Claimed by My Best Friend's Daddy

Dedication: To my girls who dream too big, love too hard, and refuse to apologize for it.

This one is for you-the ones who believe in passion, healing, and happily ever afters, even when the world tries to convince you otherwise.

Keep dreaming. Keep loving.

You deserve it.

Prologue

Alicia's POV – Three Years Ago

His mouth was already on mine the second the suite door slammed shut, he kissed me so hard like he had been starving since we met downstairs for dinner.

I gasped into the kiss, my fingers clawing at his tux jacket. He tasted like whiskey and sin, but smelled so good, like expensive cologne and raw male hunger. One big hand fisted my hair at the nape, yanking my head back so he could devour my throat, his teeth scraping, and sucking hard enough to bruise.

"Been watching these lips all night," he growled against my pulse. "Imagining them wrapped around my cock."

Before I could answer, he spun me, and shoved me face-first against the wall. My palms slapped the cool plaster, and his body caged me from behind. His broad chest to my back, and his thick thigh wedging between mine, forcing my legs wider.

He hiked my dress up, and shoved my panties aside. Then plunged one finger straight into me without warning, curling deep, stroking that spot that made my vision white out.

"Fuck-already dripping," he rasped, pumping slow then fast, his thumb grinding my clit in tight circles. "This greedy little cunt knew exactly who it wanted tonight."

I moaned, loud and shameless, rocking my hips back onto his hand. He added a second finger, stretching me, scissoring, and preparing my pussy. My thighs trembled from the intensity of the pleasure.

"Cum on my fingers first," he ordered, voice gravel-rough. "Show me how bad you need it." He bit the spot below my earlobe, and pinched my clit slightly. Sending jolts of pleasure up my spine.

I came almost instantly, throwing my head back, my cry was muffled against my own arm, and my pussy walls pulsing around his fingers in violent spasms. He kept fucking me through it with his hand until I was shaking, whimpering, and dripping down his wrist.

Then he pulled out, spun me again, and dropped to his knees.

He pulled my panties down slowly, like I was some expensive gift he was unboxing, sniffed it deeply and kept it in the pocket of his tux.

He lifted one of my legs on his shoulder, and placed his mouth on me before I could catch my breath, his tongue flat and broad, lapping up every drop, then focusing on my clit with vicious suction. His teeth grazed just enough to sting, then he slid two fingers back inside, curling relentlessly. His free hand gripped my ass, spreading me wider so he could bury his face deeper.

I threaded my fingers through his dark hair, holding on as another orgasm built too fast. "Oh god-please-"

He sucked harder, and his finger pumped faster. I came again, screaming shamelessly this time, my thighs clamping around his head, gushing against his tongue while he drank me down like he was dying of thirst.

He stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes black with lust. "I want to fuck you so hard you'll never forget." He said, his voice barely above a whisper as he pulled me towards the massive bed.

I stumbled backward on shaky legs. He shedded his clothes as he went towards the waiting bed-jacket, shirt, belt snapping free, pants and boxers kicked aside. His cock sprang out-thick, veined, flushed dark, and leaking at the tip.

My mouth watered at the sight.

He caught me around the waist, tossed me onto the king sized bed like I weighed nothing. Crawled over me, pinning my wrists above my head with one hand, then reached for the condoms on the drawer beside his bed. He ripped one open, and my pussy clenched in excitement of what was about to go down. He rolled it up his length with one hand, still holding my wrists above my head with the other. And guided his cock to my entrance, rubbing the head through my soaked folds, teasing me and coating himself in my natural lubricant.

"Beg for it," he said, voice low and dangerous.

"Please," I whimpered, lifting my hips. "Please fuck me."

"Say my name."

"I don't know your name."

He let out a dark chuckle. "You will. But tonight you call me Daddy."

The word ignited something filthy inside me. "Please, Daddy-fuck me."

He slammed home in one ruthless thrust, burying every inch until his hips met mine. I cried out-half pain, half pleasure-at the stretch, the fullness. He didn't give me time to adjust, he just started fucking me hard, and deep, with punishing strokes that slapped my skin on his skin, making the bed creak under us.

"Look at me," he snarled, releasing my wrists to grip my jaw, forcing my eyes to his. "Watch who's owning this pussy."

