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I whimper, rolling my hips desperately into the inadequate vibrations. “You do, Daddy.”
His pencil is moving over the paper more rapidly now, and there’s an intensity burning behind his eyes that makes my heart flutter. “Do you know why I opened your little pussy on my fingers instead of my cock?”
The vibrations increase, and I whimper, shaking my head. “Please, Daddy,“ If he stops it again when I’m this close-
“Because I know I won’t be able to control myself, little brat.” He stands, moving to the edge of the bed to stare down at me, pencil still moving though he isn’t even looking at the pad. “When I put my cock inside that tiny pussy, it’s not going to be sweet and gentle. I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t know where I begin and you end. Do you understand?”
I nod jerkily, staring up at him with wide eyes, my breaths coming in uneven pants. “Yes, Daddy,”
The drawing pad drops to the bed beside me, and Penn leans over me, one arm bracing his big body and the other ripping his sweatpants down just enough to free his cock. I can’t stop watching as he strokes himself, so much rougher than I’ve ever touched him.
“Cum for me, Daisy,” Penn grunts just as I finally fall over the edge, bucking and gasping from the pleasure coursing through my body. I’ve barely opened my eyes again when Penn follows, spurt after spurt of his hot cum painting my belly.
When he collapses back to my side and pulls the vibrator free, tossing it to the floor, I pick up the drawing pad he dropped beside me.
The lines are rough and frantic, but the woman on the bed is unquestionably beautiful. “Is this how I look to you?” I ask Penn quietly as he moves his finger through his own release, painting circles around my nipples and up my sternum.
“No.” He kisses my bare shoulder. “I could never create anything as beautiful as you are, little brat. But that won’t stop me from trying.”
Chapter Eight
Penn
Hours later, I have to force myself to leave Daisy in my bed, heading downstairs in search of food.
I don’t remember ever being like this, so ravenous for another person that I forget everything else in my life. My art, my career, has always come first.
Now, after only a week with Daisy in my bed, I’m reconsidering signing the contract for three more seasons of the show. It’s been sitting on my desk for days and includes a raise of nearly double my current rate per episode.
My manager, lawyer, and the network executives have been blowing up my phone, anxious for me to sign on the dotted line and make them all a fuck-ton of money. Even a few months ago, I would have taken it without question, but now?
Now, I’m in love with Daisy.
This isn’t just physical, she makes me want to be someone different, someone better, and I’m not sure that someone could be the host of a TV show.
I watched from the sidelines when Phillip first started making it big. I saw the rabid fans, the paparazzi, and the women throwing themselves at him. The media was obsessed with the bad-boy rocker and his beautiful little girl. Daisy’s face was splashed across tabloid covers before she started kindergarten.
I can’t ask her to step back into that life.
My friendship with Phillip is well documented in the press. If it became public knowledge that I was dating his daughter, they would be merciless. Any anonymity Daisy managed to create for herself would be gone, and it would be my fault.
Do I love this version of my life, the fame and the money, and the show that is supposed to be about discovering rising artists but is really just a way to sell flavored water? No.
It’s all I’ve been working toward, though. I spent years toiling away as a perpetually broke artist before my shit started to sell, and I caught the attention of the right person at the right time.
If I just walk away from it, what will that make me?
As I enter the kitchen, Daisy’s taste lingering on my tongue, and naked apart from a pair of boxer briefs, I know I have bigger problems because Phillip is sitting at my dining table.
His expression is impassive, arms crossed over his chest, and he’s leaning back in his chair. To anyone else, he would seem perfectly at ease, but I’ve known Phillip nearly all my life. He’s always in motion. The man is moving from the moment he wakes up to the moment he passes out beside whatever model he’s currently fucking.
The only time I’ve ever seen him this unnaturally still, it’s been on the rare occasion he’s pissed. Extremely fucking pissed.
“Penn.” His lips curl into a calculating smile. “How’s it going, man?”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “What are you doing here?”
Phillip’s head tilts slightly to the side. “Did I interrupt something?” He knows. I’m sure of it. “Do you have someone up there? I’d love to meet her. You’ve barely been answering your phone for weeks. Whoever she is, she must be something special.”
