Daddy Crush

by Adriana Anders

  I’m a slut. For him.

  Under my stare, he stands and pulls his shirt the rest of the way off, then drags his pants off entirely. I lap up the show. This could be the last time is my tragic inner anthem.

  There’s no time for me to think before he’s kicked off his pants and climbed back on top, his underwear still in place. It’s an interesting decision, but I like it, the way I like still wearing my bra. Fantasies rush in as he stretches out on top—us in his restaurant office, against the door, only this time, he pulls himself from his underwear, tugs mine to the side and shoves that fat cock inside me.

  I moan at the reel in my head, and at the heavy bulk of him, pinning me in place as solidly as his hungry gaze.

  He rises up onto straightened arms, giving me space to breathe. I’m still taking him in, memorizing every square inch of this powerful body. His ink, his scars, the rippling muscles I’d only guessed at.

  “You okay?” he asks, concern diluting his desire.

  “Oh, yes.” I nod. “You?”

  He dips his hips, rubbing his cotton-clad erection between my splayed thighs.

  I whimper. He grins evilly. The balance is restored.

  “I’m good.” He lifts up again, clears his throat. “As long as this is what you want and you don’t—”

  “It is,” I rush to say. “I want this.” I want you.

  His gaze sharpens as it skims over my face, like he’s considering, after everything, if maybe we’re about to go too far.

  We’re not! I want to scream. Do it. Do it all, Karl. Do it, Daddy.

  Instead I watch him with steady eyes, hoping he can’t feel the wild tripping of my heart, only partially in reaction to his hard penis. Most of it, though, I have to attribute to him and my feelings. Which was not part of the deal.

  “Come on, Daddy,” I whisper, as flirtatiously as I can. “I want to feel you down there.”

  His eyes lose focus as he groans and gives in, dipping low, with nothing but underwear between us.

  Back and forth, he strokes, the pressure wonderful, but the fabric not ideal. It doesn’t take long for my hands to roam, raking through his coarse hair before stroking his flank. His belly’s hard abs ripple when I reach down to skim him there.

  His rhythm is measured until I reach around to his butt, tuck my fingers in his boxer briefs, and tug.

  “I want you bare. Against me,” I venture, hoping I’m not going too far.

  “Oh, fuck, you’re so dirty.” With his weight on one arm, he wrenches the shorts partway down. I help him, tugging until they’re almost to his knees. Without the fabric’s restraint, his cock strains up to his belly. He amends that with a quick, downward tug and then—

  I’m sunk, swimming in sensation.

  All I feel is his heat, his hardness. It’s so much more than I imagined. So real it’s a little frightening.

  Being me, though, the fear ramps things up, makes my nipples point so high they hurt. I can smell myself and him and the cocktail of our bodies together and it’s absolutely magic.

  “That’s it, use me. Use it,” he mutters.

  I’m so wet he slides right between my lips. We both jump like live wires, as if our nerves are centered right where our bodies meet.

  His butt flexes under my hand, full of power. The potential makes me go weak. If he shifts, just enough, he’ll be in me, breaching me for the first time.

  “I want you to do it, Karl. I want you inside me.”

  “Yeah,” he mumbles, drawing back, his eyes glued to where so much is happening. “Yeah, I’ll fuck you so hard.”

  “You seem big. Are you… Are you sure?”

  He slows his back and forth motion, narrows his eyes. “Sure of what?”

  “That you’ll fit?”

  His sordid chuckle sends a fresh wave of lust from my core to my limbs. Recklessness takes over.

  “I’ll fuck you. Don’t you worry,” he threatens. “I’ll stretch that tight little cunt and you’ll take it. You’ll take what I give.”

  “Oh, gosh.” As soon as I say it, the word sounds silly mixed with the sex in the air. I stutter out a broken yes.

  “Say my name.”

  “Karl.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ll take it, Karl. I want that.”

  “Good.”

  The talk from last night, but face-to-face, skin to skin, flips every switch. The heat’s almost unbearable. The pressure too much to take. His shaft presses and slides, his ass clenches, his arms so tense that they’re shaking and all of it—every little twitch, every bit of effort—is for me. For me.

