Bossy Daddy
Yes, Daddy: Book 2
Lena Little
© 2020 by Lena Little
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Mailing List
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
Extended Epilogue
Also by Lena Little
Preview
I’m looking for a way to break into the art world. But I’m also looking for the piece of me that’s been missing all my life.
My dad.
What I didn’t expect was to find him.
When he tells me I need to follow his rules. I fight him.
But when he punished me for not following his rules I find what I didn’t know I was looking for.
My Bossy Daddy.
Mailing List
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1 Scarlett
“Obedience is not an option at this firm. My firm,” he snaps.
I flex my quads until they’re as hard as the marble floors beneath me as I try to get my knees to lock so they’ll stop shaking. As my heart slams into my ribcage like a hummingbird on speed I feel a cold beat of sweat stream from my temple and taste the saltiness of the perspiration which gravity is pulling from my upper lip.
I swallow hard and breathe in deep, vowing not to let my voice crack, or my facade along with it.
“There was a scheduling mix-up at the temp agency, Mr. Steele,” I plead.
“That’s sir to you,” he shoots back, my supplication for forgiveness and understanding falling on deaf ears.
He’s built like a brick wall in a tailored suit and there’s nothing I can do to get through, around, or over him…which does nothing to explain why my thoughts drift to being underneath him. Although I’ve never ingested anything harder than aspirin in my life, I’m suddenly drunk on arousal and high on fear.
His head cocks to one side as his questioning eyes narrow. There was a storm brewing behind those tornado-gray eyes threatening to sweep me off my feet.
“I came as soon as they contacted me, sir,” I implore.
Just as I brace myself, preparing to flinch as he unleashes a lecture on taking responsibility and being told my interview is over before it’s even begun, I watch as his entire body absorbs the word ‘sir’ as if it were an oasis in the middle of the desert. His eyes close just a little too slowly and remain closed a tad too long to be considered a blink. All the while his nostrils flare as he inhales my reply right out of the air, that one singular word hitting him not only in the chest, but visibly in the groin of his Italian handmade slacks, which quickly stretch to the limits of their thread count.
His eyes snap back open and he violently shakes his head from side to side just enough to catch it.
“Your work samples. Show them to me,” he orders.
My clammy left hand reaches across my body, fumbling with the buckles of the satchel I picked up at Goodwill for a buck. Clutching it to the side of my body as if my life depends on it, only makes it more difficult to open so I can present my work for his almost certain disapproval.
“Today, Ms. Jones.”
Despite my short, jerky movements and slippery grip, I manage to open the top flap and my fidgety hand lands on my Trapper Keeper. I bite my lower lip as I flip open the velcro top and yank it from inside my pleather business bag in one motion, the plastic binder from my childhood and its contents spilling across the floor.
I lurch forward for the contents, my hands bracing my fall as I quickly fumble with the mess I’ve made, jamming my work samples back inside as I attempt to stand like Bambi trying to stand for the first time.
My hand shoots out, offering the best of what I can do to my potential employer.
His dark gaze remains locked on me, my body heat is quickly turning his office into a sauna as he looks on, his lips press tight and he slowly shakes his head from side to side before sighing audibly.
“Bring them. To me.”
I take a stiff step forward feeling the hair on the nape of my neck lift and my shoulders tighten, my mind pleading with my body to get a hold of myself.
His oversized hand rises and calmly accepts my offering, daggers still flying from his eyes to mine, before he frustratedly throws me the lifeline I need.
“Sit down, Ms. Jones.”
“I’d prefer to stand, sir,” I counter, no clue where those words came from. Was it my unconscious trying to protect me from my complete lack of experience navigating high polished flooring with heels on, or was it my backbone making its presence finally heard?
“Did I ask you what you preferred?”
Silence cloaks the room for what seems an eternity before the sound of ice cubes ricocheting off the side of the crystal tumbler glass in his hand which isn’t gripping my life’s work causes me to jump. He swirls the amber liquid in his crystal tumbler glass before tipping it back in one smooth motion as if it comes as naturally as breathing, or scaring the wits out of up and coming artists new to the Miami design scene such as myself.
Most people come to Miami to be discovered or to be seen. The rest of us come here to hide, overpopulated cities allowing us to blend right in without ever fitting in, which remains a constant struggle for introverts like me.
And as much as I want to stand right now, including stand my ground, the introvert in