I did, his grey eyes locked on mine as he pounded into me, his thumb found my clit again, and he started rubbing, pinching and flicking it fast. Another orgasm crashed over me-my walls fluttering, and milking him. He groaned, his pace faltering for a second before he sped up.

"Gonna fill you up," he rasped. "Gonna pump you so full you'll fucking leak me for days."

"Yes-please-Daddy-"

He buried himself deep, his hips grinding against mine, and came with a guttural roar, his hard cock twitching relentlessly in my pussy. I wrapped my legs around his ass, holding him there. He stayed seated inside me, and I felt him begin to soften a little while still twitching.

He pulled out, slid the condom of his cock, tied it and disposed of it. Then he rolled on a new one.

He flipped me onto my stomach, yanked my hips up, and entered me again from behind, the position made him even more deeper, as I was literally feeling him in my cervix. He wrapped his hand in my hair, pulling my head back so he could whisper filth in my ear while he fucked me slow and deep this time.

"Perfect little slut... taking Daddy's cock so well... gonna ruin you for every other man..."

He spanked my ass-sharp, stinging slaps that made me clench around him harder. Then he reached under to pinch my nipples, and rolled my clit. I came again, screaming into the sheets, my body shaking.

He came soon after, pumping his loads into the condom. "Oh fuck sunshine-fucking take my loads in your fucking cunt-"

I clenched around him, "yes-yes-I fucking love it, just like that."

Later, in the shower, he fucked me again, with him pressing me to the tiles, taking me slow from behind, water cascading over us, one hand around my throat just tight enough to make my head spin, and the other between my legs until I came one last time on his cock.

By dawn I was wrecked, sore, and I had hickeys blooming on my breasts, his fingerprints on my hips and thighs, and his scent all over me. I was utterly claimed.

He slept deeply, his face softer in repose, lashes dark against his sharp cheekbones.

I watched him for one long minute, my heart pounding with something dangerously close to regret already.

Then I gathered my ruined dress, slipped into the hallway, and disappeared into the morning light.

No names or numbers exchanged. Just the ache between my legs and the certainty that I'd just been ruined for anyone else.

I had no idea how right I was.

Alicia's POV

The library smelled normal, like old paper and new fine prints too, the kind of place that always felt safer than the real world.

I tucked myself deeper into the corner carrel on the third floor, my legs folded under me on the hard wooden chair, a paperback cracked open on my lap. The cover was worn soft from too many hands, but I can't blame no one, because it had a lovable MMC-dark-haired hero, shadowed eyes, the kind of man who promised ruin and redemption in the same breath. My thumb traced the embossed title absently.

Another book boyfriend meant another safe fantasy. Right?

It's been three years, and I still couldn't shake him.

Not the face-not exactly, because I'd never seen it in daylight. Not the name I never learned. Just the feel of him, the way his fingers had known exactly where to press, the low growl of "good girl" against my throat, the stretch and burn and feel of him twitching inside me until I couldn't tell where I ended and he began.

Every man since had been measured against that night and found lacking.

I closed the book with a soft snap, and pressed my thighs together under the table. The ache was familiar now-low, persistent, like a bruise that never quite healed. I told myself it was just nostalgia. A perfect, contained memory. Nothing more.

My phone buzzed against the wood.

Mirabel: Where are you hiding? Lecture ended 20 min ago. I'm starving. Coffee shop in 10?

I smiled despite myself. Mirabel Connell-bright, loud, and relentlessly optimistic-was the only person who could pull me out of my head when I started spiraling into fictional men. She didn't know about the stranger from three years ago, no one did. It was my secret shame and my secret comfort, locked away like a dirty bookmark.

I typed back: On my way. Save me a seat by the window.

I shoved the book into my tote bag , stood, and stretched. My reflection caught in the tall window-blonde hair in a messy bun, freckles across my nose and cheeks, lips still pouty from biting them while reading. Twenty-five now, and sophomore year stretching ahead like it might never end. Curvier than I used to be, and softer in places that made men stare a second too long.

I wondered, not for the first time, if he'd even recognize me if we passed on the street.

Probably not. And it was probably for the best.

Downstairs, the autumn air bit sharp through my thin sweater. Campus was alive with the usual chaos-students laughing too loud, leaves crunching under boots, someone blasting music from a dorm window. I cut across the quad toward the coffee shop, head down, replaying the last scene of the book in my mind.

The hero had finally pinned the heroine to the wall, whispered filthy promises, and fucked her until she forgot her own name.

