Daddy Crush

by Adriana Anders

  It’s fine. This is a lot. I’m a lot.

  “Mind putting those in this?” He sets a vase on the granite counter. It’s obviously hand-made, like every bowl I see. It’s what I like about this room, even more than the stainless steel appliances, the massive cupboards, the pristine work spaces. There’s art on every wall.

  I fill the vase at the massive sink, half watching while he shakes a sizzling pan and checks on something in the oven. “Smells amazing.”

  He chuckles and turns to me. “I keep picturing you eating my food.”

  “Oh.” I make a funny face and look side to side. “That’s nice.”

  “Nice?” He throws a kitchen towel over his shoulder as he moves in my direction, pushing his long sleeves over his elbows. It’s like foreplay. I mean those forearms, they’re lethal. I’m weak just looking at them. “There’s nothing nice about the way I feel about you, Jerusha.” His eyes flick to my mouth, then briefly down my body before rising to meet mine. “I want to taste you again.” He sounds strangled; in pain.

  “Oh.” Understanding hits, in a flash. Good thing I’m not holding the vase of flowers or I’d drop it. My knees go weak, which is something I’ve only read about. If my hands were functional right now, I’d lift my skirt and offer myself up like a dish. Instead, all I can do is stand here and stare. We’re breathing hard, not touching, not talking, just looking.

  His brows crinkle, like there’s something he’s working hard to figure out. “Jerusha.” Just my name sounds intense. I brace myself. “I—”

  The oven timer shrieks, startling us both.

  21

  How soon is now?

  Karl

  “Shit.”

  Heart thumping hard enough to crack my ribs, I grab a mitt and take out the sweet potatoes, set the dish on the counter and toss the pan once before shutting the stove off.

  “Fuck it.” I turn to her, put my hands on the sides of her face and treat myself to the kiss I’ve been fantasizing about for the past two hours—in other words, forever. I show her my need in all its explicit glory.

  She gives it right back, punctuated with grunts that have me digging deep for air—because I just can’t stop. I don’t fucking want to.

  She’s right. This is more than lust or sex.

  My hands are everywhere, on her ass, in her hair, at her waist, her arms. And she’s doing the same—pulling and stroking, and feeling me like I’ve never been felt. This isn’t the urgency of a quickie, it’s more extreme, like my life depends on getting close. I have to touch her. I need this and, Christ, she needs it back. She gasps when I pick her up and plop her on the counter, but she doesn’t stop, she takes more. Gives more.

  I’ve never felt a fraction of this for another woman. In this moment, I understand the thing I’ve been denying since the day I met Jerusha—I can’t keep away.

  She bites my lip and I groan, helpless to keep the sound in. My body slides between her legs, my crotch almost pressing to that hot, sweet juncture and I shut my eyes, going still, while she laps at me.

  “I…” Love you. What is it about saying the words aloud that feels like doomsday?

  Her expression’s indescribably perfect—heavy-lidded excitement. Awe mixed with desire and affection, honestly, that’s what does it. The look. How can I resist that combination?

  After years of getting off on one-night stands or porn and my right hand, the way she wants me is a drug. The way I want her is devastating.

  “I like that you’re out of control…from being with me. I want that again. Seeing you come was…” She smiles, panting. “My favorite.”

  I let out a weak laugh and tighten my hold on her. “You’re killing me.”

  “Will you come again?”

  “Will you?” I stroke her thighs and she spreads them so I sink right into her, aching cock pressed to hot pussy. Her skirt’s this thin, silky material. She nudges me back and gathers it above her knees. It’s blue-green and looks like water pouring over her legs.

  “I want to fuck you so bad, Jerusha.”

  “Do it,” she gasps. “Do everything.”

  How easy would it be to rip my jeans open, tear her panties aside and sink in, fill her up with thick cock so she’ll never need another? Never think of looking elsewhere? Shit, I could fuck her so long and so hard…

  I meet her eyes and see none of the sunny innocence I’d imagined that first day. There’s joy, though, which is better. She loves this. And I love how unashamed she is. I’m twisting myself up in knots, while she’s nothing but pure, fresh want. I’d say it’s her most attractive feature, but it’s impossible to narrow it down. Every bit of her’s enchanting—her face, her body, her bright inner light.

