YES! DADDIES: AN EROTIC COMPILATION OF SHORT STORIES

TO BE F*CKED BY MY RIVAL ATTENDING (5)

ALEXEI.

I stand alone in the conference room for five full minutes before I can move.

My hands are shaking. My legs are weak. And I can still feel the phantom sensation of his fingers inside me, stroking my prostate, taking me apart systematically.

I’ve never felt anything like that in my life.

I clean up as best I can, fix my clothes, check my reflection in the darkened window. I look exactly the same as I did thirty minutes ago.

But I’m not the same.

Something fundamental just shifted.

I make my way back to the gala on unsteady legs. Grab fresh champagne. Smile at board members. Pretend everything is normal.

Across the room, Nikolai is talking to Chief Volgin. He catches my eye, and that smile—smug, satisfied—makes me want to kill him.

Makes me want to drag him back upstairs and—

And what?

Let him do it again?

Ask him to?

Fuck.

I excuse myself early, claim exhaustion from a long surgery and dive home in silence with my hands tight on the steering wheel.

My apartment is dark and cold. I pour myself vodka—the good stuff—and sit in my living room, still in my tuxedo, trying to process what just happened.

He fingered me.

He made me beg.

He made me lose control so completely I couldn’t even stand.

And I liked it.

No.

Worse than liked it.

I loved it.

Loved the way he took charge. Loved how he knew exactly where to touch, how much pressure, how to make me desperate. Loved that he made me feel things I’ve never felt before.

I down the vodka and pour another.

This is a problem. A serious problem.

Because Nikolai Volkov just proved something I’ve been denying for weeks.

I want to submit.

I want someone else in control.

I want—f**k.

I want him to f**k me.

The thought hits me like a physical blow.

I’ve spent my entire life being in control. Being the one who leads, who dominates, who decides.

Control is who I am.

Or who I thought I was.

But tonight, with his fingers inside me, I didn’t want control. I wanted to let go. I wanted him to take over completely.

And that terrifies me.

Because wanting Nikolai is one thing. Wanting him to dominate me is another. But wanting him to f**k me—actually f**k me, actually bottom for him—that changes everything.

That means admitting I’m not who I thought I was.

I pour more vodka.

My phone buzzes with a text message.

Unknown Number: You left early. Everything okay?

I know who it is.

Me: Fine. Tired.

Unknown: Liar. You’re home thinking about it, aren’t you?

Fuck him for being right.

Me: Thinking about what?

Unknown: About how good it felt. About how you begged. About how you want me to do it again.

Me: Your ego is showing.

Unknown: So is yours. In your pants. I bet you’re hard right now.

I look down. He’s right. I’m half-hard just from texting him.

Me: What do you want, Volkov?

Unknown: To know if you’re going to stop lying to yourself.

Me: About what?

Unknown: About what you really want. About what you were thinking when my fingers were inside you.

I stare at my phone for a long moment.

Then type: I don’t know what you mean.

Unknown: Yes you do. But I’ll wait. When you’re ready to admit it, you know where to find me.

He doesn’t text again.

I sit there in the dark, vodka in hand, and finally let myself think it.

I want him to f**k me.

I want to bottom for Nikolai Volkov.