My steps faltered, and heat crawled up my neck again.

God. I needed to stop.

Mirabel was already at our usual table when I pushed through the door-her long dark hair spilling over her shoulders, skin the same warm tone as the photos of her mother she kept on her phone, eyes bright with whatever gossip she'd collected since lunch.

She waved me over like I might miss her in the tiny shop.

"You're late," she accused, sliding a paper cup toward me. "Latte, extra cinnamon. You looked like you needed comfort carbs."

I dropped into the chair, and wrapped my hands around the warmth. "You're a saint."

"I'm a best friend. There's a difference." She leaned forward, elbows on the table, her grin wicked. "So. Tell me you finally texted that guy from econ."

I groaned. "Chris? No. And I'm not going to."

"He's cute, and persistent. But he had the rich-dad energy without the actual rich dad."

"He's also clingy and won't take no for an answer." I took a sip, let the cinnamon settle on my tongue. "I told him I'm not looking for anything serious."

Mirabel rolled her eyes. "You're never looking for anything serious. You're looking for a fictional man with perfect dialogue and a ten-inch-"

"Mirabel!"

She laughed, loud enough that the barista glanced over. "What? I'm right. You read those books like they're oxygen."

"They're better than reality," I muttered.

She softened a little, reached across to squeeze my wrist. "You deserve real, babe. Someone who looks at you like you hung the moon. Not just... fictional abs."

I forced a smile. "Maybe one day."

She studied me for a second-too perceptive, sometimes-then let it drop. "Anyway. Holiday break's coming up soon, and my Dad's insisting I come home for the full two weeks. He said he misses me, which is code for 'I want to make sure you're not living off ramen and bad decisions.'"

I laughed. "He sounds like a good dad."

"He is. The best." Her expression flickered into something softer, almost wistful. "He's been... quieter lately. I don't know. Work stuff, probably. Or just the usual. You know he never really got over Mom."

I nodded. She didn't talk about her mother's death often, but when she did, it carried weight-like a stone dropped into still water. Mirabel had never known her, only stories and photos and the quiet grief that still lived in their house. It made her cling to her father in ways I sometimes envied, and sometimes worried about.

"You should come with me," she said suddenly.

I blinked. "To your house?"

"Yeah, for the break. Dad's place is huge, there's a pool, a library that'll make you drool, and he always over-caters. You'd be doing me a favor-keeping me from going stir-crazy alone with him and his brooding CEO vibes."

I hesitated. "I don't want to intrude."

"You're not intruding, you're my person. And honestly? I think Dad would like having someone else around. He gets weird when it's just us-starts trying to talk about feelings and then changes the subject to stock prices."

I laughed again, softer this time. The idea was tempting. A break from campus, from Chris, from school books, and from the endless loop of my own head.

"Okay," I said. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure." She beamed, already pulling out her phone. "I'll text him now. He'll be thrilled. Or at least he'll pretend to be thrilled in that stoic billionaire way of his."

She typed quickly, hit send, then looked up with a grin. "Done. Welcome to the holiday invasion, babe."

I smiled back, my heart doing something strange in my chest-half excitement, half nerves I couldn't name.

"It's just a holiday." I repeated to myself.

Rhys's POV

The boardroom on the forty-second floor of Connell Tower was designed to intimidate. Floor-to-ceiling glass on three sides, the city sprawled below like a map someone had forgotten to fold. Polished black marble table long enough to seat twenty, though only six of us ever used it. Leather chairs that cost more than most people's rent. And silence-thick, expectant silence-until someone spoke.

Today, that someone was me.

"Gentlemen," I said, my voice low enough that they had to lean in, "the Zanzibar resort acquisition closes in forty-eight hours. If there are objections, now is the time to speak."

No one spoke, Mark Jackson-seated across the table, his fingers steepled, and eyes narrowed-gave the smallest tilt of his head. Not in agreement or dissent. Just calculation. He'd been gunning for a piece of the Connell Group's hospitality portfolio for two years, ever since I outbid him on the Maldives properties. He hadn't forgiven me, and I hadn't expected him to.

Hayes White, my right hand for fifteen years, cleared his throat. "All due diligence is complete. Environmental reports greenlit. The local government signed off, and we're clear."

I nodded once. "Then we proceed. Hayes, you'll handle the final signatures in Dar es Salaam next week. I want daily updates."

