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Another little lie to protect my fake fiancée. We don't sleep in the same bed. Fucking ever.
"Alright, darling." She smiles so tightly I fucking know I'm going to get shit for this later. "The girls and I will have dinner alone, then."
The petty bitterness in her words don't escape me. But it's not my fucking job to keep Elise happy. She's old enough by now to know how to handle her damn self.
"See you soon." I smile at the twins-or-not and wave as I leave. While I'm grabbing my coat in the entryway, I hear them talking in hushed tones. The plastic bitches compliment Elise on snagging a hot bachelor like me and she gushes about how happy she is. All. Fucking. Lies.
I walk out of the building with a clear conscience. This engagement with Elise... it's just a business arrangement. I'm not going to worry about it at all. I have more important shit to do tonight.
In the past few years, I've grown my company exponentially. I now own the entire building my offices used to be in years ago, and my last name – Santino – shines brightly at the top of it.
It makes me wonder how easy that makes me to find.
Especially for one little girl called trouble.
She hasn't made contact, but I'm glad it's the case. I don't think she's old enough yet and I certainly don't want to get in trouble for thinking of her as the jailbait she is. And yet little Willa hasn't escaped my mind once. I never asked for her last name, knowing I'd drive myself fucking insane if I had kept tabs on her.
My driver drops me off in front of my building and I take the elevator to the penthouse offices – my domain.
There's just a few cleaners and the receptionist downstairs here tonight, and my office has total privacy. Fucking good, because I'm going to need it.
For two years, I've held back. I've forced myself not to look her up. Not to think of her at all. But tonight, on the two-year anniversary of my meeting and with my personal life in a fucking shambles, I know I won't be able to resist.
I sit down at my desk and stare at my screen. How do I even go about looking her up? How the fuck do I find a needle in a haystack? All I have is her first name...
I start my search with that. Her name, the district I met her in and the bar's social media. I comb through pages and pages of Instagram profiles, TikTok videos and Facebook comments. And then there she is – as easy as that.
She's been tagged in a photo with her friend whom I still remember from the night I met her. Her username doesn't show her last name, nor age. But there she is, Willa, with the freckles on her nose, with the sky-blue eyes, with the bee-stung lips and the nipples that make me want to fucking sin.
"Willa," I mutter to myself. I go through all the photos, all her posts. I need more.
I know I shouldn't, but tonight, the past has won its battle over me. I make a throwaway account and send her a message.
How old did you turn tonight, trouble?
Impatiently, I sit back and wait for her reply. It might not come. She might not even remember. But fuck, I hope she does. And I hope she's fucking ready. If she plays her cards right, I won't be able to hold back. Not tonight.
Except she does write back, almost instantly. My fingers actually fucking shake as I check her reply.
I turned 18, Daddy :)
How does she fucking do that? One reply and I'm a fucking goner. How did she know... Of course. When we first met, that girl whose name I never got called me that.
So, Willa knows about my dirty little kink – and she seems more than willing to play. Did she recognize me from my text? She must have. Unless she calls every man Daddy. My fists tighten at the thought of that. Fuck, I'm already so fucking possessive and stricken with jealousy when I think of her.
How perfect. Can you come into the city tonight, Willa?
I'm being so fucking forward I should be ashamed, but I can't help it. This mere conversation has got my cock throbbing, desperately needing her riding it. Now that I know she's legal to fuck, I'm not holding back another second. I'm going to own her. I just hope little Willa's ready for me.
How much?
Her next reply has me confused and I knit my brows together, typing back a reply and stopping each time I write a word or two. What the fuck does she mean?
I don't want to fucking believe it, but maybe I shouldn't be so fucking naive.
