Chapter 10: Dad Can’t Know

I didn’t know Marcus was house-sitting when I came home early from college. Backpack slung over one shoulder, keys jingling in the suburban silence, I expected an empty house.


Instead, the kitchen light was on, spilling warm yellow glow into the hallway. I paused in the doorway, heart skipping a beat for no reason I could name. Dad was out of town on a business trip, and Mom was visiting her sister in Florida. Who could be here at this hour?


I stepped inside, kicking off my sneakers, the cool tile sending a shiver up my bare legs. The house smelled like fresh coffee and something earthier, sawdust, maybe, or sweat. Familiar. Too familiar. 
And then I saw him: Marcus Hayes, Dad’s best friend since high school. He was standing at the counter, shirtless, pouring a glass of water, his back to me. Forty-five years old, 6’4” of solid, hard-earned muscle from years on construction sites.

Sweatpants hung low on his hips, revealing the deep V of his abs, and his salt-and-pepper hair was tousled like he’d just woken up. Stubble shadowed his strong jaw, and even from behind, the flex of his broad shoulders as he moved made my mouth go dry.


I’d been crushing on him since I was eighteen, the first time I met him. since the summer he helped Dad build the deck and I spent days sneaking glances at him working shirtless in the heat. Three years of secret fantasies, of touching myself in my room while imagining those big hands on me, that deep voice whispering things no best friend’s daughter should hear.


“Jenna?” He turned, surprise flickering across his rugged face before it settled into something neutral. But not before I saw his eyes dip, quick, down my body. I was in cutoff shorts and a tank top, no bra, the fabric clinging from the humid night air. My nipples hardened under his gaze, and I didn’t bother hiding it.


“Hey, Marcus.” I dropped my backpack by the door, trying to sound casual, like my pulse wasn’t racing. “Didn’t expect company.”
“Your dad asked me to keep an eye on the place while he’s gone.” He set the glass down, leaning against the counter, arms crossing over his chest. The motion made his biceps flex, and I had to force myself not to stare. “Didn’t mention you coming home early.”


“Spur of the moment. Finals were a bitch, needed a break.” I walked to the fridge, feeling his eyes on my back. I bent over slowly, letting the shorts ride up just enough to show the curve of my ass, the hint of cheek. My pussy throbbed at the thought of him watching, at the silence stretching behind me.
When I straightened with a water bottle, he was still leaning there, but his knuckles were white on the countertop edge. “When’s he back?”


“Three days.” His voice was even, but his eyes flicked down again to where the tank top clung to my breasts, nipples visible through the thin fabric.
I uncapped the water, took a slow sip, letting a drop spill down my chin, trailing between my breasts.

“Plenty of time, then.”


“For what?” He didn’t move, but the air between us thickened, charged like the humid night outside.
I stepped closer, heart pounding. “To catch up. It’s been a while since we talked.”


His jaw tightened. “You should get some rest. Long drive.”
“I’m not tired.” Another step. Close enough to smell him, sweat, whiskey, that masculine scent that’s haunted my fantasies for years.

“Are you?”
His eyes dropped to my lips, then lower, lingering on the water trail disappearing under my tank top. “Jenna…”
“Marcus.” I mimicked his tone, teasing, but my voice came out breathy. I leaned against the counter beside him, our arms brushing, electric. “You look tense. Rough night?”


“Something like that.” He didn’t pull away. If anything, he shifted closer, his hip grazing mine.
I turned to face him fully, my breasts brushing his arm. “Want to talk about it? Or… something else?”
His gaze darkened, dropping to where my nipples pressed against the thin fabric. “You should put on pants, kid.”


The word kid stung, but I saw the way his sweatpants tented, his cock thickening visibly. “Should I?” I tilted my head, bratty smile playing on my lips. “Does it bother you, Marcus? Seeing me like this. all grown up, barely covered, dripping for you?”
His glass hit the counter hard enough to slosh the whiskey. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white, the bulge in his sweatpants twitching visibly, growing thicker by the second.


“You’re twenty-three years younger than me.” His voice was a warning, but his eyes were devouring me, tracing the outline of my hard nipples, the way the tank top clung to my soft stomach, the bare V between my thighs where I’d shaved smooth just for this fantasy.


“I’m twenty-two and very, very legal.” I stepped closer, close enough to smell cedar, sweat, and whiskey, close enough to see the vein pulsing in his neck. “And I’ve been touching myself thinking about you since I was eighteen. Four years of wanting. Tell me you haven’t thought about it once, about fucking your best friend’s daughter, about bending me over Dad’s kitchen counter and making me scream your name while he’s gone.”


His silence was deafening. 
His fists clenched tighter, the muscles in his forearms flexing like steel cables. 
Then the dam broke.


Marcus moved first, two long strides, hands gripping my waist and lifting me onto the counter like I weighed nothing. 
The size difference slammed into me: He towered, thick and experienced; I was small, trembling, soaked already. 
“This is wrong,” he growled, even as his palms shoved my shorts and panties aside, baring my bare pussy completely, lips puffy and glistening with arousal, the cool kitchen air kissing my slick folds and making me shiver.


“Then stop,” I whispered, wrapping my legs around his hips, pulling him in until his sweatpants-covered cock ground against my bare pussy, the fabric rough against my swollen clit, sending jolts of electric pleasure up my spine as I rocked against him, feeling the heat of his hardness pulse through the thin barrier.


