Daddy Crush

by Adriana Anders

  Until she comes

  Jerusha

  Alba swears up and down that I talk like a sub, but I’m feeling all kinds of power right now. There’s nothing subservient about the way I hold his erection and pull it toward my mouth, no docility in the directness of my gaze. Not an ounce of compliance in the gentle scrape of my teeth over the crown of his cock.

  I’m toying with him, turning the tables, maybe showing him a thing or two.

  I have no idea what I’m doing. But I crave this smell, this taste, these unbridled responses.

  Clearly restless, he reaches out, like he’s going to grab me, hesitates, then plants his hands on his knees where they remain, white-knuckled and tense.

  Who’s submissive now, huh?

  I love those hands. I love how big and neat and square his fingertips are, I love the thick knuckles and the rough patches, the ink scrawled there like the road map of his past. I really love the dark sprinkling of hair, serving no apparent purpose but to please me. I love all of him. Every life-hardened bit.

  I pull back to examine his erection closer, tighten my hold, and watch a fat, glossy drop form at his slit. “What’s…”

  “Precum,” he bites out. “Fuck, baby, feels so good.”

  I lick it up, savoring the salty taste, the close-up scent. His entire body flinches, more than it did when I used my teeth, which is interesting. I lap at him in quick flicks, glance up at his face, and pause. He’s riveted. Not like watching a good movie riveted, like life or death riveted.

  I want more of that look.

  Instead of paying attention to his sex this time, I watch him as I lower my head and taste him. His expression is one of pure concentration, absolute engrossment. Mayhem could break out around us, and he’d stay focused on me.

  When I pause, he goes all pained. Good. I lap up that hint of suffering amidst all the pleasure. When I dip my head this time, it’s to take him as far as I can. I fill my mouth and he groans like it hurts. That sound is the one I’ll file away to think of when I’m touching myself later. It’s uncontrolled, animalistic, wounded, and it speaks to something in my soul.

  By the time I come up for breath, he’s gasping and lifting his hips for more, his hands dig so deeply into his knees it’s got to hurt.

  I pull away and lick our combined tastes from my lips before wiping my mouth with the back of my arm. His hand twitches like he wants to yank me back. In my mind, he loses control—wraps his hand in my hair or tightens it on my throat or my breast. Maybe strokes himself while he works his big, stiff cock into my throat. My nipples zing at the idea.

  “What do you need me to do?” I ask, so excited I have to squeeze my legs together.

  “This. This is good.”

  “No. No, tell me what you like. What to do. I want something.” I want him to take over.

  He grunts and I can’t hold back a smile. I love it. I do. I love this experience the way I love cake and adventure and the zingy scent of fall. The way I love my work and living here, on my own. And it’s not just my tastebuds involved, it’s my skin, my insides, my brain.

  “Tell me,” I whisper, feeling so much like the snake with the apple that I shiver.

  “I want to…” He swallows, his eyes dashing madly over me, like he wants it all and doesn’t know where to start.

  “Just do it,” I urge, knowing he won’t hurt me.

  With a narrow-eyed look, he leans close. “Suck the tip,” he whispers, tangling his hands in my hair. “I’ll do the rest.”

  Without another word, I lower my face, wrap my mouth around him, and give him back the reins.

  He’s gentle at first, and slow. I breathe through my nose and he pushes in. I accept, relaxing my jaw as best I can. His hands in my hair guide, without forcing, although there are moments when I wish he’d get a little rougher. But then tonight’s not about that, I guess. Tonight’s something else entirely.

  I’ll leave taking things too far for some other time.

  I’m initially disappointed when he nudges me away, but when he half stands to yank down his jeans and underwear, I’m fascinated. Distracted at the way he caresses his testicles, I forget what I’m doing, but his grip on my hair brings me back in line, as effectively as the crack of a whip. My belly squirms and everything else goes haywire—my breasts, my mouth, that needy place between my legs. I reach down to relieve the ache and find myself soaking wet—no surprise.

  “Oh, fuck. You touching yourself? Working that little clit? You wet for me?”

