Daddy's Business Trip

He invited me along on a real daddy business trip the way other men invite you to dinner, casually, like it was nothing, like flying his girl to Chicago for three days was just a thing people did. He had conferences all day, he explained. Meetings, handshakes, PowerPoints. He needed an assistant. He smiled when he said it, and we both knew exactly what kind of assisting I'd be doing.

I said yes so fast I surprised myself.

The suite was on the forty-somethingth floor, all glass and dark wood, the city spread out below like a circuit board. He'd laid out my instructions, and I do mean instructions, on the bed before he left that first morning: what to wear (the black lace set he'd bought me, under the robe), what not to do (touch myself, under any circumstances), and what to do instead (wait, think about him, and send him a photo at noon).

A photo. At noon. In the lingerie. While he sat in a boardroom full of people.

I spent the whole morning working up the nerve, pacing that gorgeous suite in lace and a robe, checking the clock. At exactly noon I propped my phone on the dresser, let the robe slip off one shoulder, and took the photo, the most daring thing I'd ever sent anyone. His reply came two minutes later. Three words that made my knees go weak. I read them eleven times.

The rest of the day was exquisite torture. He texted between meetings, little things, hints, reminders of the rules. One message just said he kept thinking about that photo. Another, an hour later: don't you dare touch yourself. I don't care how much you want to. I read that one with my thighs pressed together, standing in the middle of a suite I couldn't afford in a hundred years, and I obeyed him. God help me, I obeyed him.

He told me to order whatever I wanted from room service. I ordered chocolate cake and ate it in the lace set, feeling decadent and wicked. He told me to take a long bath and think about what was going to happen when he got back. I floated in that huge tub with the city glittering outside the glass, thinking about his hands, his mouth, the way he'd looked at me that morning, and by four o'clock I wanted him so badly I was actually whimpering at the minibar.

He got back at nine. He walked in, loosened his tie, looked at me, curled up on the bed in the black lace, exactly where he'd told me to wait, and the look on his face was worth every aching hour.

But he wasn't done teasing me. Oh no. He said we were going downstairs for dinner first. He made me put on a dress, a new one, short, the one he'd hung in the closet, and take his arm into the hotel restaurant like we were any respectable couple. Under the table, his hand found my knee. Then higher. He fed me bites of dessert and told me, very quietly, exactly what he was going to do to me when we got back upstairs, and I had to sit there smiling at the waiter like my entire body wasn't on fire.

The elevator ride up nearly killed me.

What happened in that suite is still the hottest night of my life. He'd kept me waiting all day, kept me wound so tight, and he unwound me slowly, the dress, the lace, every layer peeled away with deliberate patience while I trembled. He laid me back on that enormous bed with the whole glittering city behind him and worshipped me first, unhurried, thorough, making me come twice with his mouth before he even thought about himself. By the time he finally moved over me, I was begging, actually begging, out loud, no pride left at all, and he gave me everything I'd been aching for all day, deep and slow and perfect.

The city lights blurred past the windows. Room service knocked once and gave up. We didn't need champagne. We didn't need anything.

In the morning, over coffee in bed, he told me his meetings had wrapped early. The trip was extended, one more night, his treat, no conferences, no rules about waiting. Just us, and Chicago, and a whole empty day to fill. He traced the rim of his cup and told me he'd spent the entire flight home from his last trip thinking about bringing me along, planning every detail, the suite, the lace, the noon photo. Knowing he'd fantasized about it as much as I had made me blush straight through my coffee.

I've never packed so slowly in my life. That extra day stretched ahead of us like a gift, a day with no boardrooms, no noon photos, no rules at all. Or maybe, I thought, watching him smile at me over his coffee cup, maybe we'd invent some new rules of our own. I can't wait to find out what he has planned.