Daddy Crush

by Adriana Anders

  My eyes go wide. Is he really trying to talk about this here? “Well, I mean, the only thing I’ve ever done was when you kissed me the other night. But I liked that.”

  “Okay,” he says, with an odd expression. “Is there any food, though, that you don’t care to eat? Or allergies or anything?”

  “Oh, goodness.” I hide my burning face behind both hands. “That wasn’t… Oh, geez. Okay.” I shake my head. “No. Nope, I eat everything.”

  “So, raw squid and calf liver and…” Suddenly his voice lowers to a whisper and he’s right there in front of me. “Hey.” I open my eyes to find him smiling warmly. “You okay?”

  “Embarrassed is all.”

  His head tilts to one side, eyes glowing darkly. “You’re so damn…cute.”

  “Really?”

  “Shit.” He takes a quick look around, looking like he just woke up to where he is. “Be right back.” He folds his lips together and disappears through a door to what must be the kitchen.

  The second he’s out of sight, Harper—Karl’s beautiful daughter—skips over. “I’m seeing things, right?”

  “Seeing things?” I’m so hot, I must look like I’ve been boiled in water.

  “My dad’s into you.”

  “Oh, no, he’s just… I mean, I…” What am I doing? I can’t tell his daughter that I asked him to show me what a good kiss is like. “I…I’m…”

  “Hey. Hey. Wait a sec. This is amazing.” She nudges me with one slender shoulder. “I’ve literally never seen him into anyone. He’s a monk. Fricking Friar Karl, self-flagellating at home ’cause he was a wild man in his youth and sowed one too many wild—” She cuts off abruptly as the door from the back swings open, revealing her father with his arms full. After a quick elbow nudge and a wink, she disappears into the crowd of diners, humming.

  “What’d Harper tell you?”

  “I…I think I’m not supposed to tell you.” It’s not like this type of thing’s happened to me before.

  He plunks down silverware and a napkin, along with a basket of Heavenly-scented bread and a ramekin of butter. They send my tastebuds into overdrive.

  A distrustful squint takes over his face. “Why not?”

  “She was nice. I don’t want to…” I wave my hand, as if that’s any sort of explanation.

  “Nice?” He harrumphs “That’s good enough for me, I guess.”

  I eye the bread. “That smells amazing.”

  “Have some.”

  “Oh, no, I’ll wait.”

  “Do it, Jerusha. Eat the bread.”

  “Yeah? I’m not supposed to, you know, wait until the food arrives, or something?”

  “No.” He breaks open a roll, releasing steam and enough scent to set off a rabid growl in my belly. “Whoa. Hang on.” In a hurry now, he spreads butter on the bread, and hands it over. “Dig in.”

  I do. And it’s so good, I moan.

  I barely take notice when Karl blows out a hard breath, slaps the bar, and walks away.

  I swallow the bread and stuff another bite into my mouth.

  A couple minutes later, he’s back with a small terra cotta plate of shrimp in a chunky sauce. “Spiced camarones,” he says.

  When I don’t immediately respond, he indicates the dish with his chin. “Go on. Tell me what you think.”

  I pick up a shrimp and bite into it and holy mother, it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. I don’t say a word, but he must know I love it, because his eyes are on me and he’s nodding a little, like he knows.

  He pushes the basket of bread closer. “Dip it in the sauce.”

  It’s sweet and salty and hot, hot, hot, with garlic and spices I’ve only recently discovered. I swear I’m drooling when I say, “That. Is the best. Thing. I’ve ever eaten. Hands down.”

  He grins. “Just wait.”

  The second shrimp goes down the same way, although I notice different things this time—a perfumey green herb that lifts the whole dish up. I love it.

  “I want to marry this.” I’m half laughing, half moaning and he joins in, though he hasn’t even tasted it. “Here.” I push it toward him. “Eat some.”

  “Nope. Just enjoying the show.”

  “Hey!” I say, halfheartedly. I can’t be bothered to feel embarrassment. I know how I am about food. I know how it looks, and I don’t care. The fact that he appreciates it makes me like him that much more. I really do like him. I like his restaurant, too, and his daughter.