  With my mouth full of cock, I can only moan my assent. He likes it, judging from the way his hips thrust. My eyes tear up, I draw back to avoid gagging, catch sight of his flushed face, and go still while he grips himself, gasping for breath. He’s losing it. And it’s glorious.

  Though his hand’s still in my hair, he doesn’t force me down, he just watches me watch him. “You like this?” He strokes his shaft, the movement exaggerated, showy.

  “Yeah.”

  “Good.” Another slow, painful-looking up and down stroke, another thrust, another smooth caress of his balls. “Fuck. Your mouth… Get used to this. Taking my cock. Tasting me.” His eyes rake up and down my body.

  My nipples prick up, as if they know what he means, when I’m not even sure. Does he mean tonight? Does he mean for longer? “Okay.”

  “I need you back.”

  Tortuously slow, I slide my tongue down his shaft, then lower, to where that left hand’s still working. With a quick glance at his face, I nudge his hand aside and lick his heavy testicles.

  He goes absolutely still while I explore him. He’s cooler here, his smell’s sexy and potent. Curiosity and a fresh wave of desire push me to suck on him, the way I sucked his shaft, and his response is electric. Not a muscle in his body moves, as if the thread he’s hanging on is too close to snapping. The only sound in the room’s my hand between my legs and, when I pull slightly away from him, we’re connected by my hot breath and the feel of his quiet, intense scrutiny.

  Even that is a link, ephemeral, but real, like the words we exchanged on the phone. We’re in this together. The pursuit of pleasure.

  With our eyes joined, I lean down and drag my open mouth from testicles, all the way to the tip of his cock. That’s when I suck him down again—when he least expects it and we’re both weirdly vulnerable. In a flash, I give myself up, become a mess of bodily functions—spit and desire and a need to give, to get.

  I go deep and suction my lips, the way the women do in the movies, then come up for air when I have to. I’m a mess of saliva and tears. His hands help me do it again, not quite making me lower my head, but not stopping me either, not holding me down, but showing me that he can. Maybe one day he will, if I let him. If I ask him.

  For now, I’m in charge and it’s heady. Growling voice, tense muscles, dark, musky scent—he’s a fantasy come to life. I draw him in until I can no longer see, let him thrust a little farther and then when I think I can’t drag any more pleasure from either of us, put one hand back on his balls, the other on my clit. Every pull has me gasping, wanting more. I back away—a red-eyed, drooling mess, and meet a gaze that isn’t as fierce as I’d imagined, but hazy and lost. His cheeks are red, his eyes almost…soft. “I want to see you come. Wanna taste it.”

  He gives a quick nod.

  With his blessing, I go to town—a glutton for new things, a glutton for him. I want his tastes, his pleasure on me, in me. I want to bathe in whatever he has to give. So I pull, hard, with my mouth, suctioning his flesh.

  It’s up and down, tight, skin to skin, want and want—too much, but I don’t care. I don’t care, because, when he loses his mind in my mouth, it’s everything I could wish for.

  He shoves me away, grasps his thick erection in his fist and works it, faster and tighter than I’d dared to. “Where do you want it?” he asks.

  It takes me a second to understand what he means. When I do, I can’t hold in a giggle. “I don’t…” I laugh outright, turn, and kiss the tip
of his erection. “Everywhere?”

  He leans in, bright eyes eating me up. “You don’t even know what it’s…”

  I kiss him, hard. “I do.”

  “Yeah?”

  At my nod, his hand goes back to his cock, working it the way I want him to work my entire body—tight and quick and full of intent. His breath comes out in bursts.

  I wait, rapt, as his eyes use me for pleasure, skimming over my face and breasts, down to where I’m rubbing myself, not as hard as he is, but just as fast.

  “Oh, fuck, you filthy little slut.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I am. With you. For you.”

  “Good.” He meets my gaze. “Say my name.”

  “Karl.” I’m breathing so hard, I almost can’t push the sounds out. “I want you.”

