Page 42 of My Big Fat Daddy Issues

“And get warm.” She nips her bottom lip as the rain coats my face, and I race around to the driver’s door. I reach down and give my dick a hard squeeze before I climb in, trying to use pain to calm the storm in my balls, but it’s no use.

Mina’s already crawled across the cab, opened my door, and is on all fours, her tits hanging down in her soaked t-shirt as she crooks a finger, beckoning me upward.

“Get in, Daddy. You’re gonna be as wet as me.”

This is not going to end the way she might think, because I’m a good man, but I’m about to do some very bad things.

Chapter 2

The truck’s living quarters are efficient but cramped.

A fold-out bed shoved against the wall, a tiny table with a few books, and travel mugs that need washing. Mina flops onto the mattress in her drenched clothes, groaning into the pillow while I toss her a towel.

“This is worse than sleeping on the couch at home,” she says, sitting up to pat her hair dry.

“That couch cost three grand. For that amount of money, it should sing you a fucking lullaby and rub your shoulders until you fall asleep.” My tone’s sharp, and she freezes mid-towel-dry.

I’m not pissed about the cost; it just reminds me of the complications of our relationship and the home we’ve shared for so many years.

“Sorry, I’m just tired,” I lie, muttering the apology as I reach for the bag of Lay’s Cheddar and Sour Cream chips from the table where she dumped the whole lot of snacks from the store.

I pop open the bag and offer it to her first. She takes one, then another, her fingers brushing my knuckles. The trail of her touch feels like fire ants marching over my skin.

“So… movie?” she asks after a beat, patting the space beside her on the bed-slash-sofa.

I kick off my boots and sink down—too close, but fuck it—and hand her the remote. My pants are drenched, but no fucking way I can take them off right now. I unbutton my soaked shirt and strip it off as she flips through the movie choices on the screen.

I’ve got two decades on her, but I’ve kept myself lean. Being on the road, you either sink into habits that send your heart into spasm by age forty, or you balance all the sitting with exercise and real food. In the right light, at the right angle, I’m still sporting a reasonable six pack.

Mina’s taken her share of hard looks at my torso over the years. But, they’ve grown longer and more intense lately and that’s nothelping me extinguish the idea that my sweet girl needs a good hard fucking several times a day.

With my cock and only my cock.

“Here.” She wiggles to the center of the bed, nodding next to her. “You take the end, and I can lie on your lap like I used to.”

Oh, fuck. The thought of her head in my lap, bobbing up and down, makes me choke on my own spit.

I cough to cover my sick mind, stumbling over to where she’s sitting up, her brow furrowed, but the corner of her mouth is ticking upward, as if to say, I see what I’m doing to you.

I drop in next to her on a heavy exhale, leaning back so my dick doesn’t break in half when I sit.

My breathing is fast, and the battle between good and evil rages on inside my head.

Okay, legally, she’s not my daughter. But she’s been my little girl for so long.

Still, it’s not wrong, is it? We are both legal adults. Yeah, okay, I hold a position of power and influence over her, but so what?

The shameful debate will have to wait, because as Mina snuggles next to me, aiming the remote at the TV, my eyes linger on her nipples and the ivory skin of her thighs as my balls tighten.

I try to concentrate on anything but how close we are and the way my cock is crying out for more as she flicks through options on my global satellite internet connection. “The Notebook?” she suggests, glancing my way.

“The Notebook? Are they study partners?”

She elbows me. “Shut up. It’s a romance. It’s iconic.”

The screen flickers to life as I fight the urge to reach into my pants and give my dick a squeeze. Mina snuggles deeper under the blanket, shoulder against my ribcage as I rest my arm on the back of the cushion attached to the wall of the little living area.

Every time she leans forward to grab a chip, her tits brush my torso. Pictures she’s drawn for me over the years are taped and pinned to the padded walls of the living area. From childlike stick figures in faded crayon of her and I holding hands. Me pushing her on a swing at the park and one special one that says “Happy Father’s Day” hits me like a brick to the forehead.