FORBIDDEN: CRAVING DADDY TOUCH

010

Sunlight claws through the gap in the heavy velvet curtains, piercing my eyelids and dragging me out of the darkness. I groan, rubbing the sleep from my face with the back of my hand, but the movement sends a sharp, throbbing jolt through my lower body. I hiss, shifting my legs, and the soreness between them screams in protest. My p***y feels raw, used, and stretched, but it’s the dull ache in my ass that really confirms the memories flooding my brain. I lift the sheet, peeking down at my naked body. There are bruises on my hips—fingerprints—and the dried remnants of c*m on my inner thighs. It wasn’t a dream. I really sold myself last night.

I scramble for the nightstand, knocking over a half-empty glass of water, and grab my phone. My hands shake as I unlock the screen and navigate to my banking app. I hold my breath, staring at the loading circle. When the numbers finally appear, I exhale a ragged breath. It’s all there. The money. Every cent. I did it. I can pay the bill.

The sound of running water cuts through the silence, echoing from the ensuite bathroom. Panic spikes in my chest. He’s awake. I need to get out of here. I throw the covers off and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, wincing as my feet hit the cold floor. My dress is a heap of black silk on the carpet, discarded like a rag last night. I snatch it up, struggling to pull the fabric over my skin. The zipper sticks for a terrifying second before I force it up, the material tight against my sensitive skin. I don't bother looking for my panties; they’re probably torn to shreds somewhere. I just need to leave.

I grab my clutch bag from the side table, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I’m halfway to the door, my hand reaching for the handle, when the bathroom door clicks open.

Steam rolls out into the bedroom, curling around the edges of the doorframe. Tristan steps out, dripping wet, completely naked. Water droplets cling to his broad chest, running down the ridges of his abs to his c**k. Even soft, he looks imposing, thick and heavy, a reminder of exactly what he put me through last night. He doesn't look surprised to see me fleeing. He just leans his shoulder against the doorframe, crossing his arms, watching me with those dark, predatory eyes.

I freeze. My hand is still on the door handle, but I can't make myself turn it. The air in the room feels heavy, suffocating.

"Leaving so soon?" His voice is rougher than usual, husky with sleep, but the arrogance is still there.

I don't say a word. I just tighten my grip on my bag and stare at the floor, refusing to look at his body. I take a step toward the exit.

"I’d really like to have one more night with you, Anna," he says, his tone casual, as if he’s discussing room service.

I stop dead in my tracks. The disgust rises in my throat like bile, burning and acidic. I turn to face him, my lip curling in revulsion.

"Disgusting," I spit out, my voice trembling with rage. "You think I want this? You think I enjoyed what you did to me?"

He raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. "You screamed like you enjoyed it. You soaked my sheets."

"That was for money," I snap, stepping closer, needing him to understand the distance between us. "It was a transaction. Nothing more. You can never have anything to do with me. You paid for a hole, not a person. So f**k off, Tristan. Find someone else to use."

He pushes off the doorframe, taking a slow step toward me. The smirk widens, cruel and teasing. "That’s not what you were saying last night. Should I recall exactly what you moaned when I had my d**k buried in your ass? Or maybe when you were begging me to let you c*m?"

Heat floods my cheeks, a mix of shame and fury. I remember. I remember losing control, the words spilling out of my mouth that I couldn't take back. He knows he broke me, just for a moment.

"You're delusional," I hiss, turning my back on him. I wrench the door open, the handle slamming against the wall. I don't look back. I walk out, slamming the door shut behind me to cut off his laughter, my stride fast and desperate as I head for the elevator.

**************************************************

The hospital smells like antiseptic and old coffee, a stark, cold contrast to the musk and s*x that still clings to my skin no matter how hard I tried to scrub it off in the taxi. I walk up to the billing counter, my heels clicking sharply on the linoleum floor. The woman behind the desk looks tired, her eyes rimmed with red, typing mechanically.

"Good morning," I say, forcing my voice to sound steady. "I’m here to pay a bill. For my father, Mr. Volkova."

The woman doesn't look up immediately. She finishes typing a sentence, her fingers flying over the keys, then glances at me. "Good morning. Just a moment, please."

She taps a few more keys, her eyes scanning the monitor. Then, she frowns. She stops typing and looks at me, her expression unreadable. "Actually, before you process any payment, I need you to hold on. The system is flagging the account. You’ll need to visit Dr. Evans in the consulting wing before any payments can be accepted."

Confusion knits my eyebrows together. "What? Why? I just want to pay the bill so he can get the treatment he needs."

"I’m sorry, ma'am, I don't have the details," she says, her voice flat. "Just please go to room 304. Dr. Evans is expecting you."

I grip the strap of my bag tighter, the money inside feeling heavy suddenly. "Fine. Where is room 304?"

"Third floor, take a left."

I walk away from the counter, my heart rate picking up again. Why can’t I just pay? The corridors are white and blindingly bright. I find the room, the name 'Dr. Evans' stenciled on the frosted glass. I knock, and a deep voice invites me in.

The office is cluttered with files and medical charts. Dr. Evans is an older man with silver hair and glasses that sit low on his nose. He’s typing on his computer when I enter, and he doesn't turn around immediately. I sit in the chair opposite his desk, my legs bouncing with nervous energy.

After a moment that stretches too long, he saves his work and swivels his chair to face me. He takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose before looking at me.

"Miss Ana," he says, his voice grave. "Thank you for coming in."

"I’m here to pay," I say quickly. "I have the money right here."

Dr. Evans holds up a hand to stop me. He sighs, a heavy, weary sound. "Please, put your money away. We need to discuss your father’s condition."

My stomach drops. "Is... is he worse?"

The doctor nods slowly. "I’m afraid his health has become critical overnight. His heart is failing rapidly, and he’s developed complications with his lungs that our current equipment cannot adequately manage."

He pauses, letting the words sink in. I feel the blood drain from my face.

"We lack the necessary high-frequency oscillatory ventilator required to stabilize him," he continues, using terms that feel foreign and terrifying. "We’ve reviewed his case this morning with the board, and we have decided that the best course of action is to transfer him immediately."

"Transfer him?" I repeat, my voice barely a whisper. "Where?"

"To St. Jude’s Regional Medical Center," Dr. Evans says, his eyes sympathetic but final. "It’s a specialized facility. They have the equipment and the specialists he needs."

I stare at him, trying to process the information. "Where is St. Jude’s?"

"It’s about three hundred miles north," he says gently. "In the rural district near the border. It’s quite far away, Miss Ana, but it is the only place that can take him at this stage."

The horror washes over me, cold and paralyzing. I can’t breathe. The room spins, and I grip the arms of the chair until my knuckles turn white.