Daddy Crush

by Adriana Anders

  By the time we’re both naked, I stand above her, blinking in the dark, just aching for her.

  “What are you doing?” she whispers. “Is this the part where you regret the caveman bit and or telling me you love me?”

  “No.” I crawl over her and bend my arms to put our faces close, noses barely touching. “Fuck, you smell good.”

  “Sugar and spice?”

  A harsh laugh presses our bellies together. “No. You smell like…” Say it, asshole. “Like the woman I’ve been waiting for. The woman I need. Like my woman.”

  I can’t read her expression in the weak light from outside, but I hear her quick breathing. A second ago, I could think of nothing but getting inside her, but I won’t do that to her. Not the first time, at least.

  I lean to one side and skim the tips of my fingers from her forehead, over the bump of her nose, to her mouth. I almost expect her to lick me, but she doesn’t. She just lays there, silent and still, like she knows I need this moment to learn her.

  Hell, to learn myself.

  I skim over her pointy chin and curved throat, between breasts I’ll need to spend months getting to know. Maybe years.

  “So fucking precious,” I whisper, dipping into her belly button, then down, through wiry curls and lush, juicy labia, along one plush inner thigh, to the inside of her knee, over stubbled calf, sharp ankle, callused foot. Her toes are little, the nails textured, as if covered in layers and layers of polish, which I remember from this summer. Too impatient to take it off, she’d apply more. Colors, sparkles, wild designs.

  I know this, because I paid very close attention to those little toes. I paid attention to everything. I just wouldn’t admit it.

  “You’re not that macho,” she says, partway through my return trip—with my mouth, this time.

  I taste her hip, where bone and fat create a curve so artistic, I know something divine had a hand in its creation. My nose slides up to caress her waist. “Huh?”

  “My friends say you’re a macho, macho man.”

  I snort and she giggles. “Like the song?”

  “The what?”

  “Never mind.” I drag my beard up her side, nudge her arm aside, and follow the line of her armpit—also stubbled—along her surprisingly muscular arm, to her hand. Her skin, stretched over tiny, delicate bones, is tough, her knuckles scarred, fingertips rough like mine. I kiss her, then slot my fingers between hers and tighten my hold, overwhelmed by something dark and protective.

  “This thing between us, Jerusha.” Christ, my voice is rough. “Scares the shit out of me.”

  Aside from a quick squeeze of her fingers, she doesn’t move.

  “See, I may have my shit together at forty-three, but you’ve done that at twenty-five. You know the value of things, you’ve had to fight to get where you are. You’re young, but you’re strong.”

  She nods, once.

  “The thing is, sweetheart…I’m afraid.” Air puffs out of my lungs, as if just saying it is a relief. “Afraid I’ll make the same stupid mistakes. Afraid I’m not enough.” I lean so close my words touch her ear. “See, I don’t just want to be your first. I want to be your first and your last and everything in between. So, yeah, I love you. So much it scares the shit out of me.”

  “Say it again.”

  “You heard me. I love you, sweetheart.”

  Her teeth glow bright in the dim light. I want to lick that smile, to sip it up, to do whatever it takes to make it last forever.

  “I think you like that I’m a stupid macho, macho man who needs time to work things out.” I bop her nose with the tip of my index finger. “I think you like that I’m older, but not all that much wiser. I think you like having to fight for what you want. So maybe, just maybe you’ll understand that I needed to fight for you, too. In my messed-up man way.”

  “By fight, you mean sling me over your shoulder and haul me upstairs?” Her voice is high and light, but I don’t think the question’s as off-hand as it seems. “Or is that the deep internal struggle you’ve dealt with this week?”

  “Listen, you’re so open to things, so ready to do and see and explore. Jerusha, you’ve gone on more dates in the last few months than I have in ten years.”

  “That’s ’cause you’re boring.”

  “Cautious.”

  “Boring.

  “And yet, you love me.”

  “Touchée.” I hear her smile.

