6-MARISOL

Marisol stretched out on the chaise longue by the infinity pool, the late January sun of 2025 warm enough to trick the skin into believing it was summer, even if the calendar stubbornly refused to agree.

The mansion loomed behind her like a sleeping colossus, white stone, endless glass, palm trees uprooted from some far more exotic latitude and replanted here for effect.

Her best friend Isla was currently somewhere in Tuscany, flooding her feeds with golden-hour selfies and captions about “rediscovering the self.” She wouldn’t return for another month.

Perfect. The house felt deliciously empty.Isla’s stepmommy Elizabeth, blonde, Botox-perfect, forty-eight masquerading as twenty-five, was likely at another charity luncheon, air-kissing donors and performing concern for endangered sea turtles or whatever cause was trending this week.

That left only him. Her best friend's daddy, Morgan. Billionaire. Sixty-nine years old and still carved like he spent mornings lifting fortunes instead of barbells. Broad shoulders, silver hair cropped military-short, caramel-brown eyes that could hold you still without a word. Forty-two years her senior.

Marisol had spent years perfecting the art of pretending she didn’t notice how his suits clung to muscle, how his low laugh vibrated through rooms even when he thought no one was paying attention.

This morning, she’d passed the master suite door, left cracked like careless permission. She’d stopped. Watched. Stepmommy flat on her back, legs spread in clinical missionary, blonde hair fanned across silk pillows, eyes half-lidded in what looked more like boredom than bliss. Stepdaddy above her, slow, controlled rolls of his hips, tanned muscles flexing, grey at the temples catching pale morning light.

Marisol had frozen in the hallway, thighs squeezing together, panties soaked in seconds. She’d slipped away before the finish, heart slamming, clit pulsing like a live wire.

Now she lay here in her tiniest black bikini, coconut oil making her skin gleam, trying to appear casual while every nerve screamed for contact.

The glass doors whispered open. He stepped out, barefoot, swim trunks riding low on narrow hips, white towel slung over one shoulder. Fresh from the shower, water droplets traced lazy paths down his chest.

He smiled when he saw her.

“Good morning, honey.”

“Morning.” She kept her tone light, sunglasses concealing how hungrily her eyes tracked him. He walked to the pool’s edge, dropped the towel on a lounger, then turned.

“What have you been up to?” She propped herself on her elbows, letting the bikini top strain against full breasts.

“The bar I inherited from my sister, Dirty Angels. Ethan’s being a complete bastard. Thinks he can shaft me out of my share just because I’m Lila’s younger sister. Like blood means nothing.”

Those caramel eyes studied her, steady, unreadable.

“If you need help, you know I’ve got you.”

“Thank you.” A small, sweet smile. “But I’ve got this. I’m a big girl now.”

He chuckled, warm and low. “Always a child to me.”

The words landed like a spark on dry tinder. She reached behind her back, fingers deft on the bikini tie. One slow pull. The top fell away. Her breasts spilled free, heavy, perfect, nipples already peaked from the breeze and the liquid heat gathering low in her belly.

She cupped one, thumb circling the dark bud slowly.

“Does this look like a child to you?” His eyes darkened in an instant. Raw hunger flashed, then guilt slammed down like a steel door. He sat on the edge of her chaise, close enough for her to catch clean skin and faint cedar cologne.

“Put your top back on, Marisol.”

Gentle. Firm. The voice that usually made obedience automatic.

She didn’t move. Held his gaze, nipple still rolling between her fingers, pulse thundering in her ears.

“I don’t know where you got this idea,” he continued, softer. “But I love my wife. And I respect you. You’re beautiful, God, you’re so beautiful, but we can’t cross that line.”

He reached out, tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. Fingers lingered on her cheek, thumb grazing her jaw. Electric. The current raced down her spine, settled throbbing between her thighs. She was soaked, clit aching with every heartbeat.

“Put your top back on,” he repeated, quieter still. She didn’t. The eye contact burned, charged, dangerous. She saw the war in his eyes: want warring with restraint. He wanted to touch. To taste. To ruin. But he held back.

He stood abruptly.

“I’m going inside. This is the last we speak of it.”

He turned. Walked toward the glass doors. She deftly put on her bikini top again, though it did nothing to quell the desire between her legs.  

The glass doors slid open just as his stepson Cody, Isla’s older stepbrother, strolled out in board shorts and a half-unbuttoned linen shirt.

“Morning, Mari.”

