Daddy Crush

by Adriana Anders

  “She’s blushing.” Mikey’s eyes go sharp. “Hold on, wait. Don’t tell me you did it. Have you done it? Without letting us know?”

  I shake my head.

  “Oh, thank God,” Mikey mutters.

  “So, what’s happened?”

  “We, um, kissed.”

  “Nice. Good.” Mikey’s smile is happy. “You liked it, obviously.”

  “Yes. Wow. Yes.”

  “Okay and…”

  “We dirty talked. On the phone. Like, sexting, I mean phone sex.”

  “Did you come?” Alba watches me, avidly.

  I nod, glad the nearest table’s too far to hear. Hopefully. I mean, I love these conversations, but usually they’re focused on my friends’ sex lives, not mine.

  I’ve never had a sex life before. That I might have one now makes me giddy.

  “What about him? Did he come?”

  “Yes. I think so. He called me a…dirty girl and then I told him I was his…” My voice descends to the barest of whispers. “Slut.”

  Alba gives Mikey a look that screams told you so without words.

  “Wow. Okay. And he knows you’ve never…” I nod and watch the corners of Mikey’s lips tighten, like there’s a smile just dying to come out. “And…” Brows up, Mikey’s expressive hands circle between us, trying to draw me out.

  “And I liked it. I liked it, okay, guys? It was unbelievable.”

  “Good.”

  I shiver at that word, memories of Karl saying it last night, full of heat and approval. I’m already programmed as surely as one of Pavlov’s dogs to react.

  “What is it?” Alba leans closer. “What’s wrong, then?”

  “He’s… I think he’s just being nice to me.”

  Mikey’s laugh bursts out low and knowing. “Yeah, no.”

  “No?”

  “No, honey. No. The chemistry…” They pat their cheeks. “Do you see my skin? I’m burning up. Blushing. Still. From the flames you two set off. Okay? No. This isn’t one-sided. You can call it teaching or messing around or pretending that he’s Doing you a favor,” they add air quotes. “But lady, nothing about that man is just nice. Nothing.”

  “And that’s good?”

  “Chemistry with an older, more mature guy who knows what he’s doing in the bed and can talk filth? That’s the trifecta,” Alba says. “It’s what you want.”

  Mikey leans back. “God, if I could have had that the first time, instead of…”

  “Instead of what?”

  “Messy fumbling with Sissy Carter in the back of my mom’s minivan. Or the time I gave Evan Schmidt oral in the mall Friday’s bathroom.”

  “Wow.” I can’t help the fresh wave of heat that takes over at Mikey’s descriptions. Always titillating and unexpected and unfailingly unapologetic. Alba’s even more detailed—and daring—when she talks about her experiences.

  That’s my favorite thing about our conversations—sex without guilt. The opposite of everything I grew up with. Our discussions feel clean, somehow. Sweet and natural. Like this is the way things are meant to be, out in the open, instead of buried under sin and embarrassment and shame.

  “I love your stories. Both of you.”

  “You’re a perfect audience,” Alba says. “Curious, open. Ready to try things.”

  “Daddy Karl must be in heaven.”

  “Yeah, so what’s next?”

  I take a shaky breath. “We’ve got plans for tonight.”

  “Plans? Like doing the deed?”

  “Tonight is lesson number three. Heavy petting. His words. I have no idea what it means. I can look it up if—”

  “It’s foreplay, honey,” Mikey says happily. “And what it means, if you’re lucky, is that Big Daddy’s going down.”

  Alba cackles, slapping both hands on the table so hard the coffee sloshes. “Oh, please let’s call him Cunnilingus Karl.”

  “Here’s to heavy petting,” Mikey gives me a Cheshire cat grin, “with Cunnilingus Karl.”

  13

  Hey Daddy

  Karl

  She opens the door and, though I didn’t expect a repeat of last night’s outfit, I’m half disappointed that she’s fully clothed.

  “Hi, Karl.” Her smile, the way she lowers her head a little, and bites that plump lip, eyes still on mine—that’s all pure, perfect Jerusha. It hits me in the gut. I’m almost sick with anticipation.

