Daddy Little Girl Pt3

Laura:

Mom was gone before the sky even began to lighten. The phone’s ring sliced through the silence at 3:47 a.m.—sharp, ugly, impossible to ignore.

I heard her voice, hushed and clipped, then the familiar sounds: suitcase zipper, soft-soled footsteps, the front door’s quiet click. She muttered something about Aunt Claire needing her upstate, said she’d call when she landed, and then the house swallowed her absence. The quiet that followed felt thicker, more loaded, like the walls themselves knew it was only the two of us now.

I stayed in bed for hours, sheets twisted around my calves, replaying every second of last night in the kitchen until my skin felt feverish again. The dull, insistent throb between my legs hadn’t eased; it had only sunk deeper, patient and greedy.

Seven o’clock brought pale gold light slipping past the curtains. Downstairs: coffee maker hissing, fridge door opening and closing with that familiar soft pop, the clink of a spoon against ceramic. Everyday sounds. Then the stairs creaked—slow, deliberate—under his weight.

My door was already cracked open. He didn’t knock. Just pushed it wider and stepped inside.

Morning made him look rawer, less contained. Sleep-tousled hair, bare chest rising and falling, dark hair scattered across broad pecs and narrowing into that tempting line that disappeared beneath low-slung gray sweatpants. The waistband sat so low I could see the sharp V of muscle framing his hips. My mouth went dry.

He stopped at the foot of the bed and simply watched me.

I was sprawled on my back, one leg bent, sheet bunched at my waist. My tank top had ridden up sometime in the night, exposing the soft curve of my under-breast and the smooth plane of my stomach. I didn’t tug it down.

“You’re awake,” he said, voice still rough from sleep.

“Barely slept.”

He nodded once. “She’s gone till Sunday. Maybe longer if things are bad.”

The words settled between us like dropped coins—heavy, bright, dangerous. No schedule. No eyes on us. Just hours and hours of empty house.

He sat on the edge of the mattress. The bed dipped; springs sighed. His hand closed around my ankle—warm, steady, slightly rough from work. His thumb began slow circles on the tender skin inside, each pass dragging fine sparks up the inside of my leg.

“Laura.” My name sounded different in his mouth now—lower, careful, almost pleading. “We need to talk about last night.”

My heart kicked. “Do we?”

His eyes locked on mine—dark, searching, already a little wrecked. “Yeah. We do.”

But he didn’t speak again.

Instead his hand moved. Up my calf. Over my knee. Along the soft inner thigh—agonizingly slow. Every inch felt deliberate, loaded with permission. He gave me time to pull away, to close my legs, to breathe the word *stop*. I didn’t. My breathing turned shallow, audible in the quiet room.

When his fingertips brushed the frayed hem of my sleep shorts, he paused. Traced the elastic back and forth. Heat poured off his palm. My clit pulsed in time with my heartbeat.

“Tell me no,” he murmured.

I shook my head. Voice cracked. “Don’t stop.”

He hooked the waistband. I lifted my hips without thinking. The cotton dragged down my thighs, past my knees, off my ankles—then gone. Cool air kissed bare, already-wet skin. I wasn’t wearing anything underneath. His gaze dropped. Pupils swallowed the irises. A long, unsteady breath left him through his nose.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispered, almost reverent.

He moved then—careful, controlled. Settled between my spread thighs. Big hands slid up the outsides of my legs, thumbs pressing into the crease where thigh met hip, then gently, firmly, opening me wider. My knees fell apart easily; my pulse roared in my ears, my throat, between my legs.

He lowered himself slowly. First kiss high on the inside of one thigh—soft lips, faint scrape of stubble, warm exhale against skin. He lingered. Tongue flicked out—once, twice—tasting salt. Then the other thigh. Working inward with torturous patience. My hips twitched upward before he even reached the center.

Fingers dug into the sheets. I tried to hold still. Couldn’t.

When his mouth finally found me, the first contact was devastatingly gentle—just plush lips brushing slick folds, warm breath spilling over swollen, sensitive skin. I gasped anyway; the sound bounced too loudly in the empty house. Somewhere far off a dog barked. A car passed. Normal Saturday morning. It made the risk feel razor-sharp.