  He rears back, face taut and deadly serious, rubs my clit hard and fast.

  I catch fire, incapable of holding the orgasm back. It barrels through me, tears away every bit of restraint I have, blasts straight to my heart.

  I love him, I admit, soaking up his expressions of mixed pleasure and pain. I love him and I don’t ever want this to end.

  It’s too much. I’m not breathing, not moving. I swear even my heart goes still.

  But my mouth, crap, my mouth says the words. “I love you, Karl.”

  So I guess that’s that.

  Karl

  I love you, Karl.

  No. God, don’t say that.

  My vision blurs and her hand lands on mine to stop the friction. Watching her features freeze and her face go beautifully blank with pleasure, I want to do it again, give her another orgasm and another; force them on her ’til she forgets what she just said. Or maybe I’m the one who needs to forget.

  Fuck. I shove her words out of my head, lean back, and wrap my fist around my dick, work it hard until coming’s an inevitability. All thoughts of feelings and futures and responsibilities scatter. I picture doing it on her belly, her tits. Anywhere. Inside her. I want to rub it in. Bite her, mark her. Own her.

  No dammit.

  I love you, Karl.

  I pull away, chest hurting. Okay. Okay. She came. Lesson over.

  I look up. On the computer, the credits are rolling. I should go. Give her some space, let her get to sleep.

  “You good?” I ask, yanking my underwear over my aching erection. I step back, knock into the table, which tips my beer bottle. I save the computer, but beer spills everywhere. Laptop in one hand, I grab the first thing I find—my shirt—and sop the foam up, trip on my jeans, and finally sit back down on the sofa. “Dammit.”

  The look on Jerusha’s face is half-shock, half-hilarity. None of the lazy, post-orgasmic glow she should be wearing. She’s wrapped her arms around her legs and sits in a tight ball in the corner of the couch.

  “Here.” She reaches out. “Let me take that.”

  I hand over the laptop, watch her set it down on a side table—calm and cool—and let my head fall into my hands. “Sorry.”

  “No. No, that was…amazing.” She’s laughing.

  “Which part? The orgasm or the after-show?”

  She smirks. “A little of both.”

  I make an attempt at a laugh. “Sorry, it’s uh…getting late.”

  “Yep.” Her expression loses its humor.

  “I’ll let you get some sleep.”

  Eyes steady on mine, she nods. “Sure. Sounds good.”

  “All right.” I stand up again, slip on my damp shirt with a grimace, and finish getting dressed, while Jerusha does the same. “Look, ah, Jerusha. This is probably a good time to stop the lessons.”

  She exhales. “Right.”

  “You’ve got the basics now.” I shrug into my jacket, feeling as foolish as I ever have. Basics? Lessons? What a dick. “You’re free to…”

  “Use what I’ve learned with someone else. Got it.”

  My hands tighten into fists. “Great.” I stalk to the door, step into the cold and turn. Backlit in the doorway, wrapped in a blanket, she’s so fucking pretty it makes my chest hurt. Too young. Too giving, too innocent. Too big of a future to fuck it up with a guy twice her age.

  I open my mouth, to tel
l her… What? That she doesn’t want an asshole like me hanging around? And there’s no way what she feels is love. It’s gotta be the orgasm talking. Jesus, what would she want with me anyway? I can’t love her back. I can’t give her the life she deserves.

  “Night, Jerusha.”

  “Good night, Karl.”

  I head down her porch steps, feet leaden. Her door closes before my boots hit the sidewalk.

  Good. Now, she can forget tonight’s delusion and we’ll go back to just being neighbors.

  17

  Heaven knows I'm miserable now

  Jerusha

  “You told him what?”

  “Shhhhhh!” I glance around our coffee shop, suddenly paranoid that Karl or Harper or someone from the university will show up and hear everything I’m whispering to my friends. Every sad little detail of what could have been the most amazing night ever. “I told him I love him.”

  “Why?” Alba is clearly aghast.