  If I didn’t know myself, I’d say there’s a good dose of nerves mixed up with the excitement. And, hell, maybe so. There’s pressure in what I’m here to do. Got to get it right, don’t I?

  “Hey.” I lift the pizza and beer and wine I picked up earlier. “Dinner.”

  Her pixie smile loosens some of my tension. I’m not here to teach her rocket science. We’re gonna make out. That’s it.

  “Heavy Petting 101,” I say, flippant as fuck.

  “Oh.” Her blush deepens. “Right. Should we…are you sure you want to eat? I mean, do you have time, or maybe you just want to—”

  “Let’s eat.” I give a nonchalant shrug and meet her eyes. “Make it like a real date. Good practice for you.”

  “Of course. Like a real date.”

  “Second date.” My lips go into a deep, automatic frown. “Make that fourth. You might not want to do it too soon. If you…” Shut up, dumbass.

  I shut the door as she grabs the pizza and heads back to the kitchen, reminding me of a similar scene, just the other night. With notable differences. Like, oh, say, the things we’ve said to each other in the past twenty-four hours. And, hell, the fact that we’ve heard each other come. I know, for example, that she stops breathing at the specific moment it happens. Stops moving at all.

  I want to see that intensity, maybe put my hand to her throat and feel her go still, press my mouth to hers; get a deep taste of her pleasure.

  “…without Squid?”

  “Sorry.” I shake myself. “What was that?”

  “You didn’t bring Squid along?”

  “Oh, nah. Figured it’d be better if…” I trail off. Maybe she doesn’t need to know all of my thought processes.

  “Better if he’s not here?”

  “He, uh, gets curious. Sticks his nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  “Wow! Okay, yes. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  I force a laugh. “No manners.”

  We set the pizza up on plates, each grab a drink and head to the living room, without a word. Impossible to tell if it’s awkward between us or comfortable. I hope the latter, but, aside from work and family and the very occasional screw, I spend no time with women.

  I sit on the sofa, she sinks to the floor and it’s confirmed—shit’s weird.

  “Uh, Jerusha, do you—”

  “Don’t feel like you have to—”

  “Sorry?”

  “Say that again?”

  We laugh, definitely awkward, and come to a stop.

  In the silence that follows, I set my plate down and bend forward. “You okay? After last night?”

  She nods, watching me. “I’m good. Are you?”

  Just as I’m about to give her an automatic yes, I stop and reconsider. How do I feel about this situation? Do I like it?

  Hell, no. Like is too small a word for what’s happening in my body right now. Not that I’m particularly good at expressing feelings, but she’s this ball of honesty. It’s the least I can do to try.

  “I’m…uh… I’m kinda tired. But in a good way, you know?”

  Her smile’s somehow knowing and cheerful and dirty all at once. “Same. And I can’t stop thinking about…”

  “Come here.” I half dive to the floor and she arches up and my hands dig into all that hair and hers are on my neck and shoulder and our mouths meet and, Jesus, I’m not hungry for pizza or any of this other shit, but for her.

  The kiss isn’t choreographed, but it’s just right. The taste and smell and sounds of her are a cocktail made for me.

  And the feel, shit, how could
I forget the way she presses and pulls back, nips and licks, like she needs to try all the things, do it all, taste it all. Like she’s got only so long to live and—

  I pull back, out of breath. “You’re not, I don’t know, dying or something are you?”

  Her comically startled expression tells me what a jackass I am.

  “Uh, no?” Those massive eyes get even wider. “Are you?”

  “No. Shit, no.” I rub my hands over my face and sink back into the sofa. “Though my brain’s gone haywire.”

  When she doesn’t reply, I suck in a big breath and look at her. “Sorry.”

  “Should we…do you need to stop?”

  “No. Do you?”

  This time she’s the one who laughs. I honestly don’t get how she can be so nonchalant, when that kiss did something to me. I thump a fist to my sternum.

  “No, last night was…everything I’d never imagined it would be.”

  “So, it was good? Helpful?”

