Dear Diary: Book 7 in the Love Daddy Series of Standalones Read online

  Dear Diary

  Book 7 in the Love Daddy Series of Standalones

  Dani Wyatt

  Copyright © 2021

  by Dani Wyatt

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places,

  events and incidents are either the products

  of the author’s imagination

  or used in a fictitious manner.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  is purely coincidental.

  www.daniwyatt.com

  Editing Nicci Haydon

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Newsletter

  About

  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

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Angel

  Other Books

  Let’s Stay Connected!

  About Dani

  Thank You

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  NEWSLETTER

  What you can expect from Dear Diary…

  **An over-the-top jealous, possessive, alpha hero

  **Safe, swoony and no cheating

  **A happily ever after age-gap DaddyDom/babygirl romance

  **Copious amounts of hotness that may make you question yourself.

  **A smart heroine who’s taken some hits trying to find her way in life.

  * * *

  Dear Diary,

  If it’s just a fantasy, why does it feel so wrong?

  Whenever I close my eyes, I hear his voice…

  It’s okay, no one’s going to know. You should feel good too. Here, I’ll show you how…

  What’s wrong with me?

  I can’t stop wondering what it would be like to have a man think of me in that certain, special way. To treat me like his porcelain doll and then do things to me like I’m a filthy plaything.

  His filthy plaything. His everything.

  I want to look up to him. I want to count on him. To feel his presence even when he’s not with me. To know, beyond anything, he is the one that believes in me. The one that wants what’s best for me. The one that will draw the line and not hesitate to correct me when it’s crossed.

  I want to feel the sting of his hand while he puts me over his knee. Telling me it’s going to hurt him more than it hurts me but it’s what’s I need.

  I’m a grown woman for Christ’s sake. Wait, is nineteen considered grown? IDK, but, deep inside, there’s still a little girl. I could never tell anyone the things I think about. It’s embarrassing.

  I’m supposed to go to some fancy uptown bar after work tomorrow where the drinks cost more than I spend for groceries every week. But, maybe that’s where I’ll see him from across the room and he’ll see me. And we’ll just know.

  Anyway, it’s just a fantasy, right? And fantasies are better left as fantasies. At least that’s what everyone says.

  Okay, it’s time for bed. Maybe he’ll sneak in my room tonight, slip under the covers with me, tell me I’m such a good girl and he’s going to show me just how good. At least in my dreams that is…

  Good night Diary. Keep my secrets for me while I sleep.

  xoxo

  AUTHOR’S NOTE: Take one billionaire alpha-hole, one whip-smart intern trying to survive a cut-throat summer in Manhattan, mix in two secret fantasies and SHAZAAAAAM. This older hero and his one-and-only find out maybe two wrongs do make a right. There are some missteps, a bit of danger, a butt plug and one very grouchy macaw but never fear, there’s no cheating, insta-love for days and a happily ever after guaranteed.

  Chapter 1

  Jackson

  What kind of world do we live in that people pay to have their asses enlarged?

  I think about that as I watch a woman with an artificially enhanced derriere bump into a waiter, sending three margaritas crashing to the black granite floor.

  She laughs instead of fucking apologizing or trying to help, and I think it’s too bad they don’t have brain-enhancing surgeries. Or common courtesy infusions.

  Her tribe joins in, howling like she’s just slayed the opening act at The Improv.

  The poor fucking waiter shoots them a look as he rushes to scoop up the largest shards of glass before some idiot slices themselves open.

  Grabbing a rag from the bar, I step over and tap him on the shoulder. “Go on, get a mop. I’ll keep an eye on this.”

  Relief replaces the anger in his eyes. “Thanks…appreciate it.” He gives me a tight smile before winding his way through the crowd toward the back.

  For all their alcohol-induced camaraderie, I’ve not seen one person in here treat the staff like human beings.

  He’s back a few minutes later and I return to my post at the bar, wondering why there isn’t a separate cleanup staff. But then, I don’t know shit about running bars so who the fuck knows? I know a lot about running a lot of shit, but bars are not my thing.

  I'm going to kill Francois for making me come here.

  I seethe through clenched teeth, as the thumping bass assaults my ears.

  The enormous, chromed-and-mirrored space bustles with the current Manhattan ‘it’ crowd. Everyone is so clearly impressed with themselves; taking pictures with those stupid fucking duck lips like their lives are a never ending happily ever after.

  I glance at my watch. How much longer can I stand to wait?

