Yes daddy

I walked around naked, skin still damp, cool droplets sliding down the curve of my spine and gathering at the backs of my knees. The marble floor of the Kane mansion was cold beneath my bare feet, each step a reminder that I was somewhere I shouldn’t be — doing something I definitely shouldn’t be doing. Lucas Kane could walk in at any moment. I had only agreed to this job because I needed the money. Babysitting their nineteen-year-old son, making sure he didn’t destroy the place while she traveled. Easy. That was the promise. Jason was out. The house was silent. Too silent. The refrigerator light spilled over my body when I opened it, bathing my skin in a pale glow. The scent of expensive wine, fresh fruit, and something faintly masculine — his cologne lingering even in the kitchen — wrapped around me. I was still deciding what to steal when the voice cut through the air. “Why are you undressed?” Low. Controlled. Dangerous. The sound alone sent a shock through me. I turned slowly. Lucas Kane stood at the entrance of the kitchen, suit jacket gone, tie loosened, dark hair slightly disordered as if he’d run his hand through it on the way in. His eyes moved over me with a kind of focus that made my breath hitch — not rushed, not shocked… deliberate. Hungry. “Um… daddy—” The word slipped out before I could stop it. Silence followed. One of his brows lifted, not in anger — in interest. He stepped closer. The air changed with him, thickened, filled with the warm scent of amber and cedar from his skin. I could hear the faint clink of his watch when he moved, the soft brush of his shoes against the floor. Every step he took seemed louder than it should have been, echoing in my chest. “That’s what you call me now?” he asked quietly. My n*****s tightened under his gaze alone, my body reacting before my mind could catch up. His hand came up — slow, unhurried — not touching at first, just hovering close enough for me to feel the heat of his palm. “Tell me,” he said, voice rougher now, “was this for me?” The kitchen suddenly felt too small. Too bright. Too intimate. My answer came out as a breath. “Yes.” The sound he made — low, almost a growl — vibrated through the space between us. “Get down.” The command dropped like a stone in water. The marble pressed cold against my knees. The chill ran up my thighs while his presence towered above me, all sharp lines and restrained power. I could hear his breathing now — steady at first, then not so steady. My hands gripped his trousers, the fabric expensive and smooth under my fingers, my pulse hammering in my ears. The groan that left him was raw, stripped of all that polished control he wore like armor. “That’s it…” he murmured, fingers threading into my hair, guiding — not forcing — holding me exactly where he wanted me. The world narrowed to sensation: his hand in my hair, the heat of his body, the faint taste of whiskey on his skin, the sound of his breath breaking. The refrigerator door was still open behind me, its light spilling across the floor, the hum of it the only witness. And then— “Dad… what the hell?” Jason was home...