  “You, Jerusha Graff, are fucking irresistible. You’re wide-eyed and wide-open. You grab life by the throat, you suck it all in and you live. It’s the most honest, most…glorious thing I’ve ever seen. And here I am, trudging along, trying to get things right the what? Fourth time around?”

  She gasps. “Are you thrice divorced?”

  “Just the once. But, unlike you, I’ve had my share of failed relationships.”

  “You scare me, too.” She rubs her face to mine, the move luxurious. “But in the best way.”

  “Listen.” I shift my bottom half closer, let her feel my hard cock and the shuddering breath I suck in. “I’m done protecting myself. If fear’s set off my fight or flight, I’m going all out, tooth and nail. I’ll fight anything that gets in our way. You mean that much to me.” The words are too intense for a first talk like this, but they’re out now. Too goddamn late. “You woke up the caveman, Jerusha. I’ll take on anyone who hurts you or tries to keep us apart.”

  “Good thing Harper likes me.” She clears her throat. “I think.”

  “Thank fucking God.” I kiss her cheek. “And me. Don’t forget. I like you.”

  “You more than like me.”

  “I fucking love you.” What a relief to say it again, to recognize this thing that’s been torturing me for so long. “Adore you. With every cell in my body.”

  “And soul.”

  “Yeah.” I nod, my chest expanding with all the emotion. “Almost hurts. Now open your legs.”

  She blinks “What?”

  “We’ve got a lesson to get through.”

  “Are you saying having sex with me’s some kind of chore for you?” There’s a laugh in her voice. It’s addictive. “Just another chore to complete? A milestone to—”

  “No. I’m saying lie down…” I rise up again, knee her thighs apart, and drop my pelvis. And then, because I suspect it’s what she wants, I lower my voice and whisper in her ear, “So I can fuck you, you little slut.”

  Jerusha

  Oh my God. It’s happening. We’re doing it.

  And he loves me.

  I’m buzzing—every little part of me, including my insides. I could laugh or cry or throw my head back and scream.

  When Karl makes his way down my body again, shoves me open, and licks my sex, I groan—from equal parts pleasure and impatience. “Nooooooo.”

  He lifts his head, throws one of my legs over his shoulder and smirks up at me. “No?”

  “I mean, yes, but…I want to do the other thing.”

  “You want me to fuck this pretty little pussy?” He slides a finger inside me and everything clenches tight

  “Yes, please.”

  “Say it like you mean it.” He licks me, long and slow, as if he’s got all the time in the world, when really I’m about to burn up with need. “Convince me.”

  “I want your big cock in my tight little pussy,” I force out. And then, because just saying it made me warmer and heavier and more excited, I pinch my nipples and go on. “I want you to stretch me out.” The words flow from me, filthy and wrong and so utterly right. “I want you to fill me up. Use me.”

  With a curse, he’s up and off the bed, pulling a plastic bag from his drawer. He empties it onto the blanket, grabs one of the boxes, which he opens and then fights with one of the flat packages that emerge.

  I watch, rapt, as he drags a condom down his thick length. Everything about him is mesmerizing, from the bulky silhouette of his thighs in front of the window, to the flexing of his hands and forearms and the efficient way he deals with
his own body. I love how his head’s bent in concentration. I love the tight pull he gives himself before settling back on top of me with a heavy sigh.

  And, goodness do I love the warm, solid press of him before he shifts back, reaches down, and works himself against me. The sound of his cock running between my soaked lips is so sexual, I shiver. This. This, right here, is the thing I’ve wanted for so long.

  Well, one of them.

  He notches himself at my entrance, drawing a gasp from my lips, looks up and goes still. “Might hurt.”

  I bite my lip and nod. “I know.”

  “I’ll go slow.”

  “I know.”

  He leans forward, as if to show me with his tongue just how slow and explicit he can be.

  And then he’s pushing in. The pressure’s strange, foreign, despite the fact that I’ve used toys before. Part of it’s his closeness and his heat, but there’s another thing about it that I can’t quite put my finger on. The inexorability, maybe. Although that’s not quite right. He’ll stop if I want him to.

  But I don’t.

  Of their own volition, my hands dig into his bottom, my hips move—away or toward him, I’m not even sure.