  I’m a goner.

  Then she takes off her T-shirt. The blinds are up, but the only house with a view into this room is hers. “Watch out. Neighbor might see.”

  “Yeah?” Her smile’s wicked. “She cute?”

  “She’s magnificent.” My hand’s at her throat—slender and precious. I glide down, smoothing slowly over collar bones, to the deep cleavage made by her pink cotton bra. I love that the bra and the skirt and shirt never match. I love that it’s color over coordination. Joy over perfection. She doesn’t give a crap what she’s supposed to think or do or look like.

  I ease the tips of my fingers under the top edge of the cup and glance up. Her smile’s gone, her head’s thrown back in open-mouthed pleasure. A jolt of pride hits me so hard I make a noise. Her eyes focus and meet mine.

  Her lips curve.

  And, fuck me, what am I doing?

  I’m her first. She wants it, hell, I want it more than breathing. But being her first doesn’t guarantee that I’ll be her last. And that’s the part I can’t deal with.

  22

  She's lost control

  Jerusha

  Every time we touch, I lose a piece of myself to love. To Karl. It’s a strange thing, this confirmation that I’ve been right all these years: we’re not just intellectual creatures, we human beings. We’re physical. We’re animals.

  And I know that it’s not the act that makes it good, it’s the man. The scrape of rough calluses, the rasp of uneven breathing, the almost painful press of denim to my bare inner thigh—all of these are ways he shows me how he feels.

  It’s these details that make this so stunningly different from anything I’ve experienced. His fingers slide in, out, in again, never quite hitting my nipples. As if now that he’s touched me there, he’s in no hurry at all. That’s belied by the sprinter’s cadence of his breathing, the steady press and release of his hips into mine. The eager moans he lets out under his breath.

  When he cups my entire breast, my hands shoot out to grasp whatever part of him they can, and pull. I need him close. In me. Filling me up, alleviating this ache.

  “What is it, Dirty Girl?” He leans in, testing the weight of one breast, then the other. Back and forth, his eyes admiring his own work. Except I want to admire, too.

  “Your shirt.” I grab at the cotton, eager to touch him without it. “Can you take it off?”

  Hurriedly, he pulls it up and over. And to say that I like what I see would be like saying that I eat for subsistence. I mean, I do, obviously, but food is so much more than energy.

  This man is so much more than pretty.

  “My God,” I whisper, while my greedy hands stroke and knead. He speeds up after that—probably prodded by my reaction.

  Efficient as can be, he reaches behind me and undoes my bra. My breasts drop out, loose and heavy and naked again. Although he’s seen me like this before, his response is gratifying. He goes quiet—not breathing—and when his gaze lands on mine, he’s shaking his head, eyes out of focus. “God, you really are beautiful.”

  One hand molds my breast, reverent and careful, when I’m aching for reckless.

  “Harder.”

  His eyes, dark as ink now, linger on what his hands are doing. With a quick glance at my face and a glimmer of a smile, h
e shushes me, then looks back down, as if this were the most important job in the world. “Don’t rush this, Jerusha.” He pinches my nipple. “Let me enjoy you.”

  My head bobs acquiescence, slow and drugged by his attentions. Another pinch pushes a happy, pained gasp from my lips.

  When he bends his head and puts his mouth to my tender skin, I’m lost, adrift in a sea of ecstasy. A lick, a nip, another lick, and then he sucks me in, like he can’t get enough.

  “Karl.” His name escapes me in a pleasure-induced chant. “Karl.”

  He lets my nipple out with a pop and moves up. “Yeah,” he says, before kissing me, deep and hard. There’s ownership to this kiss—especially with the way he’s playing down there. Tugging and flicking, caressing and pinching. “Wanna do this all night.”

  “Yes.”

  “But we’ll be eating charcoal if I don’t stop soon.”