He was huge, thick, rigid, his cock throbbing through the material, pressing right against my entrance like a promise, the friction making wet, obscene sounds as my juices soaked into his sweatpants. 
“Your father will fucking kill me,” he rasped, mouth already on my throat, teeth scraping the sensitive skin, sucking hard enough to leave a mark that would bruise purple by morning, the suction pulling blood to the surface in a delicious sting that made my pussy clench with need.


“Then make it worth the funeral.” 
He kissed me like punishment, rough, claiming, tongue fucking my mouth in deep, wet strokes that tasted of whiskey and raw desire, while one hand palmed my bare breast under the shirt, calloused fingers pinching my nipple hard enough to send a sharp, throbbing ache straight to my core, making me cry out into him, my hips bucking involuntarily.

I moaned, loud and shameless, arching into his touch. “Fuck, Marcus, yes, squeeze them harder, make them yours,” I begged, feeling the rough pads of his thumbs circle my areolas, teasing the pebbled peaks until they ached with oversensitivity. 
He broke the kiss, eyes black with lust. “I’ve jerked off thinking about you in those tiny bikinis at barbecues,” he confessed, voice wrecked, his breath hot against my lips.

“Imagined bending you over the grill while your dad flipped burgers ten feet away, sliding my cock into this tight little pussy and feeling you clench around me.” 
“Same,” I panted, my hands roaming his chest, nails scraping over his hardened nipples, feeling the coarse hair and sweat-slicked skin. “Nights in my dorm, three fingers deep in my pussy, whispering your name so my roommate wouldn’t hear, coming hard imagining your cock stretching me open, filling me until I couldn’t breathe.”


“Jesus fucking Christ.”


He yanked the shirt over my head, tossed it across the kitchen, then tugged my shorts and panties off in one swift motion, leaving me completely naked on the kitchen counter, legs spread wide, my arousal dripping down my thighs in shiny trails, the scent of my musk filling the air, mixing with his masculine sweat.


His gaze raked over me like fire, my full breasts heaving with every ragged breath, nipples hard and begging, flushed pink from his touch; my soft stomach quivering with anticipation; thighs slick and trembling, inner lips swollen and parted, revealing my glistening entrance, clit throbbing visibly, desperate for friction.


“So perfect,” he muttered, dropping to his knees. “So fucking perfect.” 
He spread my thighs wider, pinned them open with forearms like steel beams, the rough hair on his arms scraping my sensitive skin, and buried his face in me.


No teasing. 
One long, filthy lick from my dripping entrance to my throbbing clit, his tongue flat and hot, scooping up my tangy juices, savoring them with a deep, rumbling groan that vibrated through my core. Then he sucked my clit into his mouth hard, the suction intense and unrelenting, his tongue flicking mercilessly over the bundle of nerves while two thick fingers plunged inside my soaking channel, curling to stroke my G-spot with precise, rhythmic pressure that made my toes curl and my vision blur.


I screamed, hands flying to his hair, tugging the salt-and-pepper strands as waves of pleasure crashed over me, my pussy walls fluttering around his fingers, the wet squelching sounds echoing obscenely in the quiet kitchen. “Marcus, fuck, Mr. Hayes, eat my pussy, yes, tongue it deeper!” I cried, grinding against his face, feeling his stubble abrade my inner thighs like sandpaper, leaving them raw and burning with delicious friction.

He pulled back just enough to growl, his lips glistening with my arousal, “My name, Jenna. Not Mr. Hayes. Not tonight,” before diving back in, his tongue plunging into my hole like a mini-cock, fucking me with wet, slurping thrusts while his nose nudged my clit, inhaling my scent deeply, his free hand kneading my ass cheek, fingers digging into the soft flesh.


“Marcus,” I sobbed as he devoured me like a starving man, his beard soaked and dripping, the slurps and moans filling the air, my juices coating his chin and neck. He added a third finger, stretching me wide, the burn of the intrusion blending with ecstasy as his knuckles dragged against my inner walls, curling relentlessly to hit that spongy spot that made stars explode behind my eyes, building the pressure until it snapped.


“Such a tight little cunt, dripping all over my face like a desperate slut for your dad’s best friend,” he muttered against my clit, the vibrations sending shocks through me as he sucked harder, his fingers pistoning faster.


I came hard, back bowing off the counter, my pussy convulsing in rhythmic spasms, squirting over his tongue in hot, messy pulses that splashed against his face and dripped down his chest, the tangy scent intensifying as I soaked his beard, his chin, the counter beneath me.


“Fuck! Marcus! yes, I’m coming! eat it all, don’t stop—” I screamed, loud and shameless, hips bucking wildly against his mouth, my thighs clamping around his head, muscles trembling uncontrollably as wave after wave of blinding pleasure ripped through me, leaving me boneless and gasping. 
He drank every drop, his tongue lapping greedily, licking me clean with slow, savoring strokes while I whimpered and shook, aftershocks making my clit twitch against his lips.


Then he stood, shoved his sweatpants down, and his cock sprang free: Thick as my wrist, veined and pulsing, intimidating in its girth, flushed dark red and leaking precum from the slit in shiny beads, balls heavy and full, drawn tight with need, the musky scent of his arousal hitting me like a drug.


He rubbed the fat, mushroom head through my slick folds, coating himself in my cum, teasing my entrance with shallow dips that made me whine and buck for more, the velvety skin sliding against my oversensitive clit in torturous circles.


“Your father will kill me,” he said one last time, voice wrecked, his cockhead nudging my hole, stretching the entrance just enough to make me ache for fullness.


“Then fuck me so good the coffin’s worth it.”