  My eyes follow his progress down the bar, to where two men have sat down for dinner. He shakes their hands and chats with them, looking friendly and warm and happy to see them. It’s probably wrong to objectify him, but it’s hard not to from this distance. There’s something so confident about the man. Tall and straight and hefty in a way that excites me. I imagine all that power doing things to me, though I still don’t know exactly what it is that I want.

  I mean, I’ve watched sexy stuff. I’ve seen what people do. My parents insisted that curiosity was one of my worst vices. I know at least some of what two bodies can do together, to each other. But that man over there—standing so straight and strong, so confident and warm—I’ve tasted him. I’ve felt his firm touch. I know how he smells, close up. Knowing and experiencing aren’t even in the same realm.

  My eyes drink him in now as he pours a few things into a big, silver cup, shakes it all up carefully serves it to his two new customers. He’s rolled up his sleeves to just below his elbows—a place I’ve never admired on a human before—which showcases tattoos I had no idea were there, muscles, and thick-knuckled fingers that work with absolute ease and expertise. Will he work me like that?

  I’m breathing hard just thinking about it. It doesn’t occur to me that I’m staring until his gaze shifts to mine. Just that eye to eye contact rearranges my insides.

  A shiver runs through me. He knows what I’m thinking. He knows.

  He pushes off the bar, saying something to his customers, without taking his eyes off me. Peripherally, I notice them watching me, probably wondering what’s gotten into Karl McCoy.

  Slowly, he prowls toward me, an inexplicable dichotomy of tight muscles and loose limbs. How would it feel to let that capable body take over? No. Not would, I realize with a startled little jolt. Will. How will that feel?

  “Got a minute?” he asks, which I don’t immediately understand.

  “Um, sure.”

  “Follow me,” he growls before heading through a wooden door in the back of the room.

  Karl

  I shouldn’t be doing this. Not here, where I’ve literally fired employees for inappropriate behavior. I shouldn’t be doing this, but I am.

  And she’s following me, which… Hell, I don’t know if I’m pleased or unhappy about that.

  Bullshit.

  I glance down to where my cock’s pressing against the front of my jeans. Calling bullshit on myself’s sort of been my mantra for my forties. So, yeah, I’m excited as hell that she’s right behind me.

  I unlock my office door, wait for Jerusha to step inside, and follow her in, locking it behind me.

  “I, uh…” Shit. What an asshole. Full restaurant out front, and I’m back here, stammering in front of the woman who wants me to show her the ropes. “Come here.”

  She’s in my arms in under two seconds flat and I remember, Christ, I remember, how good she felt.

  Only the kiss is better tonight, frantic and heated, like we’ve been plopped down in the middle of this attraction, instead of starting in the very beginning like the other night.

  And, goddamn, the middle is one hell of an inferno. She’s wrapped around me, stroking, feeling, consuming me—arms, shoulders, neck—like she’s been thinking about doing this and she’s finally got the chance.

  Which is precisely how I feel. There’s no measuring or careful weighing here, no learning or getting to know each other—this shit is fire. And I’m jumping in headfirst. Lips, teeth, tongue, and every one of my senses.

  My
hand’s in her hair, holding her tight, tighter. So tight, she stumbles back to land against the door. She deepens the kiss and those moans—the ones I couldn’t get enough of at the bar—are back, only they’re hungrier. Shit, that hadn’t seemed possible.

  I yank myself back, with difficulty. “Like this?”

  She nods, wraps her hand around my neck and pulls me back in and, fuck, I’ve got to feel her, taste her, smell her down there. One fist’s got her pegged to the door, the other slides over her thin sweater, feeling warm, curvy flesh beneath.

  I slip under the sweater to find soft skin, grunt at the heat, and stroke down to where her rounded hip’s the perfect size and give. Another pained sound tears from my throat. My hips tilt forward until my cock’s against her. Dammit. This isn’t right.

  I rip myself away from her plush, hungry mouth and hover there, breathing her air, her smell, her high whimpers.

  “Shit, Jerusha.” I glide my mouth over the side of her face to her ear and whisper, “You’re killing me.”

