A sexy dress
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 11
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Lu eased his colossal frame toward the dining table with the caution of a man defusing a bomb. The ornate wooden chair—antique, hand-carved, probably worth more than most people’s rent—looked like dollhouse furniture beneath him. He lowered himself millimeter by millimeter, steel-hard thighs flexing, glutes compressing like coiled springs. The wood groaned ominously. A faint crack split the air. He froze, one massive hand braced on the table edge, golden eyes narrowed in concentration.
“Easy now,” he muttered to the furniture. “Don’t make me buy the hotel just to replace one chair.”
Another inch. The seat bowed visibly. Then—*snap-crunch*—the legs gave way. Lu dropped the last foot in a controlled fall, landing on his ass with enough force to rattle the crystal flutes on the table. Shards of chair scattered like confetti. The floorboards creaked but held.
He blinked down at the wreckage, then burst into deep, rolling laughter that shook the chandelier.
“Well,” he said, still seated on the carpet, “that’s one way to redecorate.”
His superhuman sense of smell had already cataloged the feast before him: the buttery richness of seared wagyu, the briny pop of caviar, the dark chocolate warmth of molten lava cakes, the crisp ozone of chilled champagne. His stomach rumbled—not from emptiness, but from sheer sensory overload. Pleasure, pure and overwhelming.
“Charlie?” he called, voice carrying effortlessly through the suite. “Come eat before it gets cold. Your old man’s starving for spectacle.”
A soft click from one of the side rooms. Then footsteps—slow, deliberate, rhythmic.
Charlie emerged.
She had thrown her long platinum-coral-streaked hair back over one shoulder in a theatrical sweep, letting it cascade like liquid moonlight down her bare back. The dress—if it could be called that—was a glittering pink sequined number: cowl neck that plunged daringly low between her firm young breasts, halter straps thin as threads, hemline so short it barely skimmed the tops of her thighs. Every sequin caught the lamplight and threw it back in a thousand tiny sparks. She moved with calculated sensuality: hips swaying in exaggerated figure-eights, buttocks rolling from side to side, chest thrust forward so the fabric strained against her nipples. Her black lips curved in a knowing half-smile; her enormous blue eyes burned with raw, uncontrollable hunger.
She paused in the archway, one hand on her hip, the other trailing lazily down her own thigh.
“Lu-Lu,” she purred, voice low and smoky, “how was the shower? Did the water behave for you?”
Lu’s laughter died instantly.
He stared—first in blank incomprehension, then in mounting shock. His golden eyes flicked from the plunging neckline to the hem that revealed far too much leg, to the way the sequins shifted over every curve she now possessed. A tiny, traitorous part of him registered the sheer sexual magnetism she was projecting—the sway, the pout, the glitter—but it was immediately drowned by a tidal wave of paternal fury.
“What the hell are you wearing?” he demanded, voice dropping to dangerous velvet thunder.
Charlie took another slow step forward, rolling her hips again.
“Just something comfy for dinner,” she said innocently, batting her lashes. “Don’t you like it?”
The ruined chair forgotten, Lu surged to his feet in one fluid motion. The motion was so fast the air displaced around him. He towered over her, pecs heaving with each furious breath.
“That is not a dress for you,” he growled. “That is a dress for *adults*. For women who—” He stopped, words tangling. To him, she was still six years old in pigtails clutching a stuffed unicorn. The disconnect was absolute. “You’re my little girl. You don’t wear that.”
Charlie’s lower lip trembled—perfectly timed, perfectly performed.
Before Lu could continue the lecture, the floor gave another ominous creak beneath his weight. He shifted, trying to step back—and the already-compromised section of flooring buckled. He dropped half a foot, knees bending instinctively, massive hands shooting out to steady himself on the table. Plates rattled. A champagne flute tipped and shattered.
Charlie gasped, rushing forward. “Daddy! Are you okay?”
Lu straightened again—untouched, unbruised, not even winded. He looked down at her over the impossible shelf of his pecs, eyes blazing.
“I’m fine,” he snapped. “You, however, are going to change. Right now. That dress is inappropriate. It’s for grown women, not children playing dress-up.”
Tears welled instantly in Charlie’s eyes—big, glistening, heartbreaking. She spun on her heel, sequins flashing, and ran toward the bedroom. She threw herself onto the enormous bed face-first, burying her head in a pillow. Her shoulders shook with exaggerated sobs.
Lu’s anger evaporated like mist in sunlight.