  My mind clears, bringing with it the smell of searing meat and garlic. I blink at the room, surprised to see onion strewn across the floor. Beyond the windows, it’s full dark.

  “Wow.”

  He chuckles and leans in. “Yeah.” Another kiss, more tender this time. More lips, less devouring with tongues. “We keep getting distracted like this, we’ll both starve to d—” His eyes land on something over my shoulder and he curses. He’s about to run to take care of whatever it is and stops to kiss one breast, then the other before carefully rehooking my bra and smoothing it. Which seems to distract him. But the smoke in the air’s getting heavy.

  “Save your meat!”

  “Right.” He races to grab the pan. “Our meat.”

  Squid, who’s been sleeping against the back door lets out a low Woof! as if he knows exactly what’s at stake here.

  My feet drop to the floor and I slip back into my shirt as he transfers the pork to a cutting board and puts a piece of foil over it. He’s grinding pepper onto the dish from the oven, then mixes up a salad, opens a bottle of wine and reaches for a couple glasses. “Here or the living room?”

  “Whichever.”

  “Let’s go in there.”

  After slicing the meat, he hands me plates and glasses. With Squid bringing up the rear, I follow him to the front of the house and set things up on the two-person table by the bay window. I sit and look outside at the windy night, feeling like I’m sitting in a restaurant.

  Once we settle, with full plates and the dog sitting there staring, he pours the wine and holds up his glass. “You okay?”

  I smile. “Better than okay.”

  “Good.” He clinks his glass to mine with a funny expression. “Just want to make sure you’re happy.”

  “I’m… Wait. What?” Why does this feel weird? “What do you mean?”

  “Your first time. I want to do it right.”

  “Do it right? Is there a wrong way?”

  “You forget the jackass on your porch?”

  “Oh. True. What about you? Have you done it the wrong way?” My wine’s still suspended in my hand, untouched. Images of Karl with other women run through my head and there are a lot in my imagination. The hot waft of food’s suddenly not quite so appetizing.

  He lets out a puff of air, his face wrinkling into a grimace. “Probably. No, definitely. There’ve been some not so great times.”

  “I’m sorry.” My smile feels wooden, though I can’t say exactly why.

  “You going to drink that?”

  “Oh. Yeah.” I take a sip and set the wine down. It’s good. A little chilled, which I hadn’t expected from a red. And not as fruity as I’d expected. Which is fine. It’s all fine. The setup, the food, the candle he’s lit on the table between us.

  But that’s just it, it’s a setup, isn’t it? He’s doing this to help me, not because he wants me, particularly, but because he doesn’t want my first experience to be bad. And now that I’ve told him I love him… “You don’t have to do this, you know, Karl.”

  Expressionless, he puts his fork and knife down, his movements careful and precise. “Excuse me?”

  “You know, wine and dine me. I know you’re just trying to make sure I’m not…” Oh, crud. How’d I even get into this conversation? “Nothing. You know what? Let’s just enjoy ourselves.”

  “Isn’t that what you want?” He’s watching me closely. “To enjoy yourself?”

  “Yes.” I nod, once. “Yes. Yes it is.”

  “Good. And are you? Enjoying yourself?”

  “Um. The food and…” I gesture vaguely at the table and then half turn toward the kitchen in back. “Or the…”

  “Any of it. All of it. With me.” He clears his throat. “It’s…fun?”

  Fun. Fun? Was this fun? It didn’t feel fun. It felt…important. It felt real.

  I open my mouth and shut it again, worried suddenly that I’ve done the wrong thing, following my emotions, even letting them exist, when he just means this as a favor. Helping out the new girl. The country bumpkin.

  “You’re…I, um… I appreciate it.” I’m nodding, quick and awkward and smiling like I’ve put on a mask. “What you’re doing for me.” My body aches, sensitive and open. Still wet between my legs. It feels like a hangover, already. “I appreciate it,” I choke out again, because I can’t think of another thing to say. I grab my wine and drink it, fast. “Be right back.”

  I stand up and race to the bathroom, lock myself in, and collapse onto the toilet, hot face in my hands.