  My department store chain is hot for a piece of land in Houston for an expansion plan that’s been in the pipeline for two years. I found land that’s perfect, but the owners have been tough as fuck to deal with. I’m here to meet them once more, face to face, and convince them to seal the deal.

  I’ll get my hands on that land. I’m used to getting my way. But my Chief Financial Officer, Francois, is going to be in for some shit for making me wait in the middle of this fucking circus.

  I can’t stand drunks.

  Overenthusiastic idiots who think they’re the most interesting people on the planet.

  I also hate people that are late. Time is precious, especially mine.

  Five more minutes, then I’m out. Fuck them.

  There are other ways of convincing the parties in play to sell me that land. I’ll sic my PI on them, come up with some dirt—real or perceived—plant evidence, do whatever is needed to push the issue.

  Fighting dirty is the only way to fight in my opinion.

  Riotous laughter sounds from the table at the end of the bar. A woman stumbles on her mile-high heels as she makes a graceless run for the restroom. A man in a crumpled suit dances alone and off-beat in the center of the dance floor.

  I can’t fathom why people think a night of drinking and hooking up is a way to unwind. Waking up to pounding temples, with regret sleeping naked next to y
ou, could hardly make for a relaxing morning.

  I glare at my watch and then toward the entrance of the bar. I'm done. I can’t last the final three minutes of my five-minute commitment.

  I turn to leave, but I freeze.

  There’s a girl.

  A girl in a lavender dress.

  I note the blushed cheeks, uneasy eyes, arms wrapped around her waist.

  She’s uneasy. Uncomfortable.

  I hate that and love it at the same time.

  Her dress is girly, not overly sexy, but damn if I’ve ever seen anything sexier. She’s got this young Judy Garland circa Wizard of Oz vibe going on and it stands out in the sea of heroin-chic females surrounding her.

  She’s hips and ass and tits, with cherry-pink lips pinched together like she has so much to say and no one to listen.

  I’ll listen.

  The words reverberate in my head, louder than the deafening pulse of the music.

  My visceral reaction upends me. She’s every bit the girl I’ve imagined in my dreams for decades. Eventually I resolved that she didn’t exist except in my fantasies. But what fantasies they were.

  What fantasies they are.

  She’s walking a straight line on five-inch black patent-leather schoolgirl sort of heels, which screams sober. Waves of her soft, dark-chocolate hair swirl across her cheek as she looks down.

  She lifts her hand and hooks a lock of hair behind her ear, showing a delicate golden heart earring and I hate that something has pierced her flesh. I hate that it probably hurt her and I wasn’t there to hold her hand and make sure whoever was doing the job did it right.

  What I hate more is the thought that someone else may have bought her those golden hearts. If that someone has a dick, unless it’s a father or brother, I want to hurt them.

  I suck in a deep breath watching as her hair falls back to shield her face from me.

  The music disappears. No other man, woman or business deal exists for me anymore. The girl in the lavender dress is the center of my universe.

  My throat is dry, my heart thrashing in buzzing excitement against my ribcage. If she’s the last thing I ever see, I’ll die a happy man.

  She reaches the bar standing just an arm’s length away. Her scent of peaches and purity fills my lungs, and I war against the urge to step closer and push my face into the back of her neck, inhaling her.

  My eyes rove over the flawless skin of her arms, the snug bodice of the dress clinging to her curves. The deep V of the fabric in front, showing off the swell of the world’s most perfect tits, and as much joy as that brings me, a fury of hot anger spins inside me too.

  Her flesh is exposed for anyone to see. And they have no right. No fucking right. I don’t want any other eyes on her but mine.

  I want to put my jacket over her shoulders and shield her from the world. I watch, mesmerized, as she pushes her hair back again and she laughs at something the bartender says.

  I see the full lips, the shy curve of her mouth. She traps her bottom lip between her teeth, and my cock twitches. My molars grind together, and I return to reality with a thud.

  The sounds, the vibrations, the surroundings, all rush back to me.

  “I’ll have a club soda, no ice, with a slice of lemon, please.” I listen as she places her order and the song of her voice grabs me by the balls and squeezes.

  My brows furrow and I glance at my own drink. A short laugh rumbles in my chest, which makes the goddess glance my way.

  I stare into her gorgeous face, under the wispy bangs. The high cheekbones are a sculptor’s dream; as are her wide, green, feline eyes.

  I swallow hard against the sudden tightness in my throat.

  She’s easily a foot shorter than me. She is innocence and fragility in a tantalizing package.

  I want to whisk her off to my secret world. The world I know could ruin me if anyone found out.

  My eyes dart toward the bartender who is admiring her chest.

