Free Daddy Knows Best by Vincent Drake Page A

to a damn sight more; a beach wedding and a brand new family of three in the heart of London suburbia. Peachy, or so it seemed.
    Cynthia appeared to be just the woman I wanted; career-focused, sharp, confident... non-hysterical. She’d seemed to be a lot of things, and at thirty-nine and two years her junior I’d happily signed up for the experience. Why the hell not? I had no ties, no better options... why not give family life a shot?
    I didn’t count on Cynthia having a daughter like Georgia. A daughter I craved to discipline, educate, and shape to my filthy twisted will. I didn’t count on my new bride having a daughter who was a slutty little mantrap, the kind of girl who lived for cock but didn’t yet know it, who danced around idiot young men because she didn’t know any better, didn’t know what a real man could do for her.
    The wedding spell had broken quickly back in England, and I suspected by now that both Cynthia and I had realised the error of our ways. Her agenda had been clear, and after doing the rounds of trophy husband I’d soon been discarded. Show over, she was off again, another big corporate event to co-ordinate. More places to go, more people to see. She’d barely even waved goodbye to either Georgia or I, and I’d wondered whether, deep down, she’d ever really gave a shit about anyone but herself.
    She’d admitted when we met, after sinking too many sangrias, that she’d never set out to be a mother at all. An accident, by all accounts, just like our impulse marriage was turning out to be. Now her two accidents were holed up under the same roof, locking horns at every opportunity.
    I should have walked out of that shit, packed a bag and returned to my old apartment. It was still on the market, technically, buyer negotiations still going through. I should have been out of there, stopping at the nearest divorce lawyer en route, but something held me tight.
    I suspected, despite my constant irritation, that something was Georgia.
     
    ***
     
    It was gone 1am when her key sounded in the lock. I’d decimated the beers in the fridge and switched over to Channel XXX, stroking my cock to a horny little threesome with three young blondes. I stuffed my prick out of sight, flicking through the channels to something innocuous. Georgia was trashed. She smacked her shoulder on the doorway as the teetered her way in, pirouetting gracelessly on the rebound and landing in a heap at my side. I caught a glimpse of white lace panties under her skirt, and if she’d been sober she’d have seen how my hungry eyes lingered, my palm brushing the hard-on under my suit trousers.
    It was only when she pushed the curls back from her face that I saw what a train wreck her make-up was. The unmistakable trail of ruined mascara smeared from her eyes, and her cheeks were blotched pink. Her lip quivered, despite her efforts to keep her composure.
    “What’s up, pussycat? Mikey not the big, hot stud you thought he was?” I tried to be cocky in my questioning, but it tapered into nothing. Her dishevelled condition knocked me hard, right in the pit of my drunken stomach. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to fuck her, hold her, or go after that Mikey sonofabitch and find out what the fuck he’d done to her.
    “Like you care,” she snapped.
    “Did he hurt you?”
    She rolled her eyes, swatting away a tear in the process. “No, Mikey didn’t hurt me. I hardly even saw him all night. Turns out Mikey has a girlfriend, the perfect Imogen Delaney no less. He works for her Dad, apparently that’s the only reason he’s with her. Like I care fuck about him anyway.”
    “So why the tears?”
    Her lip trembled again. “Do you actually give a shit, Andrew? Do you?”
    I turned in her direction, pulling up a knee to hide the remnants of my hard on. “ Yes . I give a shit. Tell me what the fuck’s going on.”
    She edged closer, her knee coming to rest dangerously close to mine. “I thought they were my friends, but they