4 - Max.

I'm a very disgusting man.

Thinking about my best friend's daughter was never enough.

Lusting over her body - her perfect-sized boobs, her perfect sturdy legs, her prim-shaped ass and big smile, and eventually jerking over to her pictures which I have saved on my phone every fucking night.

It was never enough.

And now I'm here, pawing at her while he snores loudly upstairs.

Grinding her perfect ass into my lap. Playing messed up games with a stethoscope?

I should be ashamed of myself.

I am ashamed of myself.

Don't know how I'll ever look in a mirror again after this.

Theresa may be nineteen, a legal adult, and has already given me her consent.

But she's way too young for me; way too off limits.

I'll be fucking forty in a few months' time.

Sadly, it's not enough to stop me, though. Not when I've been dreaming of her every night for months. Not when I barely managed to shrug her off a few days ago.

"Let's go on to the next phase, Theresa." Her throat shifts as she swallows, her breaths coming fast and shallow. She's practically panting, squirming on my thighs, and the sight of her chest rising and falling like that is hypnotic.

Goosebumps prickle over her skin as I place the stethoscope on her chest, right above her neckline. Woomf, woomf, woomf, her heart goes, pounding out an erratic rhythm.

When I rock up beneath her, rubbing our bodies together, her heart skips a beat. Christ.

"You like that," I grit out, my head swimming with triumph. She really wants this? She wants me the same way I want her? "Be honest, Theresa. I can hear it. Your heartbeat. Your body gives you away."

Just like mine is announcing my interest, loud and proud, prodding up beneath her like I might skewer through her clothes. No spare brain cells to be embarrassed right now.

"There are more signs than that, Doc," she whispers, and her cheeks are so bright. She's burning up, lit only by a few dim lamps and the flickering light of the TV screen. "If you go looking for them."

Fuck.

The blanket brushes against my knuckles as I shift my hand beneath the fabric. Soft thighs part, welcoming me in between.

"This is wrong," I mutter, and Theresa rolls her eyes. Twitches her hips.

"I don't care. It doesn't feel wrong."

Yes, it does. Deliciously, perfectly wrong. And it's so messed up, but when I glance over her shoulder to look towards the stairs, the reminder that her father is asleep probing my skin once again, my cock throbs with how badly I want this.

My fingertips trail along silky skin. So warm. Butter-soft.

The damn stethoscope is still in my ears. Theresa takes the end and presses it harder against her chest, slipping it under the neckline of her shirt.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

My middle finger brushes against damp cotton panties, and her gasp echoes through the den.

Thud-thud-thud—

I yank the stethoscope out of my ears and toss it to the sofa. Need both hands for this; need to focus.

"Theresa," I growl, so quiet that she leans forward, straining to hear. Her hips shift restlessly, chasing my featherlight touch, and her legs part wider as I slip one finger inside her panties.

She groans, then claps a hand over her mouth, but it was loud. Too loud.

We both freeze, staring at the armchair together. Two actors argue on screen, and a clock ticks on the wall.

Upstairs, not a single soul stirs.

Christ, Daniel sleeps like a fucking horse. The heavy snore reverberates throughout the house, music to my ears. I sag with relief, a bead of sweat trickling down my spine, and when we turn back to our game, this time our hands are rougher. Desperate.

The blanket rustles, one end slipping onto the floor. So much intensity. So much passion.

In all of my almost forty years.

"Fuck, Theresa." I don't recognize myself as I grit the words against her hair. As I roam beneath her skirt, touching with greedy fingers. "Look at you. All soaked for Daddy. So wet and needy. So ready. So perfect. Tell Daddy what you want. Come on, tell me."

I shouldn't talk like this. Shouldn't stroke between her legs. What the hell has come over me?

Whatever it is, Theresa is in its grip too, because she nods feverishly, scrabbling at my shoulders, lip drawn between her teeth. Her hips rock against my hand, urging me on. My fingers skate across her slick heat, the sounds faint beneath the blanket.

We're breathing hard together, sucking down air. "This is mine," I hear myself say, the words dredged up from deep in my chest. One hand cups her pussy, and I squeeze until she whimpers. "This is mine, Theresa. Do you understand?"

"Holy shit," she mumbles, and I'll take that as a yes. When I press two fingers inside her, Theresa tips back her head, lips parting on a silent cry.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

The word pulses in my ears.

Her body grips me tightly, and a faint warning bell clangs in the back of my mind. The way she's strangling my fingers, the hazy shock in her eyes... she has done this before, right? Because if she hasn't...

Well. I'm more of a bastard than I realized.

"Theresa," I say slowly, fingers pumping between her legs. Dread crawls up my throat. "Are you...? Have you ever...?"

Fingers tighten where they grip my collar, and her blonde hair is in disarray. She won't look at me, but her words are firm. "Don't you dare, Dr Storm. Don't freak out on me now. I'll never forgive you."

Jesus Christ. My hand stops moving under the blanket.

My best friend's daughter. And she's—she was—thank god we didn't—

"Doc," Theresa hisses. "Don't you dare."

The snoring upstairs stops, and I want to kick my own ass. "You deserve so much better than this," I tell his daughter quietly. "Your first time... Jesus, Theresa."

"It's my decision," she says, scowling at my collarbone. "You're what I want, Dr Storm. You're still what I want, even if you're going to be a giant judgy walnut about it."

My surprised laugh turns into a cough. The snoring continues.

And my heart drums as slowly, so slowly, my hand starts moving again under the blanket. Fingertips slide through slick folds.

"Yes," Theresa whispers, eyes screwed shut as she rolls her hips. When she presses her face against my throat; when I feel the brush of lips, the scrape of teeth, I send up a fervent prayer to any deities who might be listening.

I know I don't deserve this, but I want her. No, I need her.

Theresa is my oxygen. I want every detail of this moment seared into my brain.

"That's it, darling girl. Ride my hand. Just like that."

She quakes and whimpers, and I fucking love it. There's another fight scene in the movie, with thuds and grunts floating from the screen.

"Do you feel what you do to me?" I rock up beneath her, tilting her in my lap, and Theresa clutches my shoulders for balance, still writhing against my hand. "Christ, I want you. Need to bury myself inside you, Theresa—"

Daniel suddenly coughs, sheets ruffling, and we both turn to stone. Her snug channel flutters around my fingers, her slickness is smeared down to my wrist, and we're both red-faced and disheveled. If he comes down now...

Holding my breath, I draw my hand from between his daughter's legs. She slithers off my lap to the side, silent except for the rustle of fabric, and leaves the blanket behind to hide my ruined state.

Theresa looks shell-shocked as she huddles at the end of the sofa.

She manages a wobbly smile, squeezing a cushion in her lap.

We don't look at each other for the rest of the movie, and when we say goodnight two hours later at her father's doorway, we're painfully formal.