  “That’s it,” he mutters. “Take it.”

  Oh, and it’s dirty when he talks like that. I tighten around him, he groans, head dropping low, and goes still. “You’re gonna kill me, sweetheart.”

  I can’t talk, but my hips move. My hands urge. The slight discomfort is giving way to something hungry, something urgent. “More,” I whisper.

  He pushes in and I freeze, suspended. Waiting. For pain? For pleasure?

  I’m full, pinned to the bed, and ready, though I don’t even know what for.

  “I want more.”

  With a groan, he pulls out and presses forward again—I feel every inch of him sliding in and the friction’s like nothing I’ve experienced. “Again.”

  Another long, slow withdrawal, another languid penetration. He goes again and again, twisting me up inside, while I urge him on. Quickly, we move into new territory, words fly from our mouths, though I can’t tell what they mean. Doesn’t matter as much as the feel of hot breath and dark desire. He’s pounding into me now and I’m holding him to me, fingers digging into thick muscle to prod him on.

  He slows, leans back, and moans, low and guttural. “Look. Look at us. Look at how deep I am.”

  I lift my head to see what he means and go faint at the flash of wet cock, working me like a piston.

  “Oh, yeah, that’s it. Just like that. Clamp on, baby. I wanna fill you with my come. I wanna fill you, wanna fuck you so hard.”

  “You are. You are, Daddy.”

  “Fuck.” His eyes land on mine. He looks lost. Sweaty and intense and absolutely wrecked. “Fuck, Jerusha. Fuck, this is…” His slick forehead drops to grind against my shoulder. I turn and kiss him. Any part of him, whatever I can reach.

  “Gonna come, sweetheart.” He’s breathing so hard it’s got to hurt. “Want to bring you with me.”

  “Yeah. Yeah.”

  He shifts again, reaches down and slides his hand between our slippery bodies and—

  I scream. The sound is dragged from my soul, along with the dark, wrenching pleasure of this orgasm. All I can do is hold on to his wide shoulders and let it take me—let him take me—to the deepest reaches of myself.

  And my God, it’s beautiful.

  I’m just coming down when he reaches his own completion, shouting and thrusting hard three final times, holding himself inside me like he never wants to leave. When he finally emerges and raises his head, there’s the sweetest smile on his face.

  “So fucking perfect,” he mumbles halfway through a messy kiss. He’s just deepened it when my belly growls. With a laugh that sounds pained, he pulls out of my body, leaving me happy and sore and a little bereft. “Let’s get you fed, woman.”

  24

  About a girl

  Two Weeks Later…

  Karl

  “So, what’s the plan?” Harper asks as we pull into the farm’s drive.

  “No idea. Knock on the door. Hope for the best.”

  “Dad.”

  I throw up a hand. “Look, this is new to me, okay? I’m just trying to make her happy.”

  “Your girlfriend.”

  I open my mouth and shut it. How can I explain to my daughter that Jerusha’s not just my girlfriend, she’s my fucking soul mate? Every second with her, every step we take, confirms it.

  And, since I’ve never been the kind of guy who believes in shit like soul mates, it’s not easy to talk about.

  I cast my daughter a look, find her staring at me in a funny way, and sigh. “What?”

  “This is it for you, isn’t it? She’s it?”

  I shrug, and then regret it, because there’s no I don’t know about it. “Yep. She’s it. My person.”

  “And she feels the same.”

  I throw my daughter a look. “That a question?”

  “Nope.” She shakes her head. “I hear everything from Mikey. You guys are for real.”

  I can’t keep the grin from my face. Why the hell should I when there’s nothing but truth? Nothing but good in my life?

  Which is why I’m here today, in the Shenandoah Valley, pulling up to the pretty brick-red farmhouse that Jerusha grew up in. The place is picture-perfect, with its pristine white trim, surrounded by barns, grazing cows in the distance.

  I’m here because this is the one rough patch in our existence. These people have thrown away my woman’s love and I’m not okay with it.

