The limo was dark except for the passing amber wash of highway lights through the tinted windows, strobing across black leather and polished wood and Brielle's legs.

She was half in Richard's lap now, her charcoal pinstripe mini skirt rucked up high on her thighs, her blush silk camisole slipping off one shoulder, her Louboutins kicked off onto the limo floor with a soft thud-thud. Her RICHARD'S WIFEY choker glinted every time she breathed.

Richard's hand had been on her knee for the last fifty miles — big, warm, possessive, stroking slow circles over the black Wolford Neon 40s, feeling the fine knit of the pantyhose, the heat of her skin underneath, the faint hiss of nylon whenever she shifted.

Brielle loved it. She loved being touched through her stockings, loved the way the sheer fabric made everything feel both dulled and heightened at once, loved the soft whisper it made against his palm.

She'd been flirting shamelessly the whole drive to Billings, calling him Daddy, letting her legs fall open just enough, letting the hem of her skirt ride up.

Richard, being Richard, took the invitation.

His hand slid higher.

Up from her knee, over the taut black nylon of her thigh, his fingers splaying wide, his thumb tracing the inside seam of her pantyhose where it was warmest. Up to the thick silicone band at the top of her stockings, hidden under her skirt. Up to the edge of her panties — blush pink silk, tiny and lacy, the ones he'd picked out for her that morning, that matched her camisole.

His fingertips brushed the front of the silk, feeling the heat pooled there, feeling her through two layers — pantyhose and panties — and then his hand dipped lower, his fingers hooking gently at the waistband of the pantyhose, starting to ease them down, starting to untuck her.

Brielle gasped — a sharp, high, girlish sound — and her hand flew down, her manicured fingers closing over his wrist through her skirt. Not pushing him away, just stopping him.

Her cheeks were flaming, her chest heaving under the silk camisole, her lipstick kiss-smudged, her eyes wide and bright and desperate.

"Not now, Daddy," she whispered, breathless, her voice breaking into that soft, estrogen-sweet whine that drove him crazy. She squirmed in his lap, the wool of her skirt bunching, the nylon of her thighs hissing against his tuxedo trousers. "Please, not now."

Richard stilled instantly, his hand frozen where it was, half under her skirt, his fingers warm against the silk of her panties through her pantyhose. His blue eyes locked on hers, dark and patient and endlessly in control.

"Tell me why," he ordered softly.

Brielle bit her lip, her hips giving an involuntary little roll against his hand, making the silk and nylon slide together with a soft shush. She was so hard under there — she could feel herself straining against the delicate pink silk, against the tight black nylon, trapped and aching and leaking.

She leaned in, her mouth at his ear, her breath hot, her wifey choker pressing into his jaw.

"Because if you keep touching me like that," she confessed in a shameless, trembling whisper, "I'll soil my panties."

The words hung in the dark limo, filthy and sweet and completely honest. She felt the dampness already spreading, the silk clinging, the pantyhose trapping everything, and the thought of ruining the pretty pink panties he'd chosen for her, of walking into the Billings gala with a wet spot showing through her charcoal skirt —

It made her whimper.

Richard groaned low in his throat, his forehead dropping to hers, his hand flexing once, just once, against her, feeling her through the layers, feeling how badly she wanted.

"My perfect girl," he murmured, reverent and wrecked. "My wifey, so desperate for her daddy she can't even wait for the hotel."

Brielle nodded frantically, tears of frustration pricking her eyes, her hands clutching at his tuxedo lapels. "I want to, I do, I want you to untuck me so bad, Daddy, but I can't walk in there like this, they'll see, they'll know—"

"Shhh," Richard soothed, slowly, reluctantly, sliding his hand back down her thigh, smoothing her skirt back into place, his palm ironing the wool over the black nylon, tucking her back in, keeping her decent. "Then we wait."

He adjusted her camisole, straightened her choker, pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth.

"After the gala," he promised, his voice a dark vow against her skin, his hand settling back on her knee, possessive and patient, stroking the sheer pantyhose. "After the gala, I'll take you back to the suite, I'll peel these stockings off you myself, and I'll let you soil anything you want."

Brielle melted, a full-body shiver running through her, making the silk of her blouse slide against her skin, making the nylon of her thighs whisper.

"Promise?" she breathed, shameless, already aching again.

Richard's thumb traced the edge of her RICHARD'S WIFEY choker.

"I promise, baby," he said. "Daddy always keeps his promises."

Brielle curled into his side for the last twenty miles to Billings, her skirt smoothed down, her panties damp under her pantyhose, her whole body humming with denied want, and she loved every second of it — of being teased, of being kept, of being told no by the only man who'd ever told her yes to everything that mattered.…