  “What are you looking at?” I bark and his smile evaporates, his eyes shift and he turns away.

  Good survival instinct, my man.

  “Do I know you?” she questions. Her voice is a soft jingle that reminds me of a wind chime.

  The sound of it dissipates my fury. I slide my gaze back to her face.

  Those green eyes will worship me, as she falls to her knees and feeds…

  My balls lift and ache. The vision of her lips wrapped around my cock is making it hard to breathe. I imagine how I’d hold onto any control when I have her kneeling, her full, pink lips stretched around me.

  I lift my glass in a toast to her. “I don’t think so. But, it seems like we have something in common.” I tip my head toward my drink. For a moment, she looks confused. Then she spots the club soda, no ice, with a lemon slice in my hand, and her soft giggle rippling the current between us.

  Looking into her eyes, my life has renewed purpose. I know what I’m doing tomorrow, the day after, the day after…

  She is my life now. She is my purpose.

  Shielding this magnificent creature from everything that is dangerous and cold and unpredictable in the world is my job.

  But that’s you. You're dangerous, cold, and unpredictable.

  Those who do business with me would say I’m dangerous. The few women who have ventured into my life would tell me that I’m cold and unpredictable.

  And heartless.

  She bites her lip.

  “I’ve never seen anyone else order a club soda, no ice with lemon I mean. Besides me.” I lower my glass.

  She grins, white teeth just the right amount of crooked, and I want to fall to the floor and drag my tongue up her soft thigh.

  “Well, you must be a weirdo then.”

  My mouth twitches into a smile. Who the fuck says weirdo these days?

  “Most definitely. Aren’t you?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  She takes a step closer and my cock aches to snuggle inside her.

  Her eyes narrow. “So, what's your story, weirdo?”

  I picture that luscious mane spilling over my pillows in a tangled mess, while I pin her wrists to her sides and make room for myself between her legs.

  “My story is boring, angel. You don’t look like you’re too happy to be here.”

  “Well, sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to do.” She frowns and her lashes flutter. Something about the expression, makes my heart sink then reality comes crashing in again.

  She’s jailbait.

  My gaze desperately searches for proof that I’m wrong. I stare at the untouchable gem. Everything from her bangs to her flawlessly plump skin to the rounded-toes of her pumps, tells me she has the power to destroy me.

  Fuck.

  Too fucking young to be in this bar. Too fucking young to be giving me a hard-on.

  The object of my dirty, delirious, hair-tugging, ass-spanking fantasy could get me arrested.

  I need to know. I need to be sure. I’m ready to wait for her.

  “Why did you order a club soda? Not old enough for something stronger?” My question wipes the sweet smile off her face.

  Her brows lift. “Because I don’t like alcohol.”

  “Why?” My sharp question sounds like an accusation.

  When she shrugs, she looks like a little girl. I want to break something. Or set the world on fire for this injustice. For bringing her to me when I cannot have her.

  Not yet.

  “Believe it or not, turning into a stumbling, puking mess never seemed appealing to me.”

  “How old are you?” I snap. I have to know how long I need to wait for her. How long the law tells me I have to wait...

  Her mouth falls open and she backs up a step. “What are you, a cop?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Tell you what?”

  I take a slow breath, forcing myself to use a softer tone. “Tell me how old you are, princess.”

  The change in my voice seems to work.

  “I just prefe
r to not drink. And, anyway, asking for a princess’s age is very ungentlemanly of you.”

  She’s teasing. She thinks this is funny. My newly vulnerable heart is breaking. “Are you old enough to be driving at least? Can you tell me that?”

  She bites her lip. “Absolutely.”

  I swallow past the knot of dread in my throat. “Are you old enough to be drinking?”

  She frowns. “No, okay? I’m nineteen, but I’m old enough to be in a bar. I’m not doing anything wrong.”

  “Thank fucking God.” The relief rushes through me in a hot wave.

  She blushes as I run a hand over my jaw, suddenly more aware of the bit of silver that’s decorated my temples and beard the last few years. Her entrancing eyes follow my hand, over my lips, then snap to my eyes.

  I need to know more about her. I need to know everything.

  “I'm Jack.” I don’t want to give her my full name. I want her to know me for me, not for what I have. I extend my hand toward her, the girl that’s now shamelessly ruling my vivid, depraved fantasies.

  “Chastity.”

  It suits her. Her small hand slips into mine, looking like a child’s. The touch sucks the air from my lungs. My grip tightens—so soft, I’m suddenly doused with fear that I might unknowingly hurt her with my grip.