Make Me Yours, Daddy

-016-

~*JUNE*~

I blink at Mr. Macaulay, like a confused owl that’s just been smacked in the face with a fish.

Are my ears playing tricks on me, or did he really just ask me that?

At this point, I am absolutely certain this insufferable excuse for a man has finally lost his damn mind.

Something in that overpriced British skull of his has snapped. Melted. Completely short-circuited.

No sane human being asks their secretary, before nine in the morning, whether she enjoyed watching him get… his c**k sucked.

"Didn't you?" he repeats, that infuriating smirk spreading slowly across his face.

God… I want to wipe it off his face. No—smack it clean off.

I really want nothing more than to grab the folder on the desk in front of him and bring it down on his head—again and again—until that smirk fractures and crumbles like cheap plaster.

But I can’t actually do that, can I?

I just stand there in silence, my jaw working like I’m chewing on glass.

He looks up at me like he’s expecting me to say an answer.

What does he even expect me to say?

"I… I'm not sure," I finally say.

Tristan's smirk doesn't falter. If anything, it deepens.

"I see," he says.

Then he drops his gaze back to the papers and resumes signing.

I stand there. Praying. Silently. Desperately.

Pleading with whatever cosmic force might be listening that he’ll finish signing these damn papers quickly so I can get out of this office.

The bathroom door opens.

The click of the handle makes me flinch. My head turns before I can stop it.

And there she is.

The woman who just had Mr. Macaulay’s humongous c**k down her throat.

She steps out of the bathroom like she's walking a runway. Chin high. Shoulders back. Hair perfectly arranged, makeup flawless, not a single strand out of place.

Her lips are freshly glossed, painted back to their original perfect pink like they didn't just spend the last ten minutes wrapped around my boss's c**k.

And she's smiling.

The widest smile I’ve ever seen on a human face.

It stretches across her cheeks like she's posing for a magazine cover.

She looks... composed. Unbothered.

Like she just stepped out of a boardroom meeting instead of a bathroom.

As she moves closer, I notice how small her lips are—and then the thought creeps in: How did she even manage to take his big c**k past them?

Snap out of it, June.

That is not important right now, and it's none of my business either.

She shifts her gaze, and I follow it—catching her smiling at Mr. Macaulay like a child who’s just spotted her favorite doll on a supermarket shelf.

Something about it sends an uneasy flicker through me that I can’t quite name.

Shouldn’t she be ashamed after what I just saw?

How is she so calm? How are they both so calm?

I still can’t believe they would do something like that in a workplace.

Here of all places. Early in the morning, when anyone could have walked in.

What if it had been Mark? Or someone else?

Then again, I doubt they’d even care.

The way they looked afterward, so nonchalant, so unfazed, as if it was nothing more than a routine for both of them.

Disgusting.

"I’m leaving," she says.

Tristan doesn’t look up. He simply nods and keeps signing, his focus fixed on the papers as if she’s already ceased to exist.

And somehow, watching him dismiss her so completely, I feel something stir in my chest. Something warm and petty and maybe a little cruel.

It’s oddly satisfying to realize he’s a prick to everyone, not just me.

There’s something almost comforting in that, knowing his coldness isn’t personal. I’m not singled out for special misery.

He just treats everyone like mildly inconvenient furniture.

Bianca’s heels click across the floor as she heads for the door.

She stops right in front of me, close enough that I can smell her perfume—floral and expensive, like roses soaked in champagne—and then she leans in.

Her lips brush my ear.

"Way to ruin the fun," she whispers.

I turn my head to look at her.

She gives me a smile, but it’s unsettling. Creepy doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Her lips curve upward, while her eyes stay frozen, flat, empty—like a doll’s.

Like something carved from plastic that’s learned to imitate human expression without understanding it.

Then her face goes pale.

She straightens, turns on her heel, and walks out of the office.

"I’m done," Mr. Macaulay says.

I turn back to him.

He’s leaning back in his chair now, the folder with the signed papers neatly stacked at the edge of his desk.

His eyes lock on me again, watching with that same unreadable expression.

"Alright," I say.

Stepping forward, I lean across the desk to grab the folder.

My fingers close around its edge and I pull it toward me.

His pen slips from his fingers.

As he reaches to catch it, his fingers brush my arm.

Just a light touch. Barely there. A fleeting graze of skin against skin.

But my body reacts like I've been electrocuted.

Goosebumps erupt over my skin, and a chill winds its way down my spine.

I yank my hand back as if I’ve been burned.

The folder rustles in my grip, and I clutch it tightly to keep it from slipping out of my hands.

His eyes lift to mine.

That annoying grin is gone now, replaced by something sharper, more focused.

I don’t wait for him to speak.

I don’t give him the chance.

I turn and dash out of his office, my free hand pushing the door open harder than necessary.

The hallway air hits my face, cooler than the stifling heat of his office, and I drag in a deep breath.

I hurry back to my desk, drop the folder onto the surface, and sink into my chair.

My arm is still tingling.

Where he touched me, it still burns against my skin like a brand.

I stare down at it, watching a faint tremor run through my fingers, and I don’t understand.

It was just his finger. Just a brush. Just an accident.

So why does it feel like I’ve been marked?

~~~~~~~~~~~

The rest of the day is pure torture.

I can’t focus at all.

My mind keeps replaying what I saw this morning on a loop, over and over, until it feels like I’m stuck inside it.

I kept checking the time at intervals, counting down the minutes, and when it finally hit closing, I grabbed my bag and rushed out.

The moment I get home, I fling my bag onto the couch and head straight for the bedroom, needing a quick shower.

I push the door open—

And freeze.

Tyler is on the bed… with his boyfriend, Marcus.

He’s on his hands and knees, back arched and head thrown back so far that I can see the cords of his throat straining.

His mouth is open, lips slick and parted as moans spill from him, while Marcus is behind him—ramming into him, driving his c**k into his ass as if he could never get enough.

"Yes, baby," Tyler gasps, his voice cracking on the last syllable. "f**k me deeper."

He throws his head back again, eyes rolling, as Marcus grips his waist and drives deeper into him.

Tyler's whole body jolts forward.

His arms tremble, threatening to give out, but he catches himself at the last second and pushes back, meeting Marcus’s thrust halfway.

"f**k!" Marcus grunts. "Take it. Take all of it, love."

Tyler whimpers. "I'm taking it. I'm taking it all. Please, please, don't stop."

They are so caught up in each other they don’t even notice me.

Letting out a quiet sigh, I close the door and go back to the sitting room, collapsing onto the couch.

"What is it with me walking in on people hooking up today?" I mutter.