  “Ready?” Tension ticks in my jaw

  I meet Harper’s eyes and she’s young and smiley and dressed as primly as she knows how. “As ever.”

  We get out and head to the porch. There’s a handful of invitations burning a hole in my coat pocket. Whatever happens today, those are staying here.

  There’s no question that the woman who answers the door is related to Jerusha. Her hair, for starters, wisps out of the tightly-pulled bun, as if she’d like to get it under control, but can’t. Her blue eyes—also like her daughter’s—take me in and go from curious to wary. Which is exactly why I brought Harper.

  “Afternoon, ma’am.” If I wore a hat, I’d take it off. Anything to seem like an upstanding guy. Like the type of man who deserves a woman like Jerusha. “I’m Karl McCoy and this is my daughter Harper. We’re, ah, here because…” I swallow, still unsure of what I’m doing. No. I’m unclear on how to do this, but I know it’s the right thing. And that’s what makes me pull the invites from my pocket and hand them to her. She takes them, unhesitatingly, and then seems unsure of what to do with them.

  “Those are for you. From Jerusha.”

  “Oh!” Her eyebrows lift, her features go wide and bright. She looks behind me, as if searching for her daughter. Her eagerness twists something in my belly.

  “I’m sorry. She’s not here, I’ve just… Listen, Mrs. Graff, when she got the invite back in the mail, she was pretty upset.”

  “I don’t… What do you mean?”

  “This show’s a huge deal for her. For her career. She’s the youngest artist to have a solo exhibit of this size at the Werner Gallery and she really wanted you to be there.”

  She squints down at the postcard. “I’ve never seen this.”

  “She sent you one. It was returned.”

  Mrs. Graff puffs out a breath, which seems to deflate her, chest-first. She’s a fairly tall woman, maybe in her late fifties or early sixties, with rosy cheeks and smile lines around her eyes and mouth. Right now, though, she looks drawn and sad. A little hollowed out. “He sent it back?”

  I open my mouth, consider placating her and decide to go with the truth. “Your husband. Yes.”

  “All right. Well, um. Thank you.” She takes a hold of the door, as if to close it and then maybe realizes this isn’t the polite thing to do. Looking shaken, she drops her arms, half-turns, and waves at the dark, still house behind her. “Would
you care to come in for a—”

  “No,” I interrupt, though I’d love to see where Jerusha grew up. The invitation’s clearly half-hearted. I share a look with Harper, who gives a quick shake of her head. “Thank you. We’ve got a couple hours on the road and… We’ll let you get back to…” I don’t even know what to say. Life? That seems cold.

  Thankfully, Harper steps in to help. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Graff, but Dad and I need to head back. For Jerusha’s art opening. It’s today. Have a great afternoon, okay?” Her smile’s so warm, so genuine, that I can’t help feeling pride. Not that I can take credit for how sweet she is, but I can appreciate it.

  We say our goodbyes and get back in the truck, without another word. We’re halfway up the driveway when Harper tells me to stop. “Take me back.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to give her my number. In case she needs to get in touch.”

  I nod, impressed that she thought of that. I pull a three-point turn and park, then watch from the truck as she charms Jerusha’s mother.

  “I’m proud of you, Harper,” I tell her when she’s back in the truck.

  Her eyebrows fly up. “Yeah? Why?”

  “You’re a good person.”

  “Well, I can thank you for that.”

  I shake my head. “I’m proud, but I had nothing to with making you this way.”

  “You’re an idiot.” She snorts, shakes her head, rolls her eyes, and turns to look out the window, but not before I see the emotion on her face. “Now, get me that ice cream you promised.”

  I reach out, squeeze her hand, happy when she squeezes back, and sniff, fully aware of who’s responsible for the stuff I’ve been feeling lately.

  Jerusha Graff, the love of my life. I can’t wait to get back to Richmond to tell her how much I adore her, how much she’s changed me. For the millionth time this week.

  With a sigh and an eye-roll of my own, I put the car in drive. I’m about to start for home when something slams in the distance. “Dad, hold on!” Harper says, pointing at the two women on the front porch. “Looks like we’ve got company.”

  25