  “Because I do.”

  Mikey groans, dropping their head on their folded arms. After a too-long stretch of what I’m supposed to perceive as agony, they lift their head and give me an annoyed look. “That’s not how you do it with guys like that.”

  “Guys like what?”

  “Big, alpha, you know…” Alba looks to Mikey for help.

  Fluttering their hands, Mikey finishes. “Macho, macho men. Strong, silent types.”

  “I don’t…” I shake my head, feeling more lost than I have since I moved here. I could cry right now. All night, the tears built up in my sinuses, my chest. One overly kind word from these two and the dam will break.

  The coffee shop’s packed, the music loud, the conversation constant. We’re at our usual corner table. At the next table over, two women are showing each other pictures on their phones. I can’t hear them, which I hope means they can’t hear us either. The air is full of spices and steamed milk and some herbal scent Mikey’s wearing. All things that usually buoy my spirits.

  “You two are speaking a foreign language to me right now. I mean, I grew up with people who never talked about themselves. So, I get that it’s a thing. It’s just…” I look around for inspiration, but see none. Everything’s sort of dark today, colorless. “He’s not silent. He talks to me. We talk.”

  “About sex? Work? Sure.” Alba’s wearing an almost pained expression. “But not love.”

  “Love’s taboo, honey.”

  “What?” My face squishes up. “I thought the dad—” Remembering where we are, I whisper, “I thought the daddy thing was taboo. And my wanting to be submissive. I get that about spankings and role play and whatever, but now you’re telling me love is? Feelings? Emotions?”

  “No, no, no. Not taboo, like sexually,” Mikey says. “Big Daddy Karl seems to be perfectly fine with pushing those limits.”

  Alba nods her confirmation, full lips pursed.

  “It’s…” Mikey lets out a slow, exhausted raspberry. “Okay. So. The white American cishet male is afraid.”

  I blink, picturing Karl’s face when he kicked that man out of his bar. I see the breadth of his shoulders and the strength in those hands. No fear. At all. “He’s scared of nothing.”

  “He’s afraid of you.”

  “That’s absurd.” Frustration pushes me to stand. “This is ridiculous. I’m not asking him for anything!”

  “You want him to love you back.” Mikey puts out a hand and wraps it around mine. Theirs is warm and dry and strong. Comforting. “Right?”

  “It would be nice, but… No.” I sink down and give their hand a squeeze. Alba takes hold of my other one. “Maybe.”

  “Give him time.”

  I grimace. “I get impatient.”

  “You do,” Alba says with a smirk.

  I tighten my hold on them before extricating my hands and sip my coffee for a quiet moment, letting the taste and smells lift me up again. I wrap my favorite scarf around my neck. The fact is, whatever happens, however this thing pans out, I’ll do it on my terms. That’s important.

  I picture him, last night, hands on me, face on me. I remember the way our bodies worked together, and the feel of him, so hefty, so strong and hot. The way our connection created an energy of its own. I want that again. I want more. “I think of all the stuff we didn’t get to do.”

  “Stuff?”

  “Blow jobs? Intercourse?” The women beside us are openly listening now. I blush, hard, and roll my eyes theatrically in their direction.

  With an impish grin, Alba stage-whispers, “Don’t forget anal!”

  I shush her, laughing, despite my discomfort. “You’re a nightmare.”

  “I know. I know.”

  Beside us, the women rise and head to the door, heads close together, maybe scandalized or excited or a bit of both. Or, given the general volume in here, they’re probably talking about something completely unrelated to our discussion. I watch them push outside and link arms to stroll down the crowded sidewalk.

  What would that be like? Walking with someone like Karl. Maybe holding hands, just casually, as we head off to dinner or something.

  From out of nowhere, Karl’s words from the night before come back to me. Look, ah, Jerusha. This is probably a good time to stop the lessons.

  Mikey squints. “What? What just happened? What are you thinking about?”

  “He wants to stop the lessons.”

  “He said this? After the I love you?”

  I nod.