He crossed the room in two strides, the floorboards protesting. The mattress dipped dangerously as he sat on the edge; the frame creaked like an old ship. He reached out, enormous hand gentle as he stroked her long hair.
“Princess… hey. Hey, come here.”
Charlie kept her face buried, but her sobs quieted to sniffles—calculated, theatrical, but no less effective for it.
Lu sighed, the sound heavy with regret. “I’m sorry I yelled. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He gathered her carefully into his arms—lifting her as though she weighed nothing—and cradled her against his chest. His skin was still shower-warm, faintly scented with eucalyptus. Cosmic energy thrummed beneath the surface; she could feel it like a second heartbeat.
“You’re my little girl,” he murmured, rocking her gently. “Always will be. That dress… it’s just too grown-up, too soon. You want to play big-girl dress-up, I get it. But there’s time for that later. Lots of time. Right now you’re still my baby, okay?”
Charlie let herself be rocked, cheek pressed to one massive pec. She inhaled his scent—ozone and power and something uniquely *him*. Inside, frustration burned hot and sharp. She had stared at herself in the full-length mirror for twenty minutes before emerging—certain the dress, the walk, the pout would finally make him *see*. But he hadn’t. Not even a flicker of realization. To him she was still six, still needing protection, still too young for anything real.
First attempt: failure.
But they had weeks here. Months, if he wanted. Plenty of chances. She’d be patient. She’d be relentless.
For now, she let him comfort her.
She sniffled louder, nuzzling closer. “I just… wanted to look pretty for you, Lu-Lu.”
“You’re always pretty,” he said softly, kissing the top of her head. “The prettiest girl in the world. My perfect princess.”
His arms tightened—gentle, protective, paternal. He kept rocking, humming a low, soothing tune he used to sing when she was small. Slowly, deliberately, he eased her down onto the pillows, pulling the thick duvet over her sequined dress and all.
“Sleep now,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”
Charlie closed her eyes, letting her breathing even out into the slow rhythm of feigned sleep. His hand lingered on her cheek a moment longer—warm, impossibly strong—then withdrew.
She felt the mattress shift as he stood. Heard his bare feet pad softly toward the terrace doors. Felt the cool night air brush her skin as he stepped outside.
She kept her eyes closed.
But inside, her mind raced.
Next time, she thought.
Next time he’ll see.
And when he does… he’ll never look away again.
He wait until he think she fall asleep and put her in bed before he fly out to the night sky.
“Easy now,” he muttered to the furniture. “Don’t make me buy the hotel just to replace one chair.”
Another inch. The seat bowed visibly. Then—*snap-crunch*—the legs gave way. Lu dropped the last foot in a controlled fall, landing on his ass with enough force to rattle the crystal flutes on the table. Shards of chair scattered like confetti. The floorboards creaked but held.
He blinked down at the wreckage, then burst into deep, rolling laughter that shook the chandelier.
“Well,” he said, still seated on the carpet, “that’s one way to redecorate.”
His superhuman sense of smell had already cataloged the feast before him: the buttery richness of seared wagyu, the briny pop of caviar, the dark chocolate warmth of molten lava cakes, the crisp ozone of chilled champagne. His stomach rumbled—not from emptiness, but from sheer sensory overload. Pleasure, pure and overwhelming.
“Charlie?” he called, voice carrying effortlessly through the suite. “Come eat before it gets cold. Your old man’s starving for spectacle.”
A soft click from one of the side rooms. Then footsteps—slow, deliberate, rhythmic.
Charlie emerged.
She had thrown her long platinum-coral-streaked hair back over one shoulder in a theatrical sweep, letting it cascade like liquid moonlight down her bare back. The dress—if it could be called that—was a glittering pink sequined number: cowl neck that plunged daringly low between her firm young breasts, halter straps thin as threads, hemline so short it barely skimmed the tops of her thighs. Every sequin caught the lamplight and threw it back in a thousand tiny sparks. She moved with calculated sensuality: hips swaying in exaggerated figure-eights, buttocks rolling from side to side, chest thrust forward so the fabric strained against her nipples. Her black lips curved in a knowing half-smile; her enormous blue eyes burned with raw, uncontrollable hunger.
She paused in the archway, one hand on her hip, the other trailing lazily down her own thigh.
“Lu-Lu,” she purred, voice low and smoky, “how was the shower? Did the water behave for you?”
Lu’s laughter died instantly.
