My boyfriend’s dad 3

We dance around it for days.

Four days, to be exact—four agonizing, electric days of almosts and maybes that leave me raw and restless. Every room in the house feels smaller when Marcus is in it. I catch him watching me over the rim of his coffee mug while I stretch in the kitchen, arms overhead, shirt riding up to show the underside of my breasts. His eyes darken, but he doesn’t move. I brush past him in the narrow hallway, my shoulder grazing his chest, my fingers trailing—just barely—across his forearm. He inhales sharply. Doesn’t pull away.

I “forget” to latch the bathroom door while I shower. Steam curls out into the hall as I soap my body slowly, deliberately, letting water sluice over nipples that stay hard even under the heat. I hear his footsteps pause outside. Hear the soft creak of floorboards as he stands there, just out of sight. I don’t call out. I don’t close the door. I just keep touching myself under the spray—slow circles over my clit, two fingers dipping inside—knowing he can hear the wet sounds, the soft gasps I don’t bother muffling.

He catches me in the hallway later that afternoon wearing nothing but a towel. I’m coming from my room, hair dripping, towel knotted loosely between my breasts. He’s heading upstairs, toolbox in hand—something about a loose shelf in the garage. Our eyes lock. I let the knot slip a fraction; the towel parts just enough to show the inner swell of one breast, the shadowed dip between my thighs. His grip tightens on the toolbox until his knuckles bleach white.

“Careful,” he mutters, voice thick. “You’re gonna drop that.”

I smile, small and wicked. “Maybe I want to.”

He steps closer—close enough that I feel the warmth off his body—then stops. Jaw clenched. Breathing hard. Then he walks past me, shoulder brushing mine, leaving me trembling against the wall.

The tension coils tighter with every hour. I’m wet constantly now—aching, swollen, every shift of my hips rubbing my clit against the seam of my shorts until I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning in the middle of the living room. I stop wearing underwear entirely. What’s the point? He already knows how desperate I am.

Then Jake calls.

It’s early evening. I’m curled on the couch in loose lounge pants and a cropped tank, legs tucked under me, trying to read a book I haven’t absorbed a single word of. My phone buzzes. Jake’s name lights up the screen.

“Hey, babe,” he says when I answer. His voice sounds far away, tired. “Bad news. They’re extending the trip. Another week at least. Some client issue.”

My heart doesn’t sink. It leaps.

“Oh,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “That sucks.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you when I get back, promise.”

I murmur something reassuring. We exchange I-love-yous. He hangs up.

I set the phone down. My hands are shaking.

Marcus appears in the doorway like he was waiting for the call to end.

He doesn’t speak. Just looks at me—really looks. At the way my thighs are pressed tight together, trying to ease the relentless throb between them. At the flush creeping up my chest. At the way my nipples strain against the thin fabric.

This time he doesn’t hesitate.

He crosses the room in three strides. Drops to his knees between my legs before I can even uncurl them. His big hands clamp around my thighs—firm, unyielding—and push them wide apart. The stretch burns sweetly. I gasp.

No preamble. No words. He yanks my lounge pants down in one rough tug, baring me completely. Cool air hits slick skin, then his mouth.

Hot. Wet. Immediate.

His tongue flattens against me in one long, slow lick from entrance to clit. I arch hard off the couch, a broken sound ripping out of my throat. He groans against me—like I taste better than anything he’s ever had—and does it again. Slower this time. Savoring. The flat of his tongue drags over my clit, circles once, then dips lower to push inside me, fucking me shallowly while his nose nudges the sensitive bundle of nerves above.

“Marcus—” His name comes out wrecked.

He pulls back just enough to speak, lips glistening, voice gravel-rough. “Been wanting this since I saw you that first night. Fingers buried in yourself. Looking right at me while you came.” He growls the words against my clit, the vibration making my hips jerk. “Tasted you in my dreams every fucking night since.”

Then he dives back in—hungrier now. Lips seal around my clit, sucking hard while two thick fingers slide inside me. No teasing. Just deep, curling strokes that hit that spot that makes my vision white out. I grab his hair, hips rolling up to meet his mouth, grinding shamelessly against his face.

He adds a third finger. Stretching me. Opening me. Preparing me. The burn is perfect, filthy. I’m dripping down his wrist, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room.

“Fuck—yes—right there—”

He growls again, louder, the sound vibrating straight through me. His tongue lashes faster—side to side, then flicking—while his fingers pump relentlessly. My thighs start to shake. Pressure builds low and tight, unbearable.

I come hard.

It hits like a fist—back bowing, mouth open in a silent scream that turns into his name, loud and raw. My walls clamp down on his fingers, pulsing, gushing. He doesn’t stop. Keeps sucking, keeps thrusting, drawing it out until I’m whimpering, oversensitive, thighs trying to close around his head.

But he’s stronger.

He pins me open. Licks slower now—gentle laps through the mess he’s made—then harder again, chasing another peak before the first has even faded.

I’m babbling. “Please—Marcus—need you—need your cock—please—”

He lifts his head. Lips swollen, chin shining. Eyes black with want.

He stands slowly, towering over me. One hand wipes across his mouth. The other undoes his belt with a metallic clink that makes my pulse spike.

“Beg again,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “Tell me exactly what you want.”

I push up on my elbows, legs still spread, chest heaving. “I want your cock inside me. Deep. Hard. I want you to fuck me until I can’t think. Until I’m screaming. Fill me up—come in me—please—”

He shoves his jeans down just enough. His cock springs free—thick, veined, flushed dark at the tip, already leaking. He strokes himself once, twice, eyes never leaving mine.

Then he drops back to his knees.

Not to taste this time.

To take.

He notches himself at my entrance—hot, blunt pressure—and pushes in slow.

One long, relentless slide.

I cry out at the stretch, the fullness, the way he doesn’t stop until he’s buried to the hilt. My nails dig into his shoulders. His forehead drops to mine, breath ragged.

“Fuck,” he groans. “So tight. So wet for me.”

He starts to move—slow at first, dragging out, then slamming back in. Deep. Hard. The couch creaks under us. My legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his ass, urging him faster.

He gives it to me.

Every thrust rocks me up the cushions. His hand finds my throat—not squeezing, just holding—grounding me while he fucks me like he’s been starving for it longer than I have.

I’m already climbing again. The angle hits everything at once—his cock dragging over that spot, pubic bone grinding my clit.

“Gonna come—” I gasp.

“Do it,” he growls. “Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”

I shatter.

Louder this time. Whole body seizing, walls fluttering around him, milking him deep. He keeps thrusting through it—harder, faster—chasing his own edge.

But he doesn’t come yet.

He pulls out suddenly, leaving me empty and clenching around nothing.

I whine at the loss.

He stands, cock glistening with me, chest heaving.

“Bedroom,” he says. Voice like broken glass. “Now.”

I scramble up on shaky legs, slick dripping down my thighs.

He follows close behind—hand on the small of my back, possessive, guiding.