Page 157 of My Ex's Dad’s Secret Heir
My hands, suddenly clumsy, bunch up fistfuls of her dress and roam the length of her back, the silk of her skin impossibly soft where the old scar bisects her shoulder blade. I want to touch all of her, every hidden place, every mosaic of healed wound.
She leans in, bites my lower lip, and whispers the two words I never thought I’d hear: “Don’t stop.” They’re low and ugly with need.
The words loosen something wild in me. I thrust up into her, reckless, and she moans, gorgeous and unrestrained. and digs her nails into my scalp. Everything blurs. Her scent, her heat, her thighs locked around my waist, squeezing, daring me to lose control. My whole body is a livewire. My pulse hammers in my ears, and I feel like I might fly apart.
Every thrust finds her wetter, tighter. As if her body is learning mine by echo, by rhythm, by pure animal memory. The air between our mouths is humid with our breathing. She scrapes her teeth along my jaw, lets a string of spit hang between us, and then kisses it away. I don’t know if it’s obscene or sacred, but I want it to last like this. I want to go blind from this avalanche of sensation.
She rides me harder, faster, the slap of our bodies loud and brazen in the night. Her hair sticks to her cheeks, wild and gorgeous. She looks like something from a myth, some dangerous woman who ate the sea and left salt behind on her lips. I can’t look away. She is the axis, and I’m the world, spinning out for her.
“I’m coming,” she chokes, and the words are a challenge.
I manage, “Me too,” through a clenched jaw, but talking is impossible now.
She grinds down, and I’m nowhere and everywhere. Pleasure bounces lightning fast through me, makes my vision go static,makes every cell in my body burn with the need to snap, to finish, to collapse.
She comes first, clutching me close, muffling her cry in the hollow above my collar. Her cunt milks me, pulsing in hot, relentless waves, and I break, coming so hard my toes curl. I bite her shoulder to keep from howling, riding out the tremors while she shudders and shakes on top of me. We’re sweat-stuck and pumping and perfect.
Neither of us moves for a while. Her breath slows. My hands find her waist, the curve of it, and we just sit like that, not talking, not thinking, sticky and tangled under the sky.
We go inside when the air cools. We check the monitors out of habit, not fear. Doors locked. Distance maintained. Our son asleep, dreaming of impossible things that don’t scare him anymore.
In bed, we talk about ordinary futures. Schools. Summers. Whether a puppy is a terrible idea or an inevitability. She teases me about being too strict. I tell her she’s too generous. We both know the truth lives somewhere in the middle we’re building together.
“Do you ever think about more kids?” she asks casually, like she’s asking about paint colors.
I smile into the dark. “Nico needs siblings,” I say. “Only children get spoiled.”
She laughs, soft and real, and presses her forehead to mine. For a while, that’s all we do. Breathe. Listen to the house settle around us. The distant click of a gate, the low murmur of a radio, the quiet certainty of walls that are no longer waiting to be breached.
“I used to think home was a place you guarded,” I say finally. “A thing you held with force.”
Lucia hums, thoughtful. “And now?”
“Now I think it’s something you choose. Every day.”
She shifts closer, fitting into me like this was always the plan. “Good,” she says. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
Neither am I.
