Daddies' Dirty Secrets

Isabella

The vacuum hums between my legs like a slow, teasing vibrator, and for one wicked second I think about pressing my hips down on the handle just to take the edge off. My body’s been thrumming all shift, every movement sending little sparks through me.

Maids in Heaven swears by invisibility. “If they didn’t notice you,” my boss says, “you did it right.”

I used to be great at that.

Until Joey Tyson noticed me.

The CEO’s son. Sharp blue eyes. Lazy, fuck-me smirk. And right now, while I’m vacuuming outside his office, he’s lounging in his chair with one ankle hooked over his knee, watching me like he’s mentally stripping me out of my uniform.

“Careful,” I murmur as I pass his door, letting my hips sway just enough to make it obvious. “You’re staring.”

His smirk deepens. “You like when I stare.”

The heat in my belly sharpens. I toss him a wink, and a minute later I hear his door click open.

He steps out — tall, lean, athletic, that cocky posture that says he’s used to women making room for him.

“Hey, Isabella.”

“Hi, Joey.”

“Chinese?” he asks, like it’s already been decided.

“Only if there are vegetables involved,” I tease, biting my lip.

He rolls his eyes. “You and your veggies…” But there’s a flicker in his gaze — he likes the pushback.

He drifts closer, his fingers brushing my arm. I stop the vacuum, pulse ticking up, waiting for him to say something worth leaning into — but then his attention shifts.

“Well, don’t forget the wastebaskets, miss,” he says louder, sharper.

Miss. The cover. Because heaven forbid anyone suspects the CEO’s son is sneaking around with the maid.

I narrow my eyes. “Seriously?” I mouth.

“Did you hear me? Copy room.” His face stays neutral for the passerby — Grant, I think — but his voice drops low enough for me alone. “Supply closet. Ten minutes.”

And then he’s gone, leaving me with the hum of the vacuum and a steady ache low in my stomach.

That’s Joey: easy charm, no consequences. The world bends for men like him. Me? I’ve been in this for the blue eyes, the athletic body, maybe the thrill of danger. A month of takeout, quick sex, lights off, no labels.

But sometimes he’s just nice enough to make me wonder. And if he ends up anything like his father?

Kyan Tyson could bring me to my knees without touching me.

I keep vacuuming, tempted to dump the copy room trash on Joey’s desk. My route takes me right past the CEO’s office.

Kyan sits behind his desk, sleeves rolled, a deep frown line between his brows as he works. Late hours have threaded silver through his dark hair, and the stubble shadowing his jaw is the perfect salt-and-pepper blend.

Like Joey, his eyes are blue — but darker. Dangerous. Blue-gray like the hurricane seas you see on the news, the kind that swallow coastlines and leave nothing standing.

I’m caught staring when those eyes snap to mine. My breath trips, and I force my gaze to the spotless carpet, pretending I’m absorbed in the vacuum’s path. But my pulse hasn’t slowed.

For crying out loud, Isabella.

Five minutes later, I slip into the supply closet. Only the thin strip of light under the door glows, but his cologne tells me Joey’s already here.

“Hey,” he murmurs, pulling me in.

I expect him to slam me against the wall, take me like he can’t wait another second — but instead he gives me a quick kiss, like we’ve got all the time in the world.

“You brought one?” I murmur against his mouth.

He smirks. “Always.”

Shelves of cleaning supplies blur around us as he unzips, taking himself out. I reach for him, still hoping tonight’s one of the rare times he makes me come. Odds aren’t great.

Instead, his hand presses down on my shoulder.

“Down.”

The cold linoleum bites into my knees. I take him into my mouth, knowing I’m not getting anything in return.

“Yeah, baby, just like that,” he groans.

Baby. Could be a pet name, could be insurance in case he blanks on my actual name again. He once called me Caroline mid-hookup — not exactly flattering. Ever since, it’s been too easy to imagine it’s his father I’m pleasing instead.

Right now, that’s exactly where my mind goes.

I picture Kyan — gruff, commanding, with stormy eyes and stubble that would scrape my thighs raw in the best way. My panties dampen instantly.

My hand slides up the hem of my navy uniform dress, pressing against myself through the thin cotton. If I’m quick, I might finish before Joey even notices.

In my head, it’s Kyan holding my head still, telling me exactly when to swallow. I hum around Joey’s length at the thought, slipping my fingers under my panties, circling my clit until heat licks through my belly.

I imagine Kyan pulling me up, shoving me against the wall, his mouth between my legs until I’m shaking. Then turning me around, taking me from behind, letting me scream his name without caring who hears.

Wetness coats my fingers. A man like him wouldn’t leave me guessing. He’d tell me exactly what to do — maybe even spank me when I didn’t obey.

The thought makes my cheeks burn. I’ve never been spanked before, but the fantasy alone sends a shiver through me. Joey would never… and just like that, the mood dies.

I shove him from my mind and dive back into the fantasy — Kyan Tyson in this very closet, giving me more than I can take and still not letting me go.

God, it would be so good.

I’m right on the edge when Joey finishes without warning. I swallow, biting back my frustration, my own release slipping away.

“You’re the best, babe,” he says, patting my head like I’m a damn pet.

This has to end. Soon. But ending it could cost me my job — and rent’s due.

Joey zips up, tosses me a wink, and leaves me in the dark. Unsatisfied. Irritated. Still aching.

I smooth my uniform and reach for the door.

“Forget something, Joey?” I mutter without looking.

The overhead lights blaze on.

My breath catches.

It isn’t Joey standing there.

It’s his father.