  “I’m not scoring you on your lessons, you know, Professor, this is more of a—”

  She stops dead, probably at the look on my face. Or maybe it’s the choked sound I made. Because, fuck, there it is again. The feeling that this sweet, inexperienced woman might be as dirty as they come.

  And, Christ, I want to explore that with her.

  “What?”

  I clear my throat. “Nothing.”

  After a beat, she seems to come to a decision. “Okay.” She indicates the food. “Should we eat?”

  I look around. “Want to watch something?”

  “Oh. Like a show?”

  “Or a movie, maybe?”

  “Let me get my laptop.” She runs upstairs, giving me a perfect view of her ass. It’s round and pert, wider at the hips. I swear my mouth waters.

  By the time she’s back, I’ve torn into my pizza, just for something to do with my hands. And my mouth.

  She sets up the computer and we scroll through the possibilities.

  “You got a favorite movie, Jerusha?”

  “Oh. Not yet. But I’m working on it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Everybody’s got favorites, but I didn’t watch stuff growing up, so there’s lots of catching up to do. I want a favorite, too.” She settles on the floor again and I scoot closer. “What about you?”

  “Do I have favorites? When I was a kid, it was war movies. Full Metal Jacket, Platoon. Deer Hunter.”

  “I haven’t seen any of those.”

  “They’re dark and violent.”

  “And you watched them as a child?”

  “Yeah.” I shrug. “Nobody gave a crap what I did. Worst fight I ever got in with Harper’s mom was when I came home after closing one night to find her still up, watching some shitty action movie. She was like five.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Anyway, when I was young, I liked that stuff and I really loved The Matrix. That was a favorite for a while. Today, I don’t know. Maybe Inception? Interstellar? Something with twists and turns. A mystery, I guess.”

  “That sounds fun!” She hits one key. “Indiana Jones and…the Raiders of the Lost Ark?”

  “How’d you get that from…” I squint at the screen and see that she’s put an I in the search bar. “Movies starting with I? Seriously?”

  “Yeah. I mean, that’s what your recent favorites had in common. Makes sense, right?”

  I lean forward and kiss her again, briefly. Just a peck, but her lips cling and it goes on until birdsong and music and voices break in. The movie’s started. “You staying down there?” I ask.

  “I like eating on the floor.”

  “Okay, then.” I shift and slide in beside her—a tight fit under the coffee table, but it’s nice being close to her. And, if we’re doing this pretend date thing, it might as well be realistic. I lift my beer, with a quick cheers before putting it to my lips.

  “Oh. Wait.” She raises her glass. “To heavy petting,” she says with the cutest smile I ever saw.

  Fuck me, do I enjoy corrupting her.

  14

  Can't stop

  Jerusha

  Pizza and a movie isn’t at all what I imagined for tonight.

  I guess I’d pictured us getting straight to the heavy petting, which, from everything Alba and Mikey told me, is one of the crowning glories of…what did they call it? Carnal Knowledge. Granted, they laughed when they called it that, but still, I kind of like the term. It’s somehow both Biblical and dirty.

  I cover my excitement with a bite of pizza and a sip of red wine, staring at the screen, which features men in a South American jungle.

  I follow the action, although every ounce of my awareness is inside this room. After a few moments, I narrow my focus on the movie. “This is kind of old.”

  Karl snorts. “That a problem?”

  “Nope.” I bite into my pizza, pretending to watch.

  He shifts, bringing our thighs together. I take another bite, another. If someone ever asks me what this film’s about, I’ll have no idea what to tell them.

  Maybe ten minutes later, he sets down his empty beer and turns slightly toward me. “Mind if we sit on the sofa now? Back’s killing me.”

  “Oh, sure. Sorry.”

  He grunts and gets up, settling into the corner of the sofa. “C’mere.”

  I glance at his face before sliding into the curve of his arm and what I see there sends a rush of anticipation through me. “Is this… Are we…?”

  “This is good. Relax.” He wraps his arm around me.

  I’ve never felt so small. In a good way.

  “Here.” He urges my legs over his lap, so I’m half on him, sort of cradled. If I turn left, I’m facing the screen, to the right is his chest.