He stared—first in blank incomprehension, then in mounting shock. His golden eyes flicked from the plunging neckline to the hem that revealed far too much leg, to the way the sequins shifted over every curve she now possessed. A tiny, traitorous part of him registered the sheer sexual magnetism she was projecting—the sway, the pout, the glitter—but it was immediately drowned by a tidal wave of paternal fury.
“What the hell are you wearing?” he demanded, voice dropping to dangerous velvet thunder.
Charlie took another slow step forward, rolling her hips again.
“Just something comfy for dinner,” she said innocently, batting her lashes. “Don’t you like it?”
The ruined chair forgotten, Lu surged to his feet in one fluid motion. The motion was so fast the air displaced around him. He towered over her, pecs heaving with each furious breath.
“That is not a dress for you,” he growled. “That is a dress for *adults*. For women who—” He stopped, words tangling. To him, she was still six years old in pigtails clutching a stuffed unicorn. The disconnect was absolute. “You’re my little girl. You don’t wear that.”
Charlie’s lower lip trembled—perfectly timed, perfectly performed.
Before Lu could continue the lecture, the floor gave another ominous creak beneath his weight. He shifted, trying to step back—and the already-compromised section of flooring buckled. He dropped half a foot, knees bending instinctively, massive hands shooting out to steady himself on the table. Plates rattled. A champagne flute tipped and shattered.
Charlie gasped, rushing forward. “Daddy! Are you okay?”
Lu straightened again—untouched, unbruised, not even winded. He looked down at her over the impossible shelf of his pecs, eyes blazing.
“I’m fine,” he snapped. “You, however, are going to change. Right now. That dress is inappropriate. It’s for grown women, not children playing dress-up.”
Tears welled instantly in Charlie’s eyes—big, glistening, heartbreaking. She spun on her heel, sequins flashing, and ran toward the bedroom. She threw herself onto the enormous bed face-first, burying her head in a pillow. Her shoulders shook with exaggerated sobs.
Lu’s anger evaporated like mist in sunlight.
He crossed the room in two strides, the floorboards protesting. The mattress dipped dangerously as he sat on the edge; the frame creaked like an old ship. He reached out, enormous hand gentle as he stroked her long hair.
“Princess… hey. Hey, come here.”
Charlie kept her face buried, but her sobs quieted to sniffles—calculated, theatrical, but no less effective for it.
Lu sighed, the sound heavy with regret. “I’m sorry I yelled. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He gathered her carefully into his arms—lifting her as though she weighed nothing—and cradled her against his chest. His skin was still shower-warm, faintly scented with eucalyptus. Cosmic energy thrummed beneath the surface; she could feel it like a second heartbeat.
“You’re my little girl,” he murmured, rocking her gently. “Always will be. That dress… it’s just too grown-up, too soon. You want to play big-girl dress-up, I get it. But there’s time for that later. Lots of time. Right now you’re still my baby, okay?”
Charlie let herself be rocked, cheek pressed to one massive pec. She inhaled his scent—ozone and power and something uniquely *him*. Inside, frustration burned hot and sharp. She had stared at herself in the full-length mirror for twenty minutes before emerging—certain the dress, the walk, the pout would finally make him *see*. But he hadn’t. Not even a flicker of realization. To him she was still six, still needing protection, still too young for anything real.
First attempt: failure.
But they had weeks here. Months, if he wanted. Plenty of chances. She’d be patient. She’d be relentless.
For now, she let him comfort her.
She sniffled louder, nuzzling closer. “I just… wanted to look pretty for you, Lu-Lu.”
“You’re always pretty,” he said softly, kissing the top of her head. “The prettiest girl in the world. My perfect princess.”
His arms tightened—gentle, protective, paternal. He kept rocking, humming a low, soothing tune he used to sing when she was small. Slowly, deliberately, he eased her down onto the pillows, pulling the thick duvet over her sequined dress and all.
“Sleep now,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”
Charlie closed her eyes, letting her breathing even out into the slow rhythm of feigned sleep. His hand lingered on her cheek a moment longer—warm, impossibly strong—then withdrew.
She felt the mattress shift as he stood. Heard his bare feet pad softly toward the terrace doors. Felt the cool night air brush her skin as he stepped outside.
She kept her eyes closed.
But inside, her mind raced.
Next time, she thought.
Next time he’ll see.
And when he does… he’ll never look away again.
He wait until he think she fall asleep and put her in bed before he fly out to the night sky.
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June 13
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