  “S’it okay? Am I doing it right?”

  What?

  I loosen my hold on her hip, breathe, and pull away. Just a little, ’cause, shit, I’m not ready to put space between us yet.

  “I’m on fire.”

  I don’t hear her laugh as much as I feel it—a vibration from her chest to mine. “Good.” Her lips curve up, puffy and pink and more sensual than anything I’ve touched before.

  She tilts her hips forward to meet mine again. Air escapes me. “Watch out.” I whisper, meeting her playful gaze. “I’m an old man. Been a while since I had this much excitement.”

  She lets out a teasing giggle. “You just picked up a guy and threw him out on the sidewalk.”

  I plant a firm kiss on her lips, drinking in the unfamiliar taste of her—just one more for the road. “I could do that in my sleep. This…” I step back and indicate the space between us. “This is rare.” I don’t tell her it’s not just the actions I mean, it’s the sensation. Not just the newness of her, but the… Shit, I’ve got to tell her. I’m done keeping shit back. “We’ve got…chemistry, you and I. That’s what I mean. Not just that we’re kissing. It’s that we’re kissing and the whole fucking world could explode and I couldn’t care less.”

  She huffs out a sound. “Thought it was just me.”

  Our gazes meet and hold, like they’re meant to, and I spend the next few seconds in my head, because frankly, this shit’s scary. I’ve been married, dammit. I’ve been in love. It’s just never been like this. Incendiary. I worry about her. I worry about myself.

  But not enough to stop this.

  I’m not an idiot.

  With a smile, I tuck her hair behind her ear and give her enough space to finally move. “Better get back. Make sure the restaurant hasn’t blown up.”

  The look she throws me is decidedly flirtatious. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the woman knows exactly what she’s doing. “They probably called the fire department on us,” she says and it’s so goofy, so unexpected—this whole damn thing—that I laugh, the sound trailing off as I throw my arms around her and give her a happy hug. I kiss the top of her head and put her away from me.

  “Let’s go see if your second course is ready.”

  7

  Blister in the Sun

  Jerusha

  Magic. Pure magic. The night, the food—dishes and dishes, tastes and flavors like I’ve never experienced. Steak and sweet potatoes and roasted mushrooms, green bean French fries, hot fiery slaw and a bright, tangy salad that almost made me weep. Every dish I tried had him going back into the kitchen for more, as if my reactions fed him as much as the food fed me. Then there was the wine. Three glasses, making me happy and silly and light.

  I’d have swapped every bit of it for more of that kiss in the back room.

  I swipe a hand over my mouth, sad that his taste’s gone, but still so happy, I can’t help but smile.

  I want to run all the way home…and then I do. There’s no one around to tell me not to. No disapproving frowns or angry glares. Just a few dog walkers, maybe some diners returning home, bellies full. There are rows upon rows of long skinny houses, lined up side to side, similar, but different, even from the street. From dilapidated to sparkling, drab to rainbow-bright. I love this place. Pumpkins on stoops, piles of rustling leaves, begging to be messed up, and wood smoke, which reminds of home.

  I slow about a block from my house, breathing hard, lungs aching from the cold—but even that feels good. A fitting end to a wondrous night. Some houses are lit up, windows bare enough to see inside, but they’re like mine, which means only the entry and front room are visible, the rest are a mystery.

  He’s like that—Karl. A certain way on the surface—brusque and gruff. Tough and a little mean. It’s what he shows the world, what he wants most people to see. But behind the bar, another side came out. His regular customers got a man of hospitality and kindness. Mellow, warm. I imagine his daughter sees him that way.

  He showed me more, though, tonight. The white blaze at the heart of him, a brilliant core, so hot that it burned.

  I’m breathing hard at the memory now, rather than from my run, like I’ve sprinted a marathon instead of five blocks. I’m on fire—from him.

  And I like it.

  I get home, brush my teeth, and get undressed, all jittery and excited, and flop onto my cool blankets, naked. Goose bumps race over my skin. I’m sensitive and cold on the surface, while my insides roil like lava. Still not entirely comfortable with my own touch, I reach down, tentative and a little ashamed, to caress the place between my legs.