  I resist the pull and force myself to watch. His hand rubs my arm up and down in a slow, even rhythm.

  When his knuckles graze my breast, I’m as startled as a rabbit. He barely notices. His only response is to tighten his hold, pulling me closer to him. I don’t realize right away that he’s hard under my leg, but when I do, it’s all I can think about.

  No, that’s not true. There’s that hand, which has gone from the occasional accidental touch to a deliberate stroke. The side of my breast tingles, my nipples harden into painful points. But when I turn to look at him, he’s clearly engrossed in what we’re watching. His eyes meet mine. “You okay? Like it?” One eyebrow goes up. “The movie, I mean?”

  I nod.

  “Good.” His eyes slide away from mine. “Keep watching.” His voice is ominously deep. A daddy voice, I’ll bet my friends would call it.

  What feels like ages later, he shifts again. This time, his right hand slides between my legs, to my calf, and slowly up. I let out a sound—more grunt than language. In response, he lifts his hips. He’s undeniably hard.

  And I’m undeniably wet.

  “Are we…” I turn to press my face just below his neck. “Pretending we’re not doing this?”

  He bends. “You like it?”

  At my nod, he leans back again, spreads out his body, taking up more space on this sofa than any single person should. The wide-open pose is arrogant and casual. I have no idea why that turns me on, but it does. I’m all squirmy inside.

  And then my brain catches up to my body with a rush of understanding, and I get it. Everything Mikey and Alba talked about makes sense in a way it didn’t before.

  His hand twists between my legs, making space there the way he’s done on my couch. In my life. My knees fall inexorably open.

  His hot palm on my sex forces my eyes shut. I don’t make a sound.

  He does, though. He grunts, with something like satisfaction though when I turn unfocused eyes from the screen, nothing about his position has changed. If anything, he looks even more relaxed and comfortable than before, almost lazy, I’d say, if it weren’t for the ticking in his jaw.

  It’s heady to take him in up close like this. And it’s not just his size, though he’s so much bigge
r than me, but the details that I’ve only been able to admire from afar—thick black stubble, with the occasional silvery glint, the strong bump of his Adam’s apple, the hair peeking out from the unbuttoned V-neck of his long-sleeved cotton T-shirt. These details, maybe more than anything we’ve done, make this whole thing feel real. Slowly, so as not to somehow break the unspoken rules, I let my head fall against his chest.

  Barely breathing, I soak it up: the slow thump of his heartbeat against my ear, the primitive smell of him, sexy and indescribable, and there—oh, God, there—the insistent press of his fingers between my legs.

  I catch sight of them and gasp. His hand is huge. Those fingers wide and thick. Yes, I’ve seen them before, but I’ve never seen them working my body, never pictured them stretching me open, the way he promised—threatened—last night.

  He has to know how worked up I am, but he ignores it, like it’s no concern of his. He’ll do things in his own sweet time.

  At this point, I’d give anything to take things farther. He doesn’t even have to ask. He can do what he wants, sitting there, massive and full of himself and in-charge. Pure daddy.

  By the time he sets me away from him, I’m so caught up in the reality blurring into the fantasy that I’m his.

  He lifts his chin, eyes still glued to the screen. “Close the curtains.”

  I jump to comply, on a spring, too turned on to be embarrassed by my eagerness, or annoyed that he’s making me do it.

  “Take off your pants,” he says, the way he’d order a coffee.

  “Okay,” I whisper, my mouth clamping down before the Daddy can escape.

  “Good.” He sprawls, legs and arms wider, and watches me through slitted eyes. I’ve no idea what he thinks of my best blue underwear—plain, but pretty—my soft belly, my trembling thighs. “Sit on me.”

  “Uh. Oh, sure.” I move to do it, face-to-face, but he stops me with a curt head shake and a firm hand on my hip.

  “Other way.”

  I’m bubbling up with nerves when I settle on his lap. His arm captures my chest, drawing my top half to him, while his other hand spreads my legs open, pressing them wide, against his. I’m his rag doll.