Page 36 of His Son's Wife
“I’m probably ovulating right now.”
Any sign of amusement vanished in the blink of an eye. The weights came down. Then he dropped them away from his body. The heavy thud of metal hitting the floor echoed between us.
I felt as though I should run. You see it in movies where you’re shouting at the screen—run you stupid mare, run.
Here I was rooted to the spot. All because I wanted to watch him lose control at the detriment of my cervix.
Which was a terrible thing to want from a man who already fucked deep enough to make me feel him long after he’d stopped.
“Come over here, sweetheart,” he rasped.
Daddy was always so composed and in control.
Not today, sir. Not today.
I turned and ran.
It turned out that I wasn’t a penguin. I was a chicken.
I almost made it to the door.
His arms wrapped around me and he lifted me off the floor. He carried me to the padded bench—the only piece of equipment held down by a multitude of weights that wouldn’t budge while he fucked me into oblivion.
A wise choice.
Just as he set me on the ground he pushed my shorts down my hips. He tugged my vest up, uncaring that the built-in support caught beneath my breasts. He tugged harder until my breasts spilled free. Next were my knickers. I stared at them as they hit my feet.
“Straddle the bench,” he growled.
He held my elbow as I stepped out of my shorts and underwear. I didn’t know whether it was to steady me or stop me from running. Probably both. A sudden tug at the tie in my hair freed my ponytail and my hair brushed against my lower back.
“Something for me to hold onto while I ride you,” he murmured.
I bit my lip to stop a groan at the image that raced through my mind. My inner thighs were damp and it had nothing to do with the treadmill.
The new brilliant white trainers seemed to be mocking me as I straddled the bench. The cold padded leather brushed against my legs. I crouched down along the length of it and placed my hands over the edges. My breasts pressed into the soft padding and I listened to the rustle of clothing behind me.
“My dirty girl. I love it when you need me,” he said as his fingers moved between my thighs.
There was no hiding. There never was.
My body always told him how much I needed him.
His fingers began to move in small, precise circles.
“I love how wet you become. Ready to take whatever I give you.”
I pressed my cheek against the bench.
Society’s moral standards could take a flying fuck to themselves.
Asher Kersey was mine.
My Daddy.
Chapter 17
Asher