Mark's smile was thin. "Always efficient, Rhys. One might almost think you're in a hurry to leave the country."

I met his gaze. "I have a daughter who expects me home for the holidays. Efficiency ensures that happens."

A ripple of polite laughter from the others, but Mark didn't join in.

The meeting wrapped in under an hour. I stayed seated as the room emptied, watching the city lights flicker on below. Dusk came early this time of the year. The skyline looked colder than it had in years past-sharper edges, fewer warm windows glowing. Or maybe that was just me.

I pulled out my phone. There were no new messages from Mirabel. She'd texted yesterday.

Mirabel; Classes are killing me but I'm surviving. Miss you. Don't work too hard, old man.

Me; Miss you more. Come home soon. I'll have the chef make your favorite.

She'd sent back a string of heart emojis and a photo of her dorm room-books everywhere, a half-eaten pizza box on the desk.

My thumb hovered over the screen. I typed, deleted, and typed again.

Me; Be good baby, you'll be home soon.

Sent.

I leaned back, and loosened my tie. The office was empty now except for the hum of the HVAC and the faint tick of the wall clock. I hated this part of the day-the transition from Rhys Connell, CEO, to Rhys Connell, widower, father and man who still woke up reaching for a woman who'd been gone twenty-five years ago.

Elena's photo sat on the corner of my desk in a small silver frame. Her smile was soft, eyes crinkled at the corners. Mirabel had inherited that smile, that exact way of tilting her head when she laughed. Every time I looked at the picture, the grief hit fresh-dull blade, familiar wound.

I didn't date, not really. I've had a handful of dinners over the years, a few nights that ended in hotel rooms with women whose names I barely remembered. They were polite, beautiful but empty. None of them looked at me the way Elena had-like I was the only thing in the room worth seeing.

None of them had ever made me feel like I was drowning and breathing at the same time.

Except once.

Three years ago, at Loungefield Hotel, during a charity gala I hadn't wanted to attend. Too many people, too many condolences disguised as small talk. I'd gone anyway, because Connell Group optics demanded it.

Then I'd seen her.

Her blonde hair catching the chandelier light, freckles across her nose like scattered stars, pouty lips that parted when our eyes met. She'd been young-too young, maybe-but the way she looked at me hadn't been innocent. It had been hungry.

We hadn't exchanged names, hadn't needed to. The way she'd gasped when I pinned her to the wall, the way she'd begged without shame, the way her body had clenched around me like it was made for mine. I'd fucked her until we both couldn't move, until dawn crept in and I fell asleep with her curled against my chest.

When I woke, she was gone.

It was like she had disappeared into thin air, she left without a trace, and left me wondering if all that happened was a dream. Just the scent of her on the sheets and the ache in my cock that lasted days made me conclude it was never a dream.

I'd looked for her, discreetly. Asked the hotel staff, pulled security footage. But found nothing, she vanished like smoke.

Sometimes I wondered if I'd really imagined her, and the ache in my cock and the scent was just my brain playing a tricky game on me. But the memory was too sharp-the taste of her skin, the sound of her moaning "Daddy," the way she'd trembled when I filled her. No imagination could fake that.

My phone buzzed.

Mirabel: Yep, coming home soon. And YES I'll be bringing someone. My best friend Alicia. You'll love her-she reads even more than I do. Don't scare her off with your brooding face pls.

I stared at the screen, then typed back a simple reply.

Me: Looking forward to meeting her. I'll tell the cleaners to get the rooms ready. You guys should pack warm please, the pool heater's finicky. And I don't want anyone to fall sick.

I clicked the send button.

I stood, crossed to the window. The city glittered below, indifferent. I pressed my palm to the cool glass.

It was two weeks until the holidays, and two weeks until Mirabel filled the house with noise and laughter and the smell of cinnamon from the kitchen. Two weeks until I have my darling daughter back.

I turned off the lights, locked the door, and headed for the elevator.

The ride down was silent except for the soft ding of floors passing. My reflection stared back at me-gray at the temples now, lines deeper around the eyes, shoulders still broad but carrying more weight than they used to. I'm just a lonely forty-five year old, lonely billionaire.

The doors opened to the lobby. Cold air rushed in as I stepped outside. My driver waited at the curb, the black SUV idling.

"Home, sir?"

"Yes."

The city blurred past the tinted windows. I leaned my head back, and closed my eyes.