Chapter 5

Ava Hart's Point Of View.

I woke up wet, not just damp but soaked. My thighs were slick to the knee, my panties glued to me, my clit throbbed.

The second my eyes opened, the memory slammed into me. Blake Carter, Mia's father, the man who had looked straight into my soul while he fucked someone else’s throat and came watching me watch him through the crack of the door. What I had done afterward, shoved my hand, between my legs, and whispering his name like a filthy prayer until I came hard.

I pressed both hands over my face and groaned into my palms.

I was a terrible friend. For lord's sake, he was Mia’s dad. How could I even look at him after this?

I was not that girl, I had never been that girl.

I had never even watched p**n, never touched myself in anyone else’s house, never, ever let a single dirty thought about a man old enough to be my father live in my head for longer than a second. Yet here I was, aching for him more and more.

I dragged myself to the shower with shaky legs, turned the cold water, and tried to scrub the night off my skin, the need out of my body but It did not help at all. Every time I closed my eyes I saw him, I saw his hand fisted in blonde hair, and his eyes locked on mine through that crack in the door.

I stepped out of the bathroom, dripping. The dress I chose, was a thin white frock, innocent enough for Christmas week with your best friend’s family until it got wet. Until you realized I had not bothered with a bra and the fabric clung to every curve. The hem barely skimmed the tops of my thighs, if I bent even a little he would see my pale-blue panties.

To be honest, I was excited, but at the same time a little unsure of what he would think after seeing me in this dress. My stomach flipped as I stood in front of the mirror, smoothing the fabric down, while trying to steady my breathing.

It was not overly bold, but it was not innocent either. A part of me hoped he would like it, hoped his eyes would linger, hoped he would see her the way I secretly wanted him to.

By the time I crept downstairs on bare feet, the house was quiet dead. Mia would sleep until noon if no one dragged her out of bed. I just needed coffee and five desperate minutes to pretend I was not walking around with a throbbing, empty ache between my legs that already knew exactly whose cock they wanted to fill it.

I tip toed towards the kitchen and he was already there, leaned against the counter, shirtless, with grey sweatpants, low enough to show the toned waist. One hand cradled a steaming mug, while the other rested on the counter, fingers spread wide.

His eyes snapped to me the second I crossed the threshold and did not let go. I froze in the doorway like a deer staring down a wolf.

“Morning, Ava,” He said, his voice was calm and low,

I managed a squeaky “Hi” and tried to edge past him to the coffee machine. He shifted, close enough that I could smell cedar and the faint trace of coffee on his breath, close enough that I could feel the heat rolling off his bare chest.

“How did you sleep, Ava?” He asked, while tilting his head and looking at me intently. My panties were already soaked again.

“Yeah, fine,” I lied, the words were barely a whisper. A corner of his mouth curved, dark and filthy, like he could smell how wet I was.

“Liar” He murmured as he leaned in, elbows on the counter and took a slow sip of his coffee, maintaining the eye contact. "I saw you, standing there, watching me come down her throat, running to your room and shoving these pretty fingers inside yourself while you moaned my name.”

He let that sit for a long second, watching the blood drain from my face, then flood back twice as hot. I gripped the edge of the counter to stay upright. A helpless sound slipped out of me. He kept going, relentless.

“I heard you, heard you through the walls, heard you beg my name while you fucked yourself raw on those fingers, heard you come so hard,” He continued, while his eyes never left mine. “You have been a very bad girl, a very filthy girl, Ava,”

He took another calm sip of coffee, with his left hand, brushed a strand of hair from my cheek, and traced my bottom lip with his right hand. We stayed like that, for a moment and then stepped back, just as Mia’s footsteps thundered down the stairs.

“Morning, losers,” She announced as she practically danced into the kitchen, while singing the wrong lyrics to whatever song was stuck in her head. "I am starving. Did we seriously eat all the lasagna last night? I don’t even remember.”

"M -m orning, M -mia,” I said, while trying not to sound as nervous as I felt.

I sat down across from her, trying to keep my hands still. She plopped into the chair beside me, completely oblivious of the storm brewing between me and her father.

“So what’s for breakfast?” She asked, drumming her fingers on the table. “And if it’s something with the word healthy in it, I swear I will cry right here.”

His eyes stayed on me the whole time, and lifted his mug in a tiny toast only I could see while I stood there trembling, destroyed and dripping and completely, utterly his and he had not even touched me yet.