He glanced at his father’s stiff retreat. “Dad looked pissed. What’s going on?”

Marisol forced a laugh, casually retying her top as if nothing had happened.

“I don’t know. Probably business.”

“What are you up to today?”

“Quick swim, then I’ve got that bar showdown tonight.”

“Good luck.” He grinned. “How long till Isla’s back?” “Another month.”

“Cool. See you.”

He dove in with a clean splash. She watched him, he was the tanned, golden dream. Super hot. But she thought of him more as a golden retriever. No one she would ever sleep with. Not when Daddy is there.

Marisol waited until he climbed out, toweled off, and vanished inside. She knew he was going to help at Elizabeths fundraiser.

Then she slipped into the water, cool against fever-hot skin. She swam slow laps, trying to drown the insistent throb between her legs. It didn’t work. Every stroke echoed stepdaddy’s body moving above stepmommy that morning. Every breath rasped her nipples against wet fabric. She gave up after ten minutes. Wrapped a towel around herself and padded upstairs to the guest suite.

Door half-open, she hadn’t bothered to close it fully. She stripped naked, skin still damp, pulled the thick purple vibrator from the nightstand drawer. Lay back on crisp white sheets, legs spread wide. Pressed the buzzing head to her clit.

Imagined his tongue instead, slow licks, grey stubble scraping tender skin. She moaned low, hips rolling, free hand twisting a nipple.

A noise.

The door eased wider.

He stood in the threshold, charcoal suit impeccable, tie knotted perfectly, silver cufflinks glinting. Eyes black. Jaw locked.

She didn’t stop.

Met his gaze, vibrator still circling her swollen clit, breath hitching. “

Tell me you want this,” he said, voice low and rough.

“I want this, I want you.” She said breathlessy.

He stepped inside. Left the door half-open. No lock. Just risk.

His gaze devoured her, spread, glistening, desperate.

He crossed to the bed, plucked the vibrator away, and replaced it with his hand, two thick fingers pressing firm circles on her clit.

She arched, groaning. “Daddy.”

“You have a perfect little cunt, don’t you?” Velvet over steel. “Let Daddy taste you.”

He dropped to his knees, hooked her thighs over his shoulders, buried his face between her legs. Hot. Wet. Relentless. Tongue flat against her clit, then flicking sharp. Then plunging inside, fucking her with it while his nose ground her bud.

She cried out, hands fisting his silver hair, hips bucking.

She sat up, desperate fingers at his belt. Zipper rasped. His cock sprang free, thick, veined, hard despite his age. Grey hair at the base, skin soft over iron.

She stroked him, once, twice.

He groaned into her pussy.

“I want you to fuck me raw, Daddy.”

He lifted his head, lips shining. Eyes feral. He stood. Shoved pants down. Climbed over her. Cock nudged her entrance, hot, blunt.

He pushed in slow, stretching, filling, then deeper. Harder. Raw. Skin on skin.

He fucked her like starvation, deep rolls becoming brutal slams, bed creaking, headboard thumping.

Mouth on hers, filthy, tongues clashing.

One hand pinned her wrist; the other angled her hips for deeper penetration.

“Take it,” he growled. “Take every inch, baby girl.”

She shattered, clenching, pulsing, crying his name.

He followed, deep, flooding her with heat, groaning broken against her neck.

They stayed tangled, breathing hard, sweat-slick.

He kissed her temple, soft, tender.

Then pulled out slowly, watching his cum leak from her swollen pussy. He tucked himself away, straightened his tie with unsteady hands.

“This can only continue until Isla comes back from overseas,” he murmured against her ear. “Then we finish. No more. You understand?”

Marisol’s heart stuttered, but she smiled, lazy, sated, already craving.

“I promise. But only if you can fuck me so good I’ll be satisfied when it ends.”

His mouth curved, dangerous, possessive.

“I’ll fuck every hole so well you’ll feel me for months after she’s home. Every opportunity I get, baby girl. Every single one.”

He kissed her once, deep, lingering.

“Good luck at Dirty Angels tonight,” he said quietly. “The offer of help is still there. If Ethan tries anything, call me.”

She nodded, dazed, dripping, his release still warm inside her.

He walked out, leaving the door half-open behind him. Marisol lay there, legs trembling, pussy throbbing with aftershocks.

She touched herself lazily, spreading his cum around her clit, already imagining the next time, his cock claiming every promised inch. The bar showdown could wait. This was the real victory. And it burned hotter than any sun.