  “No. Hell, no.” Alba’s got that hard-eyed look she gets when something displeases her. “Y’all have too much chemistry. This thing isn’t over.”

  I’m not sure I believe that, but I nod, swallowing back the fear that I’ve done something I can’t fix. Something wrong. My eyes land on my hands, which are rough and callused, scarred and stained. More like Karl’s than Mikey’s slender, soft ones or Alba’s plump, dimpled, manicured ones.

  My hands are good hands. Strong hands. I suck in a breath full of that strength and face my friends. “I didn’t do anything wrong by telling him.”

  They shake their heads.

  “No, honey, you didn’t.” Mikey leans in. “You were just being…you.”

  “And you are fucking perfection.”

  Someone clears their throat, interrupting my snort-laugh.

  I look up into Harper’s blushing face. “Oh, hi!” is all I manage.

  Judging from Mikey’s slow grin, they’re happy to see her. Harper, however, is all wide-eyed insecurity. That’s new.

  “Hey, Harper,” says Alba.

  “Am I interrupting something?”

  “We were just talking about your dad.” I’d get mad, except Alba’s grin is so flat-out happy, I can’t.

  “But we’re done,” I say, shaking my head as I stand to give Harper my chair. “Have a seat.”

  She flops down with the kind of easy, long-limbed grace that I envied when I was younger. I don’t anymore. I like myself, my body. My strong bits and my soft bits and the way I am inside. I like that I love Karl, because it’s open and it’s honest and that’s who I am.

  Dammit. That’s who I am.

  I take a deep breath and button my jacket, pretending like Harper’s not the daughter of the man I professed to love just a few days ago. The man I love. “Have fun, you guys.”

  “Oh, we will,” replies Mikey with a smirk. “You, too, honeybear.”

  I roll my eyes, grab my bag, and take off for the door.

  Karl

  I can’t stop thinking about Jerusha. And not just thinking, but aching, like my body’s already addicted and it needs her. My chest, my belly, my balls.

  Did I have to cancel the goddamn lessons?

  Yes. Yes, I had to. For her. I did it to give her a life. A chance at a real future, instead of an unhealthy attachment to the first guy who got her off.

  But, shit. The four days since that night have felt like a goddamn month. I shouldn’t even be at the bar tonight, but I couldn’t sit at home one more fucking minu
te. Instead, I’m getting in the way, polishing glasses, prepping mixers, hauling a fresh keg out of the back. I’ve counted the till out three times, distracted as hell.

  I know I’ve annoyed the crap out of the bartender. She said something about making shrub and disappeared into the kitchen half an hour ago. When I slipped in there in search of prep work, my chef ordered me out.

  My phone vibrates and I practically rip off my pocket yanking it out. It’s a number I don’t recognize.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. McCoy? This is Andy Gentry from Virginia First.”

  My pulse returns to normal while the banker tells me the good news. My loan’s been approved.

  As of this time next week, I’ll be sole owner of this place. I hang up feeling lighter. I automatically open my texts before remembering that I’m not supposed to contact Jerusha. My rule.

  We need space. Both of us, to get back to our regular lives.

  I can’t help but wonder how she managed, in such a short time, to become the first person I want to share news with.

  “Harper,” I slip out from behind the bar as my daughter walks by with a tray full of roll-ups. “Come here.”

  “No. No, way, dude.”

  “What? Don’t want the good news?”

  “Good news? Dad. You look like someone died. I need this…” She waves a circle in my direction, her expression exactly like when she used to eat lemons as a toddler. “To clear up before I come within, like five feet of Mr. Sourpuss Poopoo Pants.”

  “We got the loan.”

  After a few blank seconds, she sets her tray on the bar and jumps up and down. “Dave the Douchebag’s out?”

  “A few days for the funds to come through and I’m sole owner.”

  She steps up on the rail and leans over to give me a hug. “We should celebrate!” When she pulls away, she’s wearing a sly look. “Is there someone you’d like to celebrate with, perhaps?”

  “What?”

  “Oh, just your neighbor.” Her eyes narrow. “No plans to see her again?”