Make Me Yours, Daddy

-015-

—•TRISTAN•—

When I hear June’s voice, I almost dismiss it as another trick of my mind—but it sounds too vivid, too real.

I’ve replayed her voice in my head a hundred times before, yet none of them have ever come close to this.

I snap my head toward the door, and my body freezes.

June is standing in my office doorway. Her hand is still on the door handle, her body frozen mid-step.

She’s clutching a folder to her chest like a shield, her knuckles white around the edges.

Her face has gone pale, drained of all colour, and her honey-brown eyes are wide as saucers, locked on me and Bianca.

She looks as though someone’s just thrown a bucket of cold water over her.

For one terrible, suspended moment, I don’t move.

Bianca is still on her knees between my legs, my c**k still in her mouth.

And June… June is watching.

Then instinct kicks in.

"Stop," I say, my voice hoarse.

I shove Bianca away, pulling my c**k out of her mouth with a wet sound that seems to echo in the sudden silence.

Fumbling to stuff myself back into my trousers, I feel the fabric scrape against my sensitive skin and bite back a hiss of pain.

Bianca looks up at me, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "What happened? Why did you—"

She trails off as she follows my gaze.

Her head turns slowly, and the moment her eyes land on June, her confused expression shifts into anger.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," Bianca hisses.

She stands up quickly, smoothing down her skirt, and storms into the bathroom attached to my office.

The door slams shut hard enough to rattle the frames on the wall.

A suffocating silence fills my office.

I stand up and move behind my desk, sitting down heavily.

Arranging my trousers properly, I zip up and buckle my belt with hands that aren’t quite steady.

I don’t look at June. I can’t.

Shame washes over me—no, not shame. Something worse.

Guilt?

I’m not even sure anymore, but one thing I am sure of is that it’s thick and nauseating, rising in my throat like bile.

I feel like I’ve done something wrong.

Like I’ve hurt June.

Like I’ve betrayed her somehow.

Which makes no sense at all.

June is my secretary. Nothing more.

I owe her nothing. She owes me nothing.

I have no reason to feel guilty simply because she walked in on me getting my c**k sucked.

It doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense.

I know it wasn’t professional to do that in my office, but at this point my hands were tied and it was all because of her.

The past few days have been absolute hell.

Fucking hell.

I built myself from nothing. I’ve survived boardroom coups, hostile takeovers, and a divorce that took more than just my money.

But nothing—absolutely nothing—has prepared me for this.

June has invaded my sleep.

Every night, without fail, she’s there.

Those honey-brown eyes looking up at me.

That auburn hair spilling across my pillow.

Her soft lips parted, whispering my name in that angelic voice that makes my blood run hot.

And the morning after, I always wake up with my c**k rock hard, my pants damp, and a frustration so deep it feels like it's carved into my bones.

It’s a bloody night mare.

I'm thirty-five f*****g years old. I'm a grown man. A CEO.

I've had lots of women around me—some have even thrown themselves at me—but I've never once woken up in a puddle of my own release like some spotty sixteen-year-old boy who's just discovered porn.

It's pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.

But here we are.

Day by day, it keeps getting worse.

And seeing June every day certainly isn't helping matters.

Sometimes, being in the same space as her is suffocating.

Having her as my secretary was a catastrophic mistake. I see that now with crystal clarity.

Every time she walks into my office, that jasmine and vanilla scent that clung to her hits me like a sledgehammer, and my c**k hardens. Just like that. No warning. No permission.

It just stiffens in my trousers like it has a mind of its own, and I’m left scrambling to adjust myself before she notices.

It’s getting annoying. No, it’s beyond annoying. It’s torture.

Pure, unadulterated torture.

I’ve had to start wearing loose trousers to work, the kind that billow around my thighs and don’t cling to every contour.

But having a big c**k isn't exactly easy to hide, is it?

It’s like trying to conceal a fire extinguisher in my pants. There’s only so much loose fabric can do.

The damn thing has a presence. An insistence.

Even in loose fabric, I catch her eyes flickering down sometimes, and I have to wonder if she can see it. If she knows.

Sometimes I think she does.

There are moments I catch her blushing for no apparent reason, her cheeks flooding with that pretty pink colour, and I have to stop myself from asking her what she's thinking about.

This is insane. I’m losing my mind, I’m sure of it.

I've tried to control myself. I really have.

I’ve sat behind my desk for hours, gripping the armrests until my knuckles are white and my jaw is clenched so tight my teeth ache, forcing myself not to think of her.

Not to imagine bending her over this very desk and having my way with her.