  My mons, it’s called here—the plump curl-covered mound that I used to press soap to in the bath as a teen. Shame. That’s what I’d felt back then as I’d scrubbed hard in search of sensation.

  No more, I insist, again. And again, and again. No more shame, no more fear of a God who’d rather hurt than celebrate. No more living for the promise of a brighter afterlife.

  In the moment, I throw off what I’ve been taught and dive into what I’ve learned on my own.

  My hair down there is beautiful. It’s wiry and thick—luxurious. I don’t have to move lower to feel the wetness—also a sort of luxury. Natural, and God-given, if I’m to believe He created me.

  But I don’t. I can’t. It’s not who I am. Instead, I pull away from dogma and dig into warm, pliant flesh—slick and swollen from desire. My labia—lips. Sensitive and lush. Complex in a way that mirrors my insides, though somehow simple once I got to know them.

  My finger grazes the miraculous seat of all my pleasure, pushing air from my lungs in a silent gasp. My clitoris. Clit. The seed of pure sin. Would this spot even exist if we were made as my parents claim? No. I let myself moan aloud, give my bliss sound and space in a world that wanted to deny it. And then, because I’ve truly given in to my flesh’s needs, I slide down, to my opening, circle it and ease one finger inside my slick, hot hole.

  Until I came here, I was ignorant of my own anatomy. Now, I know the name for this, too, and everything inside. How babies are made—and orgasms. I smile. That is an art I’ve perfected in a very short time.

  I could do it now in under a minute, but I’ve learned that true extravagance lies in making it last.

  He appears again, behind my eyelids, only it’s not looks I’m seeing now, it’s the other things he gave me tonight. From the press of his hips to mine, I got a taste of what is contained in those muscles. Not just good to look at or to touch, they’re full of power. What would that feel like, unleashed?

  A shiver runs through me and the orgasm’s edging up, despite the lack of friction. A car thrums outside and I hold my breath. Is it him? Already home? The engine ebbs. Not him. I’m disappointed, but also excited. Anticipation is sweet when there’s something to look forward to.

  I think back on the way the evening ended, with Karl walking me out onto the wide sidewalk. “You walking home?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Don’t have
a car.”

  “You drive?”

  “Farm vehicles.”

  He grinned. “Got a license?”

  “Working on it.”

  “Want me to run you home?”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  His face wrinkled into that scowl that hides so much and reveals even more. “It’s late.”

  “I always walk.”

  He harrumphed, a low grumpy sound that appeals to me on a level I need to further explore.

  Right now, on my bed, just thinking about that sound sends my nerves rushing higher. Unable to hold back, I sink two stiff fingers into my wet vagina, and grunt at the stretch. It’ll be him, one day. If he takes it this far.

  He will. He has to. It has to be him with those hard eyes, hard muscles, the hard erection he pressed to me tonight. I gasp at each penetration, feeling empty and achy, wetter than I’ve ever felt myself, smelling of musk and my own desire.

  What does his smell like?

  I shut my eyes hard at the question. It’s too much, too real and animal. It sends my other hand down to rub messily at my clit. There’s no talent in my right hand, no rhythm, which makes the whole thing right and wrong, at once. Like maybe it’s his hand getting a feel for me, instead of my own. Like maybe he’d rub me here if I asked him to.

  In my mind, I see the glint of silver in short dark hair, the clasp of his rough hand on my waist and hip, which only my imagination can provide. And right now, it tells me that he’d squeeze harder—not to hurt me, but because he couldn’t help it.

  Or maybe, I don’t know, maybe he’s controlling himself, and me. Maybe he’s holding me still to make me take the pleasure. Maybe he’s so in charge that he restrains me and forces it onto me.

  Before the next awkward stroke’s finished, I’m climaxing, higher, stronger than I have before. It startles me like a slap across the face, leaves me hollowed out. I’m not myself for the next handful of seconds. Or if I’m me, I’m a version I’ve never experienced before. Elemental. Stripped down. Blank as a newborn.