My boyfriend’s dad 2

The next day, I wake up sticky between my thighs, the sheets twisted around my legs like I fought them all night. My body still hums from the way I came apart under Marcus’s stare—hard, shameless, loud enough that the memory alone makes my clit throb again. I lie there for a long minute, listening to the house settle. No footsteps. No truck engine rumbling out of the driveway. He’s still here.

Good.

I don’t bother with a shower. I want to smell like sex, like last night’s desperation still clinging to my skin. I pull on one of Jake’s old college t-shirts from the dresser—faded gray, soft, too big. It hits mid-thigh when I stand straight, but the second I move it rides up, barely skimming the curve of my ass. No panties. No bra. Just the thin cotton and the cool morning air kissing every inch of exposed skin.

I pad downstairs barefoot, heart already thudding too fast.

Marcus is in the kitchen.

He’s at the stove, back to me, broad shoulders filling out a plain black t-shirt, jeans slung low on his hips. The smell of frying bacon and fresh coffee hits me like a drug. He doesn’t turn when I step into the room, but I know he heard me. His shoulders tense, just a fraction.

I don’t say good morning. Neither does he.

I cross to the coffee maker, hips swaying more than necessary. The tile is cold under my feet. I reach for a mug, stretch up on my toes so the hem of the shirt lifts—higher, higher—baring the lower curve of my ass and the shadowed space between my thighs. I feel his eyes on me before I even look. Heavy. Hungry.

I pour the coffee with shaky hands. Some sloshes over the rim. I don’t care. I bend forward to grab the creamer from the bottom shelf of the fridge, ass in the air, legs slightly parted. The shirt rides up completely now, cool air hitting wet skin. I know he can see how slick I am already, just from the weight of his gaze, from remembering how he stood at the foot of that bed and told me not to stop.

I straighten slowly, turn.

He’s watching.

His dark eyes drag over me like fingertips—down my throat, over the hard points of my nipples pressing against the cotton, lingering on the bare skin of my thighs, then lower, to where the shirt clings damply between my legs. His jaw ticks. He sets the spatula down with deliberate care.

I take a sip of coffee. It burns my tongue. I don’t flinch.

He steps closer.

Not touching yet. Just close enough that I can feel the heat rolling off him, smell the soap on his skin mixed with something earthier, muskier. My pulse hammers in my throat.

I set the mug on the counter, turn my back to him, and lean forward again—elbows on the granite, ass tilted just enough. Offering. Daring.

He moves.

One step. Another. Then he’s right behind me, chest brushing my back as he reaches past me for his own mug. His arm cages me in without touching the counter. His breath ghosts hot across the nape of my neck. I shiver.

“You were loud yesterday,” he murmurs, voice low and rough like gravel dragged over silk. “Thought you might wake the whole neighborhood.”

My breath catches. The words land like a hand between my legs.

I turn my head just enough to catch his eye over my shoulder. Our faces are inches apart. His pupils are blown wide.

“I was thinking about someone else touching me,” I whisper.

The admission hangs between us, filthy and honest.

His hand finds my hip.

No hesitation. Just firm, warm pressure—fingers splaying wide, thumb sliding under the hem of the shirt to press into the soft dip of skin just above my pubic bone. Not moving lower. Not yet. Just holding. Claiming.

My knees threaten to buckle.

He leans in closer. His lips brush the shell of my ear when he speaks again. “You’re still wet from it.”

It’s not a question.

I nod anyway—small, helpless jerks of my head.

His thumb strokes once, slow, deliberate. Barely an inch from where I need him most. My hips twitch forward instinctively, seeking more. He doesn’t give it. He just holds me there, pinned between his body and the counter, breathing me in.

“Tell me what you were thinking,” he says. Quiet. Dangerous. “When you had your fingers inside yourself. When you looked at me and kept going.”

Heat floods my face, my chest, lower. I swallow hard.

“I was thinking about a man who wouldn’t stop at watching,” I breathe. “One who’d spread me open. Fuck me with his fingers until I screamed. Then take me with his cock—hard. Deep. Until I couldn’t walk straight.”

His grip tightens on my hip. His other hand comes up, braces on the counter beside mine. Caging me completely now. His erection presses against my ass through his jeans—thick, insistent. I push back against him, grinding slow, shameless.

A low sound rumbles in his throat.

“No kiss,” he says, almost to himself. “Not yet.”

But his thumb slides lower—just enough to graze the top of my slit. I gasp. My clit pulses under the barest brush.

“Marcus—”

“Say it again,” he growls. “What you want.”

I turn my head, lips brushing his jaw. “I want you to fuck me. Right here. Right now. Bend me over this counter and take what you’ve been staring at since last night.”

His breathing turns ragged. His thumb presses harder—circling once, twice—then pulls away.

I whimper at the loss.

He steps back.

Just enough to let cool air rush between us.

I spin to face him fully, back against the counter, thighs pressed together to ease the ache. My shirt is rucked up, exposing everything below the waist. I don’t fix it.

His eyes rake over me again—slow, possessive. The front of his jeans is strained, the outline of him obscene.

“Finish your coffee,” he says, voice wrecked. “Then come find me.”

He turns, walks out of the kitchen without another word.

I stand there, trembling, coffee forgotten, skin buzzing like live wire.

The house feels too big. Too quiet.

But not for long.

I set the mug down.

Then I follow him.