But the bastard between my legs doesn't care about self-control.

He wants what he wants—and what he wants is June. Spread out. Naked. Begging.

I'm telling you, working in an office with a full hard-on is as uncomfortable as it is agonizing.

The pressure builds behind my fly, throbbing insistently, and every time I shift in my seat, the friction sends sparks up my spine.

I can’t concentrate on emails or reports. I can’t focus on a damn thing.

All I can think about is the ache between my legs and the woman who causes it.

I’ve had to spend hours in the bathroom, just jacking off in my office so I can actually function.

Sometimes it works, and I’ll finally find release.

But even then, the relief is temporary.

One glimpse of June—bending, reaching, anything—and I'm hard again.

So yeah. I've been in a war between myself and my c**k. And the bastard is winning.

Last night was the worst yet.

I dreamt June was naked beneath me, those sexy legs wrapped around my waist, her nails digging into my shoulders as I drove my c**k into her.

I could feel her. I could hear her.

The sounds she made were breathy and sexy. They’re still echoing in my ears.

I came so hard I nearly blacked out.

This morning, I came to work incredibly early.

I could barely sleep last night. I hadn’t managed more than three hours.

I’d jerked off twice in the shower just to take the edge off before coming in, but the moment I passed June’s desk, the memory of her bending down to pick up her pen that fell to the ground yesterday hit me.

The way her silk blouse clung to her curves and just like that, I was hard again.

I locked myself in my office and tried to bury myself in work.

But it wasn’t working.

I was about to head to the bathroom to jack off again when Bianca walked in.

She’s one of our top models, tall and blonde, with long legs and a striking, undeniably attractive figure.

She’s been flirting with me non-stop since she debuted two years ago, even sending me her nudes on multiple occasions.

I warned her about it. I told her never to do it again, or it would cost her career.

I wasn’t someone who mixed business with pleasure, and I certainly wasn’t interested in another relationship with a model, not after the last one ended in a tabloid nightmare.

But this morning, when she sashayed into my office wearing a skirt that barely covered her arse and a top that displayed her cleavage, I felt a sudden urge to f**k her.

Maybe it was because I just wanted some relief. Any relief.

My balls were aching, heavy and leaden, and my c**k was as hard as a bloody rock.

I needed a release, and my hand wasn't cutting it anymore. I needed something more.

Or maybe it was because, for a split second, when Bianca tossed her hair over her shoulder and looked at me with those doe eyes, she looked like June.

I’m f****d up. I know that. I need help, for real.

At first, I tried to push Bianca away, declining her advances like I always do.

But the moment she saw my hard c**k, she became extremely persistent, and my resolve was in tatters.

I gave in to the hunger and let her suck my c**k.

She was incredible at it. She sucked my c**k like a seasoned pro.

If she wasn't a world-class model, she could have made a fortune doing just this.

With every stroke of her tongue, I could feel intense pleasure building at the base of my spine, that familiar pressure coiling tight.

I was lost in it.

The heat building low in my stomach, my balls tightening, and the rhythmic, wet sound of her mouth working up and down my length.

I was so close—seconds away from coming when I saw June and I had to stop.

Now I’m stuck here with the mother of all blue balls.

Letting out a resigned sigh, I finally lift my gaze to June.

She’s still standing by the door, muted and frozen, staring at the exact spot where Bianca had been kneeling.

Her chest rises and falls rapidly beneath her silk blouse, the only sign that she’s breathing at all.

Her lips are parted slightly, like she wants to speak but the words have died in her throat.

"Well? Are you just going to stand there staring?" I ask.

My voice comes out harsher than I intended. Or maybe exactly as harsh as I intended. I don't know anymore.

She blinks, snapping out of whatever trance she was in.

"Em... no," she says quickly. "No, I'm sorry, I..."

She rushes forward, crossing the room to my desk and dropping the folder onto the surface with a shaky hand. "Sarah said I should hand you these so you can sign them."

I nod slowly, reaching for it. "Okay."

Pulling the folder toward me, I flip it open.

I glance through the pages, then pick up my pen and start signing on the places that need my signatures.

June is still standing there.

I can feel her eyes on me, watching me sign, her presence like heat radiating against my skin.

"I'm sorry for barging in like that," she says suddenly. "I… I shouldn't have seen that."

I halt mid-stroke, the pen hovering above the paper.

A slow smirk tugs at my lips before I can stop it.

I lift my gaze and lock it with hers.

"It's fine. No need to apologize." My smirk grows wider. "Didn't you enjoy the little show?"