POV Owen
I toss her into the passenger seat like she's made of nitroglycerin and bad decisions.
Because she is. And I'm one second from detonating.
"Don't." My finger jabs through the air as she reaches for the door handle. "Don't even fucking think about it."
She sighs like I'm the problem.
Like she wasn't just grinding against some fucker like he was her personal stripper pole.
Like I didn't want to rip that bastard off her and show her exactly who she's been teasing for three weeks.
The seatbelt clicks into place with a sharp snap that echoes my last thread of control.
She's locked down. Contained.
Because if she keeps talking, keeps looking at me with those big eyes that promise trouble, I'm going to ruin both of us in ways that would make her father put a bullet in my skull.
“This is kidnapping,” she mutters, sulking like a brat in designer heels. “I’m twenty-two years old, Owen. I can do whatever the fuck I want!”
“Clearly.” I slide behind the wheel, jaw clenched tight enough to crack a tooth. “Because of your decision-making tonight? Absolutely fucking stellar."
"You're not my dad," she spits, twisting to face me.
Her cheeks are flushed, pupils wide, alcohol making her bold and dangerous and completely irresistible.
"But you could be my daddy, if you’d like to."
I nearly punch the gas through the floorboard.
Fuck.
My knuckles go white on the steering wheel as I merge onto the highway, trying to ignore the way that word hits me like a physical blow.
The way it makes my cock twitch and my brain short-circuit.
The line was supposed to be clear.
I work for her father. I protect his daughter. I don’t touch her.
And yet here I am, imagining what her mouth would look like wrapped around that word again—daddy—but not in defiance. In submission.
"I made a promise to your father, to keep you safe" I grit out through clenched teeth. "If I so much as look at you wrong, he'll bury me ten feet under and salt the earth after."
"And yet here you are," she purrs, grinning like sin in red lipstick. "Still watching me. Still caring. You think daddy's threats scare me? He taught me how to manipulate, Owen. I learned from the fucking best."
I glance at her from the corner of my eye and immediately regret it.
She's lounging in the seat like she owns the damn car, legs crossed, dress riding up to show an obscene amount of thigh. Like she owns me.
Which she fucking does, and we both know it.
Double fuck.
"You know what your problem is?" she continues, voice syrupy and slurred. "You think you're better than everyone else. So controlled. So fucking perfect. But you're not."
"My problem," I snap, "is keeping you safe and sound, alive."
"I was just having fun."
“You were about to get dragged out of that club by a guy with a Glock tucked in his waistband and a fake name.”
She laughs, careless. “He was harmless.”
“He was a predator.”
“You don’t know that.”
"I fucking do. It's my job to know." I take the exit toward her house faster than I should. "That pretty boy had roofies in his pocket and a hotel room already booked."
Her smugness falters for a second, then returns full force. "Jealous?"
The word hangs in the air like a challenge.
"You know exactly what I am," I bite out.
She pokes my cheek then. Hard. And I flinch like she just stuck a live wire against my skin.
"Aww, sweet little Owee," she coos, and the nickname shouldn't turn me on but it fucking does. "You do feel things."
"Don't." My voice comes out rougher than intended.
"C'mon, admit it. You wanted to kill that guy tonight. Rip him apart for touching what's yours."
"You're not mine."
"No?" Her hand lands on my thigh, fingers tracing patterns through the fabric. "Then why does it feel like I am?"
I should move her hand. Should maintain professional distance.
Should remember that she's Michael Morris's daughter and sixteen years younger than me. Instead, I let her touch me and imagine whatever she wants.
“My name is Owen.”
"Nope. You're mine now. My Owee." Her giggle is lethal, and her hand slides higher. "I like having you all flustered. It's sexy."
She’s fucking intoxicating—drunk on vodka and rebellion. I should’ve known she’d be exactly like her father. Manipulative. Sharp-tongued. Ruthless in her pursuit of control.
The only difference? She’s beautiful enough to get away with it.
“You’re drunk,” I bite out.
“I’m enlightened.” She leans closer, breath warm against my ear. Her dress hikes up higher and her thighs gleam in the moonlight.
My hands tighten on the wheel so hard it aches.
Then she finally slumps back into the leather seat when doesn’t get a reaction. “You know what I miss? Freedom. Making choices. Remember that?”
“You were making choices. Bad ones.”
“They were mine to make.”
“Not when they put you in danger.”
“Everything puts me in danger according to you people.” Her voice cracks. “Walking down the street. Ordering coffee. Breathing.”
“Your father just wants to keep you safe.”
She looks away. “He’s scared. Of losing me. Like he lost her.”
I say nothing. I know. I know the story. I know the wreck. I know what that fear did to him. I know what it’s doing to me.
“My mom,” she continues, voice small, “died when I was twelve. Stupid car crash. Wrong place, wrong time. Just… gone.”
“I know.”
“Of course you know,” she laughs bitterly. “You probably know everything about me. Every stupid mistake. Every pathetic moment.”
“It’s not pathetic,” I say, barely above a whisper.
She turns, watching me.
“You know what the worst part is?” she murmurs. “I like you.”
I go still.
“And you,” she says, leaning close back again, her breath warm against my jaw, “you like me too. I see it. In the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?” Her voice is silk.
But I stay silent, I know better.
“You wanted to drag me out of there, throw me in the backseat and punish me. Didn’t you?” she whispers, lips barely inches from my ear. “Show me what happens to bratty daughters who act out.”
“Stop,” I warn, my voice low, guttural.
"Why?" Her fingers trace higher, dangerously close to territory that would end this conversation permanently. "Scared you might do something unprofessional?"
"Terrified."
"Of what?"
"Of forgetting who I am. What I promised." I catch her wrist before she can destroy what's left of my sanity. "Of pulling this car over and showing you exactly why good girls shouldn't tease dangerous men."
She doesn't look afraid. She looks victorious. "Maybe I don't want to be a good girl."
"You don't know what you're asking for."
"Don't I?" She leans across the center console until her lips are almost touching my jaw. "I know you want me. I can see it in the way you look at me when you think I'm not watching."
My thumb traces across her wrist, feeling her rapid pulse. "You have no idea what I want to do to you."
"Tell me."
"No."
"Please, Owee?"
The nickname combined with that breathy please nearly breaks me. I pull into the Morris estate, grateful for the distraction of the security gates.
But when I park in the circular drive, neither of us moves to get out.
"You want to know the truth?" I say finally. "I want to throw you over my knee and teach you what happens to spoiled princesses who don't know when to stop pushing."
Her breathing changes, becomes shallow and quick. "Owen..."
"I want to make you scream my name in ways that would get me killed. Want to ruin you for every other man because once I get my hands on you properly, angel, you'll never want anyone else."
She stares at me with wide eyes, lips parted, and I realize I've said too much. Gone too far.
"Would that be so bad?" she whispers.
"Yes. Because you're twenty-one and I'm thirty-six. Because you're my best friend's daughter and I'm supposed to protect you, not corrupt you."
She doesn’t look afraid. She looks victorious. “Your job sucks,” she says.
“Tell me about it.”