Come to Daddy (Love Don't Cost a Thing, #1)

by Brianna Hale

The best things in life are free. The second best things are very, very expensive. COCO CHANEL

“If we don’t stop the bleeding you’re going to need a transfusion, and you can’t get a transfusion when we’ve got a fucking body to dispose of.”

Him and me. The son who was loved, and the son who was not. Free at last.

“Education? Please. I’m going to date a series of rich men, find the most corrupt one to marry, and then when he’s sent to prison for fifteen to twenty-five years I’ll console myself by spending all his money.” She shrugs a bare shoulder. “The ideal life.”

Assholes glass you in the pub. Key your car. Cut you off on the motorway. My brother is enriched uranium-level psychopath.

Maybe I am bad-tempered, but while my brother makes an art out of being cruel and manipulative, I just simply don’t care about making people like me. I don’t need people to like me.

Being liked is for thirteen-year-old girls and talk-show hosts.

When I cut ties with my parents two years ago I thought I knew what it meant to be broke. I’ve lived for a week on ramen noodles. Sold birthday presents online. Washed my clothes in a hand basin with supermarket shampoo. But that’s student broke, not real broke.

Student broke is a temporary condition that’s easy to deal with because you’re bettering yourself as you struggle along. As soon as you land your first decent job you know that things will get better.

Real hard-up is suddenly being four hundred and fifty thousand pounds in debt to a criminal.

All I have to my name is a three-year-old laptop, some frayed jeans, and this latte. I take a long sip. And I’m running out of latte.

I’m not the same Ciara I was two weeks ago. The old Ciara would never have dreamed of getting into sex work to pay her bills but that girl died with her parents in the plane crash. The new Ciara does what she has to in order to survive.

This is what pretty girls do when they fall on hard times, they leverage the most valuable commodity they have: their faces and bodies.

Come to daddy.

“You’re not going to university, Ciara. Do you want to educate yourself out of a good marriage? No, you’re going to finishing school to learn how to be an asset to your future husband. As I did.”

At the time I thought she was crazy—finishing school, in this day and age?—but now I wonder where I’d be if I’d taken her advice. Married to a rich man and cocooned from the world in Chanel, YSL and Gucci; a man who could pay off Mr. Ravnikar like it was nothing. But no, I had to go to university, didn’t I. I had to get an education. Better myself. Learn to be independent. Like an idiot.

It’s a terrible feeling, discovering that your parents aren’t anything to be proud of. That the standards they so arrogantly maintained through displays of wealth and etiquette were a sham.

Mother, I’m doing what you wanted at last and trying to land a rich man. Are you proud?

I don’t think sex work itself is immoral or dirty. But I swore to myself long ago that I wouldn’t rely on my body or my charms to make my way in life, I’d use my brains. And yet, here I am.

There’s something called a Splenda daddy, a man who doesn’t have as much cash to splash as a sugar daddy. Some girls say they’re time-wasters and you shouldn’t bother with them. Others love their Splenda daddies.

Why You Should Have a Splenda Daddy on the Side: He won’t be able to give you a fat allowance but he won’t be demanding of your time either Little cash gifts and presents add up Keeps things ticking over for you during quiet periods They’re super grateful for your time and will tell you how hot you are and how lucky they are to have you

I am seeing this question a lot: Can I be a platonic sugar baby? Usually this question is accompanied by, “Old men are gross and I don’t want to touch them.” First of all: grow up. Second of all: you may find a daddy who wants you only for company and doesn’t want to kiss, cuddle, screw etc. Good for you if you do. But 99.99% of these men want sex, and once your allowance is locked in they’ll want it every date.

Stop dreaming. If you’re not prepared to sleep with these men, stay out of the bowl.

It’s all about confidence. Value yourself, hoe. Don’t fuck for free. Don’t eat for free. Don’t talk for free. You’re a sugar baby and every minute of your time is a precious luxury that these men should be paying for.

I’m a luxury. I like the sound of that. If I’m going to do sex work I’m going to do it my way, in a manner that makes me comfortable.

“I don’t have low self-esteem,” I whisper fiercely. I just have a judgmental mix-tape of my dead mother on a continuous loop in my brain.

It’s about time you learned to function as a normal human being. Ask yourself, ‘If I were a nice artificial intelligence, what would I say?’ Turn off your asshole interface for a while.”

I groan. I don’t want to give her my number. I just want to give her half a million pounds. Why must women be so difficult?

“This stuff,” she says, pointing a lethally long silver nail at her makeup, “isn’t makeup. It’s armor. Out there—” she points the same nail at my window “—is the war, and if you’re committed to doing this, then we’re going to make you bulletproof.”

Strangely generous. Ominously generous. Could-get-demanding-about-sex generous. Too bad, Mr. Smith. There’s tape all over my boobs and you’re not going to get your hands on them tonight.

I was prepared for a man who’d lied about his age. I was prepared for bad breath. Gaudy clothes. Manners that wouldn’t cut it in a back alleyway. I wasn’t prepared for Mr. Smith to be gorgeous.

I walked behind her out of the restaurant and my eyes strayed to the firm muscles of her calves. In a distant part of my mind I briefly imagined sinking my teeth into them, then licking across the backs of her knees on my way up to her sex.

“You need to learn how to talk to women. It’s time you grew up. You know. Because you’re forty-two.”

I stare at the picture for a long time, wondering what she tastes like. If she moans when her nipples are sucked. If those bright red nails will scratch through my hair, and if she’ll arch against me and whimper into her mouth as I twist her nipples in my fingers.

Christ. I don’t talk to women. I buy champagne, I half-listen as they witter on about their nails or their dress and then I buy them a present and screw them. Everyone’s happy, I move on, end of story.

I’m not interested in getting to know the two or three women I sleep with a year. They’re only interested in my money, anyway.

What sort of insane person would get turned on by the sight of someone getting their throat slit?

As I apply my makeup I notice my mood level out, and I get it now. The makeup, the clothes, they are armor. But they’re more than that. They’re my arsenal, my only weapons in a war I’m waging against Damir Ravnikar. With this lipstick, with these high heels, I’ll earn my freedom.

Her mouth is very close to mine and she licks her lips. In the soft lights of the car they look plump and deep pink and my gaze becomes locked on them. She’s so fucking beautiful.

My hands caress her shoulders and her blonde curls glide against my knuckles. So soft. I push my fingers into her hair, caressing the back of her head, and she feels like heaven.

She’s heaven with that mouth.

pull her briefs to one side and get a good look at her. She’s so plush and pink and wet and my cock surges anew at the thought of burying myself inside her. I wonder if she’d like that. Does my sweet baby like being filled?

I’m unable to tear my eyes away from the sight of her spread out in my lap, pussy bare to me.

“No, you don’t. I’m not letting you go until you come all over my fingers.”

I’ve never said anything like that to any woman. I don’t know where the words came from. She’s so close and feels so good in my arms that I feel my cock thickening again. I need more of her. I need everything.

I pull her underwear down and when they tangle with her heels I rip them apart and throw them aside. I’ll buy her some better ones.

I want to savor this moment forever. The need in her eyes. Her sweet pussy slick with her arousal.

I’m not going to stop. I want to feel it with my cock, her unmistakable need for me.

I love how possessive his hands feel, here in the street and in Chanel. I tilt my face up to his, waiting to see what he’ll do next. I like it when he takes charge.

“Misha. It felt so good to come on your cock the other night. I want to do that again.”