Page 63 of My Big Fat Daddy Issues

I hadn't touched her mother in years. It was a sham from the jump but the Navy taught me honor and tenacity so I stayed in, more to protect and make sure Wren had a good life.

At least, that's what I told myself.

So, I filed for divorce that next day, Wren seemed relieved when I told her, except that she thought I would disappear from her life. I made sure she knew that was not going to happen.

She left for college during the worst of the mess that followed and that was likely for the best except that I missed her like fuckand started giving in to my fantasies of all the things I wanted to do to her.

I have a drawer full of her panties that were still at the house and some of her other things as well that I use on the regular to jerk off and imagine her soft little body yielding to what I'm shoving inside of it.

Now, there's just ten feet of hardwood between us and I'm going to eat that up in three fucking steps.

I could come right now inside my damn pants. My balls are tightening as I think about taking my cock out, how her mouth is at the perfect height to give it a little kiss on the tip then gag her with every thick inch before hammering into my daughter's tight pussy.

Step-daughter I remind myself. Eighteen years old.

Does any of that make it right?

No, but the way I can't stop thinking of her on her knees, ass up in the air, pink slit dripping as I feed her womb all my hot, sticky seed tells me I am so far beyond right and wrong at this point, there's no finding my way back.

"A man who knows what he's doing doesn't call you names when he doesn't get what he wants." I say, taking another sipof my drink, knowing I should stop fucking talking. I don't. "He reads you. Knows what you need before you've figured it out for yourself. If he gets it wrong, it's his fault, not yours."

The kitchen clock ticks behind me. Her lips open and her chest rises and falls.

"I should go." She sets the bourbon down on the coffee table next to my laptop. Fuck, I scared her. "I can call Bea. This is stuff you should go to your friend with, not your Dad—"

We both freeze. Eyes connected.

"This is exactly what you should come to your Dad with." She's called me that for years but hearing it now with my balls weighted down like ten pound stones and her wearing a scrap of denim that barely passes as clothing, the title hits different.

Her eyes, her tits, her ass…every part of her is calling to me. I want to suck and fuck and teach and guide and bruise.

Then, I want to give her a bath, brush her hair, listen to her sing and cuddle her with a book and a blanket until she falls asleep on my chest.

The thought of her walking out this door and looking for what she needs in some boy's fumbling hands turns me intosomething I don't have a polite word for. Possessive is too clean. Jealous is too small.

"Stay." I heave on a painful exhale. "Dad wants you to stay. I've missed the fuck out of you baby bird."

She squeezes her thumb between her teeth. I've not used her nickname for a while. When she was fourteen, she said it was too 'babyish' so I stopped, but from what I see in her eyes right now, that's changed.

"Okay. I'll stay."

Boom.

Chapter 2

Fire laces up from the floor to the top of my head. She's fucking staying alright.

There are two ways this could go.

One, I heat up leftover pasta then set her up in the guest room. Close the door between us and sit in my office and beat my dick off until it's red and raw.

Or, option two, I could be the father figure that turns into something else. Something I know she fucking needs and I blow up both of our lives.

I'm moving forward knowing which option I choose. I stop in front of the couch and look down and she looks up at me witha flutter of her lashes. Ten inches of ravenous cock is thick and throbbing down the leg of my jeans and no fucking way she doesn't see it.

"Stand up." I order, tossing back the last of my bourbon then lowering the glass to sit next to hers on the coffee table.

She pushes herself up and everything feels like it's in slow motion.