Daddy Little Girl pt2

Laura:

I pause at the top of the stairs, hand on the banister, heart hammering so loud I swear he can hear it from the kitchen. My thighs are still slick from upstairs, my shorts damp where they press against me. Every step down feels like crossing a line I can’t uncross.

The house smells like vanilla and sugar—the ice cream he mentioned. And him. That warm, familiar scent that’s always made me feel safe. Now it makes me feel something else entirely.

He’s at the counter when I step into the kitchen, back to me, scooping chocolate fudge swirl into two bowls. His shoulders are tense under the black T-shirt, like he’s holding himself together by sheer will. The overhead light catches the silver at his temples. I want to touch it. I want to touch everything.

“Hey,” I say softly.

He turns. His eyes find mine immediately, then drop—slowly—to my bare legs, the hem of my shorts, the way my tank top clings from the heat and everything else. He doesn’t smile. He just looks. Like he’s memorizing me.

“Sit,” he says. Quiet. Firm.

I slide onto one of the stools at the island. The cool wood against the backs of my thighs makes me shiver. He sets a bowl in front of me, spoon already in it. Our fingers brush when he hands it over. Neither of us pulls away fast enough.

We eat in silence for a minute. The ice cream is cold, sweet, melting too fast on my tongue. I lick a drop from the corner of my mouth. His gaze follows the motion. His spoon stops halfway to his lips.

“You’re not eating much,” he says.

“I’m not that hungry.”

A beat. Then: “For ice cream?”

My cheeks burn. “No.”

He sets his bowl down. Slowly. Deliberately. Comes around the island until he’s standing right in front of me, between my knees. Not touching. Just close. Close enough that I can feel the heat rolling off him.

“Laura.” My name sounds different in his mouth now. Rougher. Hungrier. “Tell me to stop.”

I look up at him. His jaw is tight, eyes dark. I can see the pulse in his throat.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

Something shifts in his expression—relief, maybe, or surrender. He reaches out, cups my face with one big hand. Thumb strokes my cheekbone. Then lower, tracing my bottom lip.

“You’ve been thinking about this,” he says. Not a question.

I nod. Barely.

“How long?”

“Too long.”

He exhales through his nose, like the answer hurts and helps at the same time. Then he leans down and kisses me.

It’s not gentle. Not tentative. His mouth claims mine like he’s been starving for it. I open for him immediately, tasting chocolate and him. His tongue slides against mine, slow at first, then deeper. I make a small, helpless sound into his mouth. My hands find his chest—hard muscle under soft cotton—and fist in the fabric.

He groans against my lips. The sound vibrates through me.

One hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back so he can kiss me harder. The other drops to my waist, fingers digging in just enough to make me arch toward him. My breasts press against his chest. My nipples are so hard they ache.

He breaks the kiss long enough to murmur against my jaw, “Upstairs was just the start, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

His hand moves lower, cups my ass through the thin shorts, pulls me forward until I’m perched right on the edge of the stool. My legs part instinctively. He steps between them, pressing close. I feel him—thick, hard—against my inner thigh. I whimper.

“God, baby girl,” he breathes. “You’re shaking.”

“I can’t help it.”

He kisses me again, slower this time. Deeper. His hand slips under my tank top, palm flat against my bare stomach. Skin on skin. I gasp into his mouth. His fingers drift higher, brushing the underside of my breast, then cupping it fully. Thumb circles my nipple once, twice. I moan.

He pulls back just enough to look at me. Eyes heavy-lidded. “You want this?”

I nod frantically.

“Say it.”

“I want you, Daddy.”

The word does something to him. His control frays. He lifts me off the stool like I weigh nothing, sets me on the island counter. Bowls forgotten. Ice cream melting in puddles. His mouth finds my neck—hot, open kisses, teeth grazing. I tilt my head back, offering more.

His hands are everywhere now. Under my top, pushing it up until my breasts are bare to the cool air. He bends, takes one nipple into his mouth. Sucks. Hard. I cry out, fingers tangling in his hair.

The other hand slides between my thighs. Over the shorts at first—rubbing slow circles where I’m soaked through the cotton. Then under the hem. Fingers finding bare, slick skin.

“No panties,” he growls against my breast. “Naughty girl.”

I can only whimper.

He strokes me—slow, teasing. Two fingers sliding along my folds, circling my clit, then dipping just inside. Not deep. Not yet. Just enough to make me writhe.

“Please,” I whisper.

“Please what, baby?”

“More.”

He kisses me again—messy, desperate—while his fingers push deeper. Two at once. Thick. Stretching me. I clench around him, hips rocking. He curls them, finds that spot inside that makes stars burst behind my eyes.

I’m panting against his mouth. “Daddy—oh God—”

He pulls his fingers free. I whine at the loss.

Then he’s undoing his belt. The sound of the buckle makes my whole body clench in anticipation. Jeans shoved down just enough. He’s so hard it looks painful. Thick, flushed, the tip already glistening.

He steps between my legs again. Hooks my shorts to the side. Lines himself up.

“Look at me,” he says.

I do. Eyes locked on his.

He pushes in—slow. Inch by inch. Stretching me open. Filling me so completely I can barely breathe. When he’s all the way inside, he stills. Forehead pressed to mine.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “So tight.”

I wrap my legs around his waist. Pull him closer. Deeper.

Then he moves.

Slow at first. Deep, rolling thrusts that make me see white. His hands grip my hips, holding me exactly where he wants me. The counter is cold against my back, but I don’t care. All I feel is him—everywhere.

The rhythm builds. Harder. Faster. The sound of skin on skin, my soft cries, his low groans. My nails dig into his shoulders.

I’m close—embarrassingly fast. The tension coils tight in my belly.

“Daddy—I’m gonna—”

“Come for me,” he rasps. “Let me feel it.”

One more deep thrust, grinding against my clit, and I shatter.

The orgasm rips through me—sharp, blinding. I clench around him, crying out his name. He keeps moving through it, drawing it out until I’m trembling, oversensitive.

He follows a few thrusts later. Buries himself deep, groans low in his throat, pulses inside me. Hot. Claiming.

We stay like that for a long moment—panting, tangled, foreheads pressed together.

Then he kisses me softly. Tender now. Almost reverent.

He pulls out slowly. Helps me down from the counter. My legs are jelly. He steadies me, arms around my waist.

“We shouldn’t have…” he starts, voice rough.

But he doesn’t finish the sentence.

Instead, he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. Looks at me like I’m something precious and dangerous all at once.

“Go upstairs,” he says quietly. “Clean up. Your mom will be home soon.”

I nod. Legs still shaky.

But before I turn to leave, I rise on my toes and kiss his cheek.

“Thank you, Daddy.”

His breath hitches.

I walk away feeling his eyes on me the whole way up the stairs.

The house is quiet again.

But nothing feels innocent anymore.