Lorenzo • BFF's Daddy

I. Car Boombayah - semi smut

The Manhattan skyline is a jagged, neon blur through the rain-streaked windows of the Maybach. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of Lorenzo’s expensive bourbon and the heavy, animal smell of high-end leather. The partition is up, cutting the back cabin off into a private, silent world where the only sound is the rhythmic hum of the tires against the wet pavement.

Lorenzo sits reclined, a titan of a man in a charcoal suit that fits his broad frame with surgical precision. He looks every bit the sixty-nine-year-old patriarch—weathered, powerful, and utterly unimpressed by the "gift" his associates had presented him with at the private gala. You’re sitting beside him, shivering slightly despite the heavy wool coat he’d draped over your shoulders the moment you were led into his car, still dressed in nothing but silk lingerie and decorative ribbons.

He doesn't look at you yet. His large, calloused hand rests on your thigh, his heavy silver rings cold against your skin. His thumb traces slow, deliberate circles over your nylon-clad flesh, a steady, grounding pressure.

"The driver has instructions to stop at the next light," Lorenzo rumbles, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that seems to come from deep in his chest. "If you want out, you leave. I’ll have him take you wherever you need to go, and I’ll make sure the men who 'gifted' you think I spent the night ruining you. No one will ever know you walked away."

He finally turns his head, those cold, dark eyes locking onto yours with a terrifyingly honest intensity. He doesn't see his daughter’s best friend; he sees a young woman who looks like she’s about to make a very expensive, very permanent mistake for the sake of a paycheck.

"But if we cross the bridge to my private estate, you're staying," he continues, his hand sliding higher up your inner thigh, stopping just short of your lace-covered heat. "And you'll do exactly what you were sent here to do. Do you understand me, sweetheart?"

The car slows as it approaches the intersection. The blinker clicks—a steady, ticking countdown. Lorenzo’s hand remains still, waiting for your move. When the light turns green and you don't reach for the door handle, he lets out a slow, heavy breath that ghosts against your temple.

"Safe space it is, then," he mutters. "Don't stop. We aren't there yet."

He leans in, his large hand moving to the back of your neck to pull you flush against his chest. He pins you back against the leather seat, his mouth crashing onto yours in a kiss that tastes like luxury and smoke. It’s slow, possessive, and practiced. While his tongue explores yours, his other hand finds the opening of the coat he lent you.

His fingers, rough and decorated with silver, drag a line of fire from your navel downward. He finds your clit through the thin silk of your panties, his thumb applying a steady, rhythmic pressure that makes your toes curl. He breaks the kiss just an inch, his lips brushing against yours as he speaks into your mouth, his breath hot and demanding.

"Last chance," he murmurs, his fingers slicking the silk against your skin as he finds your rhythm. "You can still change your mind. But the second we hit that driveway, I'm taking every cent's worth of what I'm paying for. Tell me now... do you want to go, or do you want to see what a man my age can do to a girl like you?"

II. His Private Estate - SMUT

The heavy oak doors of the private estate click shut, sealing out the New York storm and leaving only the sound of Lorenzo’s labored, heavy breathing. He doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. His large hand remains firmly anchored in the small of your back, guiding you—half-dragging, half-marching—down the dimly lit hallway toward the master suite.

The second the bedroom door swings open, the "gentleman" persona he wore in the car vanishes. He spins you around, his large palms landing with a sharp, stinging crack against your rear.

The sound echoes off the high ceilings, a physical claim of ownership. He doesn't let you recover; his fingers hook into the elastic of your lace panties, yanking them upward with a ruthless tug until the silk disappears between your cheeks, flossing the sensitive skin and defining every curve of your backside for his viewing pleasure.

"Beautiful," he grunts, the word a low rumble of approval. He leans down, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord of your neck before he sinks them into the meat of your shoulder in a sharp, possessive bite. He moves lower, his hands roughly kneading your breasts, his thumbs raking over your nipples until they’re tight and aching under the silk. He catches one through the fabric, sucking it into his mouth with a primal hunger that tells you exactly how long it’s been since he’s had a "gift" this fresh.

He strips you bare in one fluid, practiced motion, tossing the lace aside before pinning you flat against the silk sheets of the king-sized bed. He towers over you, his broad frame casting a massive shadow. He looks down at you with a cold, focused intensity, his heavy silver rings catching the dim amber light.

"Listen to me carefully," Lorenzo warns, his voice dropping to a gravelly, dangerous pitch. "You had your chance to walk. Now that you’re in this bed, nothing you say is going to stop me from using every inch of you tonight. I'm going to take exactly what I was offered for, and I'm going to take it slowly."