  Karl

  That went well.

  Fuck!

  I thump the table, which rattles everything. Squid sits up and gives me a look, as if to say, What the hell man?

  Yeah. What the hell, man?

  I stare out the window, where the trees are doing their best to shake off the last of their leaves. Even in the dark, the riot of colors stirs me up, reminding me of the woman who’s just taken off for my bathroom. I should go after her, but I’m not sure what to say.

  I’m fucking this up. Badly.

  She was already upset tonight, about her parents and now trying too hard to make it right has shifted things toward wrong.

  What should I do?

  Hell, I don’t know. I have no idea.

  I grab my phone from my pocket and, before I can talk myself out of it, fire off a text.

  Help me. I’m fucking up with Jerusha.

  Who is this? And how’d you get my dad’s phone?

  Haha. I’m serious.

  Admitting you’re wrong? Hang on, Dad. Let me take a screen shot for posterity… Okay. What’d you do?

  Asked if I was doing things right. You know, to her satisfaction.

  Doing it right? Doing what right? Wait. No. Don’t answer that. Forget I asked. Hold on. Is she with you?

  Bathroom.

  Hiding?

  Shit, is she? I stand and head that way and then stop. I’m bad with women. Christ, I’m forty-three and I suddenly get this. I’m really, really bad at understanding them.

  How do I make it right, Harper?

  You’re asking because you like her?

  Yes. God, I don’t just like her, Harper. I…

  Holy shit, my life. Fuck-up dad asking his daughter for advice.

  I’m falling in love with her.

  Whoa.

  Yeah. Whoa.

  Tell her.

  No.

  Tell her.

  It’s too early.

  Tell her. Tell her Tell her

  I let my phone drop to my side, pick it up again, read the words, falling in love, then wait for the freak-out to arrive.

  It doesn’t. Instead, I type out another sentence and hit send, calm as I’ve been in my life.

  I’m not falling. I love her.

  And then, because I need to do better right now—maybe prove that I am a full-grown man—I go to the bathroom door. “You okay in there?”

  “Yes. Yes, thanks.” The sink goes on. I wait. Water keeps running.

  “Jerusha. Are you hiding?”

  The water goes off. “Maybe.”

/>   Shit. “I need you to know something.”

  Is she sniffing? Was she crying? Her “Okay.” Sounds pretty doubtful, like maybe she doesn’t want to hear what I have to tell her.

  “I…” My head thunks lightly against the wood. “I think I have to tell you this in person. Face-to-face.”

  The knob turns, the door opens, and she’s there, staring up at me with a huge smile. “Let’s do this.”

  “What?”

  “I want the next lesson.”

  I blink. “Now?”

  “Good a time as any, right? It’s time to have the sex.” Her eyes skim down my front. “You got the condoms?”

  “Uh… Yeah.” I think about dinner on the table—mostly burned—and the wine I couldn’t taste anyway. I think of what I admitted to Harper, but can’t seem to say aloud. And then I think of how soft Jerusha’s always been versus how thick her shell seems right now.

  And that’s my fault, ’cause I’m an idiot man who can’t express his feelings…

  To hell with that.

  “I fucking love you, Jerusha.” The words hurt on their way out, but my next breath comes easier than they have in a while.

  Her expression’s almost funny—a perfect mask of surprise. Then, slowly, a smile takes over her face. She looks so pure and happy in that moment the love’s even stronger, filling up parts of me I hadn’t known were empty.

  “I love you,” I say again. After a quick, hard kiss, I pull her into my arms. “You’re right. Dinner can wait.” I want her so bad, so deep inside. To hell with it—with a growl, I haul her up and over my shoulder, caveman style. “Now, let’s go to bed.”

  She giggles the whole way up the stairs.

  23

  Let's go to bed

  Karl

  I throw her on the bed in the near-dark of my room and follow her down. Every part of me is pounding with need.

  Unable to wait another second, I yank off my shirt, drag my pants down, and remove my socks and underwear, watching as she eagerly undresses.