Billionaire Daddy’s Forbidden Obsession

Chapter 8 : Midnight under the Mistletoe

The clock had crept past eleven, but the party showed no signs of slowing. Kids had finally crashed on couches upstairs, wrapped in blankets. Adults lingered downstairs, cheeks flushed from eggnog and wine, voices louder, laughter easier. Someone had switched the music to softer classics—Nat King Cole crooning about chestnuts roasting, the fire popping low.

I floated on the edge of everything, hyper-aware, skin buzzing like I’d been plugged into a current.

Damien hadn’t touched me again since the bathroom. Not once. But his eyes had tracked me all night—every laugh I faked, every plate I carried, every time I crossed my legs under the dinner table. He knew exactly what he’d done to me. Knew I was still swollen and sensitive, still wet from his fingers.

I avoided the mistletoe Mom had hung in the archway between the living room and dining room. Too dangerous. Too obvious.

But the crowd had other ideas.

Mia, tipsy and sentimental, decided we needed a group photo under it. She herded people together—Mom and Dad, her aunt, a couple neighbors, me. And Damien.

Of course Damien.

He ended up directly behind me, close enough that the heat of his body seeped through the thin knit of my dress. His hand settled lightly on my lower back—innocent to anyone watching, guiding me into place. But his thumb traced a slow, deliberate circle just above the curve of my ass.

The camera flashed. Everyone cheered.

Then Mia, giggling, declared, “Tradition! Everyone under the mistletoe has to kiss somebody!”

Panic and thrill spiked through me.

Mom kissed Dad. The neighbors pecked cheeks. Mia planted a dramatic smooch on her aunt’s forehead.

Damien didn’t move. Just stood there, hand still on my back, waiting.

Mia turned to us, eyes sparkling. “Dad, you’re not getting out of this. Kiss Lila—she’s basically your second daughter anyway.”

The room laughed. Someone wolf-whistled.

Second daughter. The words twisted in my gut.

Damien leaned down slowly, giving me every chance to turn my head. I didn’t.

His lips brushed my cheek—close to the corner of my mouth, lingering half a second too long. Warm breath against my skin. The faint scratch of stubble.

To everyone else: sweet, paternal.

To me: a brand.

The group dispersed, attention shifting to dessert refills and a debate over whether to start White Christmas or wait till midnight.

Damien’s hand slid away.

I escaped to the kitchen under the pretense of making coffee.

The room was quieter here, just the hum of the fridge and distant laughter. I gripped the counter, trying to breathe.

He appeared in the doorway minutes later, casual as ever, pouring himself more wine.

We didn’t speak.

He set the bottle down, stepped close—not touching, just near enough that I could smell cedar and warmth.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“I can’t stop,” I whispered. “Every time you look at me…”

His jaw flexed. “I know.”

A burst of laughter from the living room. Footsteps in the hall—someone heading upstairs.

He moved faster than I expected. One hand cupped the back of my neck, the other gripped my hip, and he backed me into the walk-in pantry, pulling the door almost closed behind us.

Darkness swallowed us, broken only by the thin strip of light under the door. Shelves of canned goods and baking supplies pressed in close. The air smelled like vanilla and spice.

His mouth found mine instantly—hard, hungry, no more restraint. I moaned softly, hands fisting his shirt. He swallowed the sound, tongue sliding deep, tasting like red wine and desperation.

His hand slipped under my dress immediately, finding bare skin, confirming I’d obeyed.

“f**k, Lila,” he groaned against my lips. “All night. Knowing this. Knowing you’re dripping for me in a room full of people.”

I whimpered as his fingers parted me, sliding through slick heat.

He didn’t tease this time. Two fingers pushed inside slowly, curling, thrusting in a steady rhythm that matched the pounding of my heart.

I clung to his shoulders, forehead against his chest, biting his shirt to muffle the sounds I couldn’t hold back.

He worked me expertly—pressure perfect, pace relentless. His thumb circled my c**t in tight, firm strokes.

“Come,” he ordered low in my ear. “Quietly. Right now.”

I did—hard, pulsing around his fingers, knees buckling. He held me up, mouth on my neck, drawing it out until I was limp and shaking.

Only then did he withdraw, bringing his fingers to my lips.

I tasted myself without hesitation, sucking gently, eyes locked on his in the dim light.

He exhaled sharply, forehead resting against mine.

“We can’t keep doing this here,” he said roughly. “Not tonight. Too many people.”

I nodded, still dazed.

He straightened my dress, smoothed my hair.

“Go out first. I’ll follow.”

I slipped out, cheeks flushed, carrying a tray of coffee mugs like nothing had happened.

Back in the living room, the countdown to midnight had started—someone syncing the TV to the ball drop in Times Square, even though we were hours behind.

People gathered, plastic champagne flutes passed around.

Damien reappeared, calm and composed, accepting a glass from Mom.

At 11:59, cheers rose.

At midnight, “Auld Lang Syne” played. Couples kissed. Mia hugged me tight, then turned to hug her dad.

I stood a little apart, clapping politely, heart still racing.

Damien’s eyes found mine over her shoulder.

He didn’t smile.

Just held my gaze—long, intense, full of everything we couldn’t say.

Happy New Year.

The promise and the torment of another year stretched out in front of us.

And the night wasn’t over yet.