He’s bluffing, his internal code of conduct wouldn't actually let him ignore a genuine plea to stop, but he wants you to feel the weight of his authority. He wants you to know that in this room, he is the only law.

He doesn't wait for an answer. He drops onto the mattress beside you and hauls you over him with surprising strength. He maneuvers your body until your weight is planted firmly on his chest and face, your heat centered right over his mouth. The scent of your arousal and the lingering rain fills his senses.

He reaches down, grabbing your hips with a bruising grip to hold you in place before he barks out a command against your inner thigh.

"Pull it out," he growls, his hands guiding yours toward the front of his trousers. "I told you it was my birthday. Now get to work for those extra tips, sweetheart. Mouth on me, and don't stop until I tell you to."

He spreads his legs, offering himself up as he prepares to bury his face in you.

III. The Brunch with his daughter - sfw

​The morning light in the private estate is unforgiving, cutting through the heavy velvet curtains and illuminating the aftermath of the night. Lorenzo is the first to stir. He doesn't move immediately; he lies there, propped up on one elbow, watching the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of your chest.

His large hand, still heavy with silver rings, wander over your skin with a possessiveness that feels different in the daylight. He traces the dark, flowering bruises on your collarbone and the bite marks on your thighs—badges of his sixty-ninth birthday. He brushes a stray hair from your face, his thumb lingering on your lower lip before he leans down to press a surprisingly soft kiss to your forehead.

"You were good," he rumbles, his voice thick with sleep. "Better than I expected. You handled a man my age like you were born for it."

He gets up, his naked frame powerful and scarred, and disappears into the en-suite. The sound of the shower running is the only thing filling the room until he emerges twenty minutes later, already partially dressed in a fresh white shirt, buttoning his cuffs with clinical precision.

He spots you waking up, eyes bleary. There is no warmth in his gaze now. He reaches into his blazer, pulls out a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills, and tosses them onto the mattress. They scatter across the silk sheets like autumn leaves.

"Take it. It’s more than we agreed on," Lorenzo says, his tone shifting back to the cold, transactional steel of a CEO. "Now, get dressed and leave. I don’t do repeats, and I don't do phone calls. If I ever see you again, I don't know you. Understood?"

He doesn't wait for an answer. He’s gone before you can even sit up, the heavy click of the bedroom door signaling the end of the transaction.

By 1:00 PM, Lorenzo is the picture of a devoted, high-society father. He’s sitting in a sun-drenched corner booth at an exclusive Upper East Side bistro, his charcoal suit jacket draped over the back of the chair. Maya is sitting across from him, yapping animatedly about her week, her eyes bright with the kind of innocence Lorenzo spends his life protecting.

"Dad, you're not even listening!" Maya pouts, crossing her arms over her chest. "I told you, she’s literally my sister. You're going to love her. She's the only reason I passed that economics final."

Lorenzo chuckles, a rare, genuine sound. He reaches across the table, playfully squeezing his daughter’s hand. "I’m listening, princess. I’m just wondering how anyone could put up with your energy for four years of college. She must be a saint."

"She is! And she’s late, which is totally unlike her," Maya says, checking her watch. "Oh! Wait—there she is! Over here!"

Maya stands up, waving frantically toward the entrance. Lorenzo stays seated, his back to the door, a small, indulgent smile on his face as he prepares to meet the girl who occupies so much of his daughter’s time.

But as you approach the table, Lorenzo’s smile doesn't just fade—it dies.

He turns his head slowly, his ice-cold eyes locking onto yours. For a split second, a flash of pure, unadulterated irritation crosses his features. He told you never to contact him. He told you to vanish. To see you here, tracking him down while he’s with his daughter, feels like a blackmail attempt in the making. His jaw tightens, his knuckles turning white as his hand grips his espresso cup.

Then, Maya speaks.

"Dad, finally! This is her," Maya beams, sliding back into the booth and pulling you down next to her. "This is my best friend. The one I’ve been telling you about forever."

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Lorenzo goes completely still. His face turns into a mask of stone, his expression going blank and unreadable. He looks at you—really looks at you—as if he’s seeing a stranger. There is no sign in his eyes of the man who had his fingers buried in your hair twelve hours ago. No sign of the man who growled commands into your ear while he ate you alive.

He sets his cup down with a deliberate, quiet clink. He offers a hand—the one with the rings you felt against your inner thighs—and speaks in a voice so polite it’s terrifying.

"A pleasure," he says, his tone smooth and hollow. "Maya has mentioned you. I’m Lorenzo. It’s... quite a surprise to finally put a face to the name."