,” he murmured, almost to himself. Then he lifted her, carried her to the bed, and laid her down as if she weighed nothing. Clothes disappeared quickly after that. His shirt. Her bra. The rest of it. When he finally settled between her thighs, bare and hard and so much bigger than she expected, Aria’s breath caught. He paused, the head of his c**k pressing against her entrance, gray eyes locked on hers. “Still with me?” “Yes,” she whispered. “Please.” He pushed inside in one long, controlled thrust. The stretch burned, perfect and overwhelming. Aria’s back arched off the bed, a broken sound tearing from her throat. Victor groaned low in his chest, forehead dropping to hers as he buried himself to the hilt. “f**k,” he breathed. “You’re so tight.” He gave her only a moment to adjust before he started moving—deep, deliberate strokes that dragged against every sensitive place inside her. There was nothing rushed about the way he f****d her. He took his time, learning what made her gasp, what made her nails dig into his shoulders, what made her thighs tremble around his hips. When she came the first time it was with a shocked cry, clenching hard around him while he kept thrusting through it, prolonging the pleasure until she was shaking. He didn’t stop. He flipped her onto her stomach, pulled her hips up, and took her from behind with the same relentless control. One hand fisted in her hair, the other gripping her hip hard enough to leave marks. The new angle made everything sharper, deeper. Aria pushed back to meet every thrust, chasing the next orgasm even as the first one still pulsed through her. When he finally came it was with a low, guttural sound, burying himself deep and spilling inside her in hot pulses. He stayed there for a long moment, breathing hard against the back of her neck, before carefully pulling out and rolling to the side. They lay in the quiet aftermath, rain still whispering against the windows. Aria’s body felt used in the best way—sore, marked, floating. For the first time in hours the hollow place in her chest was quiet. Victor’s hand rested on the curve of her waist, thumb stroking absently. “You all right?” She turned her head to look at him. In the low light the silver in his hair seemed to glow. Forty-five years old. Twenty years older than her. And right now, the only thing that felt real. “Better than I’ve been all day.” A small, tired smile touched his mouth. “Good.” She should have gotten up. Gotten dressed. Left before the alcohol faded and reality came crashing back. Instead she curled closer, resting her cheek against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. His arm settled around her, heavy and warm. Neither of them spoke again for a long time. Aria drifted somewhere between sleep and waking, the scent of his skin and the residual ache between her legs the only things anchoring her. Tomorrow she would have to face the wreckage of her life—the cheating boyfriend, the traitorous best friend, the empty apartment. Tomorrow she would have to start putting the pieces back together. But tonight, in this quiet hotel suite with a stranger twenty years older, she allowed herself to simply exist in the afterglow. She did not know his last name. She did not know that in less than forty-eight hours everything would change. She did not know that the man whose come was still inside her was Victor Kane— father of the man who had just shattered her heart. For now, there was only the rain, the warmth of his body, and the temporary peace of not having to feel anything at all.