My boyfriend’s dad 4

We don’t talk about right or wrong. We don’t talk at all.

Marcus’s hand is still wrapped around the back of my neck—firm, possessive—as he guides me up the stairs. My legs are shaky from the couch, thighs slick with my own release and his spit, but every step sends fresh heat pooling low in my belly. His bedroom door is already open. The hallway light spills across the threshold like an invitation we’re both too far gone to refuse.

He doesn’t turn on the overhead. Just the bedside lamp—warm amber glow that paints his skin gold and shadows the hard lines of his face. The bed is big, neatly made, navy comforter smoothed flat. No trace of anyone else. No photos on the nightstand. Just him, and now me.

He kicks the door shut behind us. The click sounds final.

He turns me around, backs me up until my calves hit the mattress. Then he’s kissing me—finally, finally—deep and filthy, tongue claiming every corner of my mouth like he’s been holding back for years instead of days. I taste myself on him, salty-sweet, and moan into his throat. His hands roam—down my sides, under the cropped tank, shoving it up and off in one impatient yank. My lounge pants are already gone, lost somewhere downstairs. I’m bare, flushed, trembling under his palms.

He pushes me down onto the bed. I bounce once, then he’s on me—covering me, heavy and hot. His jeans are still half-on, cock hard against my thigh through the denim. I arch up, grinding shamelessly, needing more.

“Slow,” he mutters against my lips. “Want to feel every fucking inch.”

He strips the rest of the way—shirt, jeans, boxers—until he’s naked above me. Broad chest dusted with dark hair, muscles shifting under skin scarred here and there from years of hard work. His cock juts thick and heavy between us, veins standing out, tip already wet. I reach for him, wrap my fingers around the base. He hisses, hips jerking into my grip.

He nudges my thighs wider with his knee, settles between them. One hand grips my hip, the other guides himself to my entrance. He doesn’t push in right away—just rubs the head through my folds, coating himself in the mess he already made of me. Teasing. Torturing.

“Please,” I breathe.

He sinks in slow.

One long, relentless glide. My back bows off the mattress, mouth falling open on a silent cry. He’s thicker than I imagined—stretching me wide, filling every empty inch until I feel him in my throat. He doesn’t stop until he’s seated deep, hips flush to mine, pubic bone grinding my clit.

The bed creaks under our weight.

He stays still for a heartbeat, letting me adjust, letting me feel him throb inside me. Then he starts to move—slow, deliberate rolls of his hips, dragging out, pushing back in deeper each time. His hands are everywhere: gripping my hips hard enough to bruise, sliding up to pinch my nipples until I gasp, then higher—one palm wrapping loosely around my throat. Not squeezing. Just holding. Feeling my pulse thunder against his fingers.

“Look at me,” he growls.

I do. His eyes are black, locked on mine as he fucks me slow and deep. Every thrust rocks me up the bed. The headboard taps the wall in lazy rhythm.

“God—Marcus—”

He leans down, mouth on my neck, teeth grazing. “Say my name again when you come.”

I’m already climbing—too fast, too soon. The angle, the stretch, the weight of him pinning me—it’s overwhelming. My nails rake down his back. He groans, thrusts harder once, twice—then pulls out.

I whine at the emptiness.

He flips me onto my stomach, yanks my hips up so I’m on my knees, ass in the air. One hand fists my hair, tugging my head back just enough to arch me. The other reaches around, fingers finding my clit—rubbing tight, fast circles while he slams back inside from behind.

I scream into the pillow.

He fucks me hard now—relentless, punishing strokes that slap skin on skin. The bed creaks louder, protesting. His groans vibrate through me, low and ragged. “So fucking tight—better than I dreamed—taking me so good—”

I push back to meet him, grinding, chasing the pressure on my clit and the deep drag of his cock. “Better than him,” I gasp. “So much better—fuck—your son never filled me like this—”

The words break something in him.

He growls—actual growl—yanks my hair harder, angles deeper. His fingers speed up on my clit. I shatter again—harder this time—walls clamping down, pulsing around him, gushing wet down my thighs. My vision whites out. I scream his name into the pillow until my throat burns.

He doesn’t stop.

Pulls out, flips me again—onto my back this time. I’m boneless, shaking, but he hauls me up, sits back against the headboard, and pulls me onto his lap. I straddle him, knees sinking into the mattress, and sink down onto his cock in one slick glide. We both groan.

I ride him slow at first—rolling my hips, grinding down so every thick inch stretches me again. His hands grip my ass, guiding me, then slide up to cup my breasts, thumbs flicking my nipples. I lean forward, brace my hands on his chest, and pick up speed—bouncing now, taking him deep, feeling him hit that spot over and over.

“Tell me,” he rasps. “Tell me how much better.”

“So much better,” I pant. “Thicker—harder—fuck—makes me come so hard I can’t breathe—”

His head falls back against the headboard, throat working. His hands tighten on my hips, helping me slam down harder. Sweat slicks our skin, bodies sliding together. His groans turn to curses—low, filthy.

Then he flips us once more.

This time he doesn’t stay on the bed.

He stands, hauls me up with him—my back hits the wall, legs wrapping around his waist. He thrusts up into me, hard and fast, pinning me there. Pictures rattle on the wall. My nails dig into his shoulders. His mouth crashes to mine—messy, desperate.

We slide down to the floor next—carpet rough under my back. He hooks my legs over his shoulders, folds me in half, and drives in deeper than before. I’m sobbing now—pleasure so sharp it hurts. His hand finds my throat again, thumb pressing my pulse. “Come for me again,” he orders. “One more time—let me feel it.”

I do.

Explosive—back arching off the floor, thighs shaking, crying out so loud my voice cracks. He follows seconds later—thrusts turning erratic, hips slamming once, twice—then he buries himself deep and comes with a broken groan. Hot pulses inside me, filling me until it leaks out around him.

We stay like that—panting, sweat-slick, tangled—until our breathing slows.

He pulls out slow. I whimper at the loss. He kisses me softer this time—almost tender—then stands, scoops me up like I weigh nothing, and carries me to the dresser.

Sets me on the edge, facing the mirror.

Behind me, his reflection looms—chest heaving, cock still half-hard, glistening. He spreads my thighs wide, hooks my legs over his arms, and slides back in from behind. Slow again. Deep.

“Look,” he murmurs against my ear.

I do.

In the mirror: my flushed face, lips swollen, eyes glassy. His big hands gripping my hips. The way my body jolts with every thrust. The slick shine on my inner thighs. Him—claiming every inch of me.

“Watch us,” he says. “Watch what I do to you.”

I can’t look away.

He fucks me steady—relentless—chasing that edge again. One hand slides down, fingers rubbing my oversensitive clit in tight circles. I’m shaking, whimpering, too much and not enough all at once.

“Too much—” I gasp.

“Not enough,” he counters. “Not until you come again.”

He gets his wish.

I shatter one last time—screaming, clawing at the dresser, watching myself fall apart in the mirror while he watches me watch.

He follows—groaning my name like a prayer—filling me again until it drips down my thighs.

We collapse against the dresser, breathless, wrecked.

No words.

Just the sound of our breathing, the creak of the house settling around us, and the slow, satisfied throb between my legs that says we’re nowhere near finished.