DADDY'S FORBIDDEN PRIZE

Tempting the Fire

That night, sleep never came.

I lay in the guest room, staring at the ceiling, hearing the storm of silence that had fallen over the house. Somewhere down the hall, the son was probably pacing, seething, cursing my name. And further beyond—him. The man who had turned everything upside down with just a few words.

The father.

I shouldn’t have lingered on him. I shouldn’t have imagined the way his voice rolled over my skin, the dangerous calm with which he had claimed me right in front of his son. But the thought wouldn’t leave me. It pressed into me, hot, invasive, thrilling.

I shifted in the sheets, restless.

A knock came. Quiet, measured. Not the son.

I already knew.

The door cracked open, and there he was. Dressed in a black shirt, sleeves rolled up, the faintest trace of bourbon on his breath. His eyes—oh, those eyes—looked at me like I was already his.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I whispered, though my voice betrayed me, trembling.

“No,” he agreed, stepping inside and shutting the door softly behind him. “I shouldn’t.”

The air thickened, exotic and dangerous, as he came closer. Every step deliberate, as though savoring the forbidden. I pulled the blanket higher, keeping a barrier between us, but my pulse betrayed me, hammering with anticipation.

He reached the edge of the bed, leaning down just enough for me to catch the rough scent of his cologne. His fingers brushed the blanket, teasing, but not pulling. “Do you know what you’ve started?” he murmured, his voice low, dark.

My lips curved into a smirk I didn’t fully feel. “Maybe I like playing with fire.”

A dangerous gleam lit his eyes. “Careful, princess. Fire doesn’t play back—it consumes.”

The words burned through me, but I didn’t give in. I tilted my chin, holding his gaze, refusing to fold easily. “Then maybe you should stay on your side of the line.”

For a long, unbearable moment, we just stared at each other—predator and prey, though neither of us knew which was which. His hand flexed, like he wanted to rip the blanket away, to claim what he already thought was his.

But instead, he straightened, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. “You make this harder than it has to be.”

“Good,” I whispered, a spark of victory in my chest.

And then, just like that, he turned and left, leaving me shaking—half with fear, half with craving.

Because now I knew:

The game had truly begun.