  “Yeah.” His breathing goes erratic, his eyes a little lost. He’s close, and my God, I can’t look away. When his left hand reaches for me, I shift close, giving myself over to his release.

  I arch my body, offer it up to him.

  He comes—Oh, God, finally—teeth gritted, jaw hard, eyes fierce and possessive.

  The first spurt lashes my breast, then another, and another. I give up my own race to the finish and rub his spend into my skin, over my nipples, down to my belly. He growls, releasing one final pearlescent white jet onto his knuckles. Without thinking, I lean forward and lap it up.

  Before I finish, he grabs me and hauls me onto his lap.

  Karl

  “I can’t get enough of you,” I mumble against her cheek, her ear, her mouth. I’m wrecked. “Just can’t.” My brain’s too numb to produce coherent sentences. My arms wrap her up in a solid cocoon. It’s all I have, right now, muscles and bones and whatever protection they give.

  In the silence that follows, I fully recognize that this might be more than I’d bargained for.

  She sighs, I tighten my hold. “Fuck, Jerusha. Fuck.”

  “Agreed.” Her laughter shakes us both. After a bit, she twists against me until I let her go enough to put us face to face. “Was that…” She bites her lip in an expression that I recognize as something like insecurity. “Did I do okay?”

  The bottom falls out of my stomach. “Kidding me? Never felt this good in my life.”

  “So I did it right.”

  “Amazing.” I smile. “We’re good together.”

  Her lips curl up. “Told you.”

  And yeah, in this about-face, backward, opposite world, filth is beauty, obscenity’s innocence, and our loss of control is the strongest bond I’ve ever forged with another human being.

  It’s not just sex. It’s—

  My mind goes blank when she stretches up and kisses me.

  After a while—I don’t know, a couple minutes? Long enough that I’m half-hard again—she makes one of those contented cat sounds and stretches. I want her, except this time it’s not the pounding erection I’ve had the last few times we’ve been together, but the desire’s there. I have a feeling it’ll always be there when she’s around.

  Somebody’s belly growls—hers, maybe. “Hungry?” I ask.

  “Oh, yes. I’ve been working so hard to get the show ready, I keep forgetting to shop. And eat.”

  “I’ll cook you dinner.”

  “Really?” Her eyes light up. “What will you make?”

  I laugh, like really let go and laugh. “What do you want me to make?”

  “Oh, something extremely fancy.” After a moment of what appears to be deep thought, she yells, “Hotdogs!”

  “Thought you said fancy.”

  “I was kidding.”

  “Kidding about fancy or hotdogs?”

  “Surprise me. I’ll eat whatever you make.”

  “Deal.” We decide to meet back at my place at seven, which gives me time to run to the store while she can finally take the bath she’d been about to fill when I arrived. After a long, slow kiss that almost leads to another round, I head to the front door.

  “Karl.” She stops me, something different about her voice. “Would you, um…get condoms while you’re out?”

  I open my mouth to ask if she’s sure and change my mind.

  She’s sure. I know that now. This woman knows what she wants.

  And apparently that’s me.

  I nod with a wicked smile and take off before I undress her again.

  20

  Are you gonna go my way

  Jerusha

  I’m at his door at seven sharp, carrying the throw I made for him and a bouquet I made up from stuff in my back garden. It’s probably too much. Or not enough? Or weird?

  Before I can talk myself into running the gifts back home, I knock. Squid woofs and Karl yells something. Even through the wood, the low rumble of his voice makes me shiver.

  After a brief wait, he opens the door, letting a waft of garlicky air out. There’s bacon, too. And spices, though I’ve no idea which ones. My mouth starts watering immediately, half from the food and half from the sight of him. Good gracious the man does things to me.

  He looks clean and pressed, like he’s just showered and put on fresh clothes. He maybe trimmed his beard, which is freshly squared off on his cheek and under his chin. I’ll miss the stubble, but those angles are delicious. And the effort he’s made blows me away.

  Then there’s his mouth. He must have trimmed around that, too. I can’t stop staring at it. Thinking about what it can do.

