Good Girl For Daddy (2)

Elena’s POV~

I stopped breathing. My hand was still buried inside me, slick and aching, trapped between my legs and his iron grip. I couldn't pull it out. I didn't want to.

He pulled slowly. Agonizingly slowly..

My juices made a wet, sucking noise as he dragged my fingers out of my pussy.

He held my hand up in the air between us.

My fingers were glistening. Shiny. Coated in my own arousal. They were trembling violently.

And then… he brought my hand to his face.

My heart stopped.

He didn’t lick them. Not yet. He just inhaled. He closed his eyes and breathed me in, his nostrils flaring. He smelled me. He smelled the musk, the sweet, dirty scent of my need.

My goodness, my knees fell open wider without me telling them to. He’s smelling me. He’s smelling how wet I am for him.

My eyes drifted down his body. I couldn’t help it.

He was standing right there. The white shirt was unbuttoned now, just two buttons left, showing the deep, dark hollow of his throat. A bead of sweat rolled down his neck, over his collarbone, and disappeared into his chest hair.

I want to follow that drop with my tongue.

My gaze went lower. To his belt. To the zipper