Page 80 of My Big Fat Daddy Issues

She bottoms out, and we both go still. Her forehead drops to the side of my neck. Breath shaking against my throat. She's so tight around me, it borders on cruelty, an exquisite, impossible grip that drags my balls up tight and turns my hands to fists on her hips.

I feel her heartbeat through my cock. Every pulse squeezing me, releasing, squeezing again. The rhythm of something alive and unhurried and so certain of its right to be here that it puts twenty years of my caution to shame.

She starts to move. Rolling her hips in a slow grind that drags me along the front wall of her pussy, and my hands spasm hard enough on her waist to leave signs of the pressure tomorrow. Good. Let the bruises develop. I love seeing her marked with me.

She rides me slow, lifting her hips until only my head stays inside her before dropping back in one fluid sink that punches the air from both of us. Again. Again. Building a rhythm that isn't fucking so much as the two of us finally telling the truth at the same speed.

Morning light catches her collarbone, and I think, stupidly, golden hour. The warm band cuts across her skin at exactly the angle I'd position a reflector if I had one. Her face right now is perfect, flushed and open and wrecked with pleasure.

She tightens around me on the upstroke. It’s a deliberate, knowing clench that says I know exactly what I'm doing to you. I grip her ass in both hands, spreading her, pulling her flush against me, so my cock buries to the root and her clit grinds against my pelvis.

The sound she makes isn't a moan. It sits lower, somewhere deep in her chest, the kind of noise that escapes a person when something they've wanted for years finally arrives, and they don't have language for it yet.

My gaze drifts to where our bodies join, my cock disappearing into her, slick and thick, the base smeared with how wet she is. Idrag my eyes back up, and she's right there, dark and steady and completely unguarded.

Her mouth falls open, her head tipping back, and the tendons in her neck stand taut. I press my mouth there. Just my lips against soft flesh, feeling her pulse hammer as I hold her while she rides me.

"I love you, Daddy..."

I cup the back of her neck and pull her mouth to mine. Kiss her deep and unhurried while I plant my feet on the mattress and thrust up. Giving her every inch on a long, rolling drive that makes her whimper against my teeth. I swallow the sound. I want every noise this woman makes, and I don't want to share them with the room.

"I love you too, baby girl. My beautiful daughter."

She pulls back so I see tears on her lashes, hips still grinding that slow, devastating circle. "I love you," she says again. "I love you."

Her body tightens. She's close. I can feel it in the way her thighs tremble against my hips, the way her rhythm gets jerky. I hold her steady. Keep the pace slow, even though every nerve in my body is screaming to flip her onto her back and drive into her until the headboard splits the drywall.

I press my forehead to hers. "I love you, Wren."

She comes with a shudder that starts in her belly and rolls through her in waves, her pussy gripping me in rhythmic pulses so tight they drag my own orgasm up from the base of my spine by force. Her mouth falls open against mine, breathing my air.

I empty into her in long, shuddering pulses. My breath comes ragged and wrecked against her collarbone.

She doesn't climb off. She stays in my lap, with me softening inside her, face buried in my neck, breath hot and jagged against my skin. The mess of my cum leaking warm around the base of my cock, slicking us both, but neither of us moves. It’s like we both understand that the second we separate, we’ll have to face the real world.

She holds on. I hold on tighter.

The world is going to have opinions about a man my age and a girl hers, about a stepfather and stepdaughter, and every last one of those opinions will arrive eventually.

But right now, she’s breathing against my throat, her heartbeat syncing to mine, and I cannot bring myself to be afraid of a single goddamn thing.

Chapter 7

Idon't like the way Wren goes quiet in the passenger seat. We're an hour and a half into our drive from my house to campus and she makes the inside of my F-250 fucking vibrate with happiness.

She's been running her mouth since we left. She's talked about Bea's shitty apartment and her lecherous landlord, about books, about a succulent she swears she can keep alive this time despite a confirmed body count of eleven houseplants from her past that I can remember. She talks about her classes, about how she wants to switch her major from business, what her mother wanted, to wildlife biology.

My girl talks when she's happy. Fills the frame edge to edge, no negative space.

When I turn onto University Drive, she stops. Her body goes tight. The jeans and very vintage black Metallica t-shirt of mine she picked out to wear making her look tiny as she tucks her body back against the seat.

I rest my hand on her thigh, feeling the tension in her muscles. "You don't have to go in."

"Yes, I do." Her jaw sets and it's so fucking cute. I know that face. I've seen it a thousand times since I came into her life. She's sweet, but she can give you a run for your money, be assured. "He's still got my grandmother's quilt. And some of my books. And my charger, which — whatever, but the quilt matters. And the books, I doubt he can even read."

I snort.

She's got fire and it's an old story and one she will never have to tell again. A few things left at a boyfriend's place the way they accumulate in that way. I fucking hate it, but that's behind us now. But the quilt is hers and she wants it back and that's enough reason for me to drive her anywhere or kill anyone that wants to keep things from her that mean something.