  “Jerusha.” I’ve never liked my name so much as when he says it like that—resonating deep in his chest, with a pleased tilt to his lips.

  “Karl.”

  “Come here.” He pulls me to him, envelopes me—blanket and bouquet and all—and the world falls away. No more honking traffic, no more curious dog, no more worries that I’m doing things wrong or pushing too hard or wanting too much. Just pure, solid affection.

  He smells like fabric softener and woodsmoke and dinner. When I bury my nose deeper into his chest, I smell the man beneath. After a last, big inhale, I pull back and present my gifts with a smile. “Is this okay? Flowers?” I shrug. “I picked things I thought you’d like.”

  He accepts the bouquet and looks at it closely. It’s a bunch of green and brown objects—not just flowers, but seed pods and grasses and things that I’ve managed to grow or scavenge. After a second, his eyes meet mine. He’s not smiling any more. At all. “I love it.”

  “Yeah? I also made this for you.”

  “When? In the past hour?”

  I shrug again, unwilling to tell him that I made it a while ago, but never felt the confidence to give it to him.

  The blanket’s pretty simple—for me. It’s a blend of browns and grey, wound together to make a forest of tree trunks. I pictured him throwing it over the porch swing. It would blend with the maple branches and the chain and the woodwork of the seat. Now, in his hands, I recognize that I’d pictured myself sitting under it. Maybe beside him.

  Talk about projecting.

  “If you don’t like it, I can—”

  “I do.” He grips it tighter. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  We stare at each other. I can’t begin to guess what he thinks when he looks at me, but I see something so pure and real that it’s almost religious. Gosh, that’s silly.

  No. No, maybe it’s not. Maybe I need to stop thinking of religion as the thing my parents live and consider that it could be something rooted in the earth. In reality. Rooted in our bodies instead of lost in the ether.

  “What’s going on in your head?” he asks, making me wonder how long I’ve been watching him.

  “I’m trying to figure out why I like you so much.” Love you.

  He barks out a laugh. “That’s flattering.”

  “I don’t mean there’s nothing to like. There’s a lot.”

  His smile seeps away, replaced with a fierce concentration. He opens his mouth and shuts it, takes a deep breath. “Come on through to the kitchen. I cooked.”

  I follow him down the hal
l, past his dark living room and what I thought would be a dining room, but actually looks like a workshop of some sort. I pause in the doorway.

  “What’s this?”

  “My shop.”

  “I thought you were a restauranteur.”

  “That’s my retirement.” He eyes the crowded workspace. “This is… I don’t know, my, ah, hobby? Meditation?”

  “You work with wood?”

  “And metal.” He points toward the back of the house. “Metal shop’s in the yard.”

  “Oh, right. I knew you did something noisy back there. Always wondered what you were up to.”

  “Mostly making chef’s knives, but I’m branching out.”

  “Scissors?” I can’t keep the excitement from my voice.

  “Sounds like a challenge.” He smiles, raises the blanket. “We can do a trade.”

  “The blanket’s a gift. Let me pay you—”

  “No.” He steps close and bends down, putting his forehead to mine in that move that makes everything so tight and intimate. He’s smiling. “Let me make you something.”

  Those words speak to my soul so deeply I almost can’t believe I’m not the one who said them. Making things for people, with my hands, is my love language. The intertwined vines and branches and trunks on his blanket aren’t just about the tree out front, they’re about him. Deep roots, strong moral fiber.

  “I’d like that.”

  “Me, too.” He gives me a brief kiss—though my poor heart thrums wildly, expecting more—and ambles back to the kitchen.

  I walk in and spin. “This is amazing!”

  “You like?”

  “I mean, it’s like professional, right? Are you a chef?”

  He shakes his head. “No. Worked in restaurants since I was fifteen. Dishwashing, prep, line cook…” He sets the bouquet down and stretches out a hand. Under the light, his scars shine like they’ve been plasticized. I want to kiss them, taste them. “I like working the front of the house. The bar. Talking to customers.”

  I like you, I want him to say, but this has all moved fast. Maybe he’s not there yet. I swallow, hard.