A low, hungry sound vibrated in his throat. He pressed closer. Tongue flat and broad—he dragged one long, luxurious lick from entrance to clit. Paused. Let cool air kiss the wet trail. Let the ache flare bright and cruel before he did it again—slower, wetter, lingering at the top to swirl softly around the hood. A broken whimper slipped out. My thighs trembled.

He took forever. Licking in lazy, deliberate stripes. Tracing every crease, every fold. Circling my clit without ever quite touching the most sensitive point—teasing the edges, the sides, the fragile skin just above until I was squirming, hips chasing his mouth in small, desperate jerks.

Only then did he settle. Tongue pressing flat over my clit in perfect, soft circles. Then firmer. Then a gentle, sucking pull that made my spine leave the mattress, a choked moan tearing free.

My hand flew to his hair—fingers threading through the short strands at his nape, holding, not pulling, just needing something solid while he unraveled me.

He slid both hands under my ass—cupped, lifted—angling me higher so he could press deeper. Tongue pushing inside now—slow, thick thrusts, curling against the front wall on every drag out. His nose bumped my clit with each movement; the faint rasp of stubble against tender skin sent white sparks behind my eyelids.

I tried to stay quiet—windows open, neighbors close, summer air carrying sound. Every little gasp, every wet sound his mouth made on me felt like it could travel. The danger sat hot and electric between us.

His thumb replaced his tongue on my clit—broad pad rubbing tight, steady circles while his tongue kept thrusting below—wet, rhythmic, unhurried. Pleasure stacked in heavy, shimmering layers. My whole body felt like it was vibrating.

“Daddy—” The word slipped out, small and shattered.

He groaned against me. The vibration ripped straight through my core. He didn’t speed up. He held that devastating pace—thumb circling with perfect pressure, tongue curling deep and slow, lips closing every so often to suck softly at my clit before releasing with a wet pop. Drawing it out. Forcing me to feel every filthy, perfect second.

My breathing fractured into short, helpless pants. Hips rocking against his face—small, greedy jerks I couldn’t stop. The coil in my belly pulled tighter, hotter, shimmering on the edge of breaking.

He felt it coming. Pressed his tongue deeper—one last thick thrust—thumb bearing down harder, firmer, relentless—and held there.

The wave crashed.

I came with a bitten-off cry—teeth sinking into my own arm to muffle it. Back bowing violently off the bed, thighs clamping around his ears, inner walls spasming hard around his tongue in long, rolling pulses. Pleasure surged through me in blinding, liquid waves; he stayed with me, licking softer, slower, coaxing every trembling aftershock until my legs shook uncontrollably and soft, overwhelmed whimpers spilled from my lips.

He didn’t stop there.

Even after the worst of it passed, he kept his mouth on me—gentler now, but still hungry. Tiny, kitten licks over my oversensitive clit. Soft kisses along the slick inner lips. Tongue dipping shallowly inside to taste the fresh rush of wetness. Each careful touch made my hips jerk, made me whine—half pleasure, half too-much.

One hand stayed under my ass, holding me open; the other slid up my body, palm skating over my ribs, cupping one breast through the thin tank top. Thumb brushed my nipple—already hard—then pinched lightly. The twin sensations made me arch again, a fresh, smaller ripple of pleasure rolling through me.

He finally lifted his head—lips shiny, chin dripping, eyes heavy and dark with something that looked almost like awe. He wiped his mouth slowly with the back of his hand, then crawled up my body.

He kissed me—deep, filthy, unhurried. I tasted myself everywhere: musky, salty-sweet, thick on his tongue. It made fresh heat flare low in my belly.

He settled beside me, one arm banding across my waist, pulling me flush against his chest. His cock pressed thick and rigid against my hip through the sweatpants—hot, throbbing, leaking—I could feel the damp spot it left—but he made no move to take more.

We lay there in the warm morning light. Sheets tangled around our legs. Skin damp with sweat and spit and me. My body still buzzed—hypersensitive, flushed from chest to thighs.

After a long silence his voice came, rougher than before. “This isn’t nothing anymore.”

“I know.”

His fingers traced slow circles on my lower back, just above my ass. “And I don’t want to stop.”

I pressed my face into the warm curve of his neck. Inhaled—coffee, clean skin, the darker, animal scent that was purely him.

“Me neither,” I whispered.