FORBIDDEN: CRAVING DADDY TOUCH

017

A sharp, rhythmic tapping against her shoulder blade pulls Anastasia from the heavy, suffocating dark of sleep. Her head snaps up, neck cracking, the disorientation of the plane cabin swimming into focus. A flight attendant stands over her, smile practiced and bright, informing her they have landed in Italy. Anastasia blinks, the grit of sleep crusting her eyes. She doesn't even remember drifting off. The last thing she recalls is the low hum of the engines and her mother, Valeria, sitting across from her, lips parted to say something about Anna’s father—a subject usually forbidden—before a ringtone sliced through the tension. Valeria had excused herself, leaving Anna alone with the hum and her own spiraling thoughts.

Now, she stumbles out of the private jet, the Italian sun blasting her face like a physical weight. It’s a harsh, intrusive brightness that forces her to squint. A staff member gestures for her to follow, reaching out to take her heavy designer bag. She complies mechanically, her eyes scanning the tarmac, searching for Valeria’s silhouette. She spots her near the terminal building, a sleek figure in oversized sunglasses surrounded by a chaotic swarm of men with cameras.

As Anastasia moves closer, the swarm shifts. Lenses swing in her direction, a collective predator sensing fresh meat. They rush her, a wall of flashing strobes and shouting voices.

"Is it true you are Valeria Sinclair’s daughter?"

"Is it true your father is—"

"Look this way, Anna! Just one smile!"

The questions overlap, a cacophony of invasive noise. The camera flashes explode in her retinas, blinding her, freezing her in place. She stands stunned, mouth slightly open, the reality of this new life crashing down on her. Before she can react, a pair of strong hands grips her upper arm, dragging her bodily through the crush. She is shoved into the backseat of a black tinted car, the door slamming shut to cut off the noise.

The car peels away, tires screeching on the asphalt. Anastasia sits in the plush leather seat, heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She looks back, watching the paparazzi shrink into specks in the distance, other cars from their convoy trailing behind. Is this how it’s going to be? A constant siege?

She realizes she is alone in the cabin. A sigh escapes her lips, deflating her posture as she rests her head against the cool headrest. Thank god Valeria isn't here. She doesn't have the mental energy to deal with the woman’s icy judgment right now. She turns her gaze to the window, watching the Italian countryside blur past. It’s beautiful—rolling green hills and cypress trees—and she realizes with a jolt that this is her first time in the country. It feels wasted on her, a backdrop to a kidnapping rather than a vacation.

The drive stretches on until the landscape shifts from rustic to opulent. They pull up to a structure that steals the breath from her lungs. It is not just a house; it is a fortress of luxury. Massive white pillars support a towering facade of limestone, marble steps sweep up to double-height wooden doors, and sprawling gardens manicured to geometric perfection stretch out as far as the eye can see.

"What the f**k," she whispers to the glass. "Am I going to live here too?"

The door opens, and she steps out, the heat radiating off the driveway. Another car pulls up behind hers, and Valeria emerges, looking immaculate as if she hadn't just endured a flight. Valeria sweeps a hand toward the mansion, her chest puffing out slightly.

"This is one of the buildings my husband owns here," Valeria says, her voice dripping with possessive pride.

Anastasia composes herself, smoothing down her shirt. She clears her throat, locking eyes with the woman who gave her life but rarely gave her affection. "I didn't ask you."

Valeria’s smile vanishes, replaced by a sharp glare. "Spoiled brat," she mutters, turning on her heel and marching toward the entrance. Anastasia follows, a trail of maids scurrying behind them with her luggage.

Outside, the heat shimmers off the pavement where the guards stand post. George, a bulky man with a perpetual smirk, elbows Alex in the ribs, his eyes glued to Anastasia’s retreating figure.

"Did you see that ass?" George whispers, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. "f*****g incredible."

Alex glares at him, his jaw tightening. "Shut your mouth, George."

"You're no fun," George scoffs, though he lowers his voice slightly. "Seriously though, I’d like to tap that ass. Wouldn't you, Blake?"

Blake chuckles darkly from the other side of the entrance. "Oh, absolutely. I’d wreck that girl."

Alex snaps, turning on them. "Focus on your work! She is the boss's daughter, not some piece of meat. And her name is Anastasia, not Anna." He storms away, his fists clenched at his sides.

"What’s that guy’s issue?" Blake asks, watching Alex retreat. "Why is he always spoiling the mood?"

Alex groans, but the conversation dies instantly as a sleek sports car purrs through the open gates, engine growling as it slides into the driveway. The guards snap to attention, their vulgar banter forgotten. The driver’s door opens, and Tristan steps out. He is imposing, radiating a power that silences the air around him. They greet him respectfully, and he tosses his keys to a valet without a word, heading straight for the house.

Tristan enters the cool, dim interior of the foyer. He drops his bag on a velvet chair and shrugs off his jacket. His eyes land immediately on the figure standing before the large portrait over the fireplace. It’s his wife, or so he assumes, her back turned to him, admiring the art.

A familiar hunger stirs in his gut. He walks up behind her, the scent of the room shifting as he approaches. He wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her back against his chest, and buries his face in her neck, inhaling deeply. He presses a kiss to the soft skin just below her ear.

Something is different.

He notices it immediately. Her body feels firmer, the curve of her ass plumper and tighter against his growing erection than he remembers. Her skin is impossibly soft, smoother than the silk robes she usually wears, and her scent... it’s not Valeria’s usual heavy, floral perfume. It’s something lighter, sweeter, like vanilla and warm rain.

He nuzzles closer, his hand sliding down to grip her hip, his c**k thickening in his trousers. "You feel incredible today," he murmurs against her skin.

The body in his arms stiffens. She tries to pull away, a sudden, jerky movement that breaks his embrace. Tristan tightens his grip for a second before letting her turn, confused by the rejection.

He grabs her shoulders and spins her around to face him.

The words die in his throat. He isn't looking into Valeria’s cold, calculating eyes. He is staring into the wide, terrified eyes of a Anastasia. Anastasia stares back at him, her mouth open, shock rendering her frozen in his grip.