My boyfriend’s dad 5

The days blur into a haze of skin and heat.

Time loses meaning. Mornings don’t start with alarms or coffee anymore—they start with Marcus’s mouth between my thighs.

I wake to the slow drag of his tongue, warm and deliberate, lapping through the mess he left inside me the night before. My legs are already spread, one knee hooked over his shoulder, his big hands pinning my hips to the mattress so I can’t squirm away. Not that I want to. I arch into him with a sleepy moan, fingers threading through his hair, tugging him closer. He hums against my clit—low, vibrating—and sucks gently until my back bows and I come with a shuddering gasp before I’m even fully awake.

He climbs up my body, cock already hard, and slides into me without a word. Slow, deep rolls of his hips while the sun creeps through the blinds in thin gold stripes across our tangled limbs. He fucks me lazy and thorough, kissing the sleep from my mouth, swallowing every soft whimper until we’re both trembling and he spills inside me again, hot and thick, groaning my name like it’s the only word he remembers.

We don’t leave the bed for hours.

Evenings are different—hungrier, rougher. The house stays dark; we don’t bother with lights. He finds me wherever I am—reading on the couch, stretching in the hallway, bent over the kitchen counter rinsing a glass—and takes me right there.

One night he catches me in the laundry room, folding towels in nothing but his old flannel shirt. The second I turn, he’s on me. He spins me around, bends me over the dryer, yanks the shirt up to my waist. His belt comes off in a sharp hiss of leather. He loops it around my wrists, binds them behind my back, tight enough that I feel the pulse in my fingertips. Then he drops to his knees behind me, spreads me open with both hands, and eats me like he’s starving—tongue plunging deep, teeth grazing my clit until I’m shaking, begging, dripping down his chin.

When he finally stands, he doesn’t untie me. Just notches himself at my entrance and thrusts in hard. The dryer rattles beneath us with every slam of his hips. My bound hands scrabble uselessly at his thighs. He fists my hair, yanks my head back so he can bite the curve of my neck—sharp enough to sting, soft enough to make me clench around him. “Look how wet you get for me,” he growls against my ear. “Fucking dripping. Perfect little slut.”

I come so hard my knees buckle. He holds me up, keeps fucking through it until he’s right there—then pulls out, spins me, and pushes me to my knees. The belt stays on. I open my mouth eagerly. He slides in deep, hitting the back of my throat, holding himself there while I gag and drool around him. His hand cups my jaw, thumb stroking my cheek.

“Look at you,” he rasps. “So fucking perfect like this. Taking every inch. My good girl.”

Tears prick my eyes from the stretch, the lack of air, the filthy praise. I moan around him, hollow my cheeks, swirl my tongue. He curses, hips jerking, then pulls out just enough to come across my tongue—thick ropes that I swallow greedily while he watches, eyes blazing.

We shower together after. The water pounds hot and relentless. He lifts me against the tile, my legs wrapping around his waist, ankles locked at his lower back. He fucks me standing up—slow at first, then faster, deeper—water sluicing between us, mixing with sweat and come. His mouth finds my throat, my collarbone, my nipples—biting, sucking, marking me with red blooms that will bruise tomorrow. I rake my nails down his back, hard enough to leave welts. He growls my name when he comes, burying himself as deep as he can, filling me until it leaks out around his cock and drips down my thighs to swirl away in the drain.

We don’t stop.

Against the hallway wall—my back to the cool plaster, one leg hooked over his arm while he drives into me so hard the pictures rattle. On the living room floor—me on top, riding him reverse so he can watch himself disappear inside me, his hands spreading my ass, thumb circling my tighter hole until I’m whimpering, begging for more. Over the kitchen table—him bending me forward, one hand pressing between my shoulder blades, the other rubbing furious circles on my clit until I scream and soak his fingers.

Every surface. Every position. Every filthy urge we’ve ever buried.

He ties me to the headboard with silk scarves he finds in a drawer—wrists above my head, ankles spread and secured to the footboard. Then he teases me for what feels like hours—feather-light touches, ice from the freezer trailed over my nipples, his tongue everywhere but where I need it most—until I’m sobbing, pleading, hips lifting off the bed. Only then does he sink into me, slow and punishing, fucking me until the bedframe groans and I come so many times I lose count—shaking, oversensitive, wrecked.

He unties me after, gathers me against his chest, kisses the rope marks on my wrists like they’re precious. But even that tenderness turns filthy fast—his fingers sliding back inside me, curling, stroking, until I’m coming again on his hand while he whispers how beautiful I look when I fall apart.

There’s no room for anything else. No guilt. No tomorrow. No thoughts of Jake, or consequences, or what happens when the trip ends. Just the slick slide of bodies, the bite of teeth on shoulders, the wet slap of skin, the way his breath catches when I clench around him, the guttural way he growls my name—Sally—right before he comes, flooding me until it drips down my thighs and stains the sheets.

We chase release after release.

Mouths, hands, cocks, fingers—nothing is off-limits. We burn brighter with every touch, every thrust, every broken moan. The fire we set consumes us both, and neither of us tries to put it out.

We just keep feeding it.

Until there’s nothing left but heat, and hunger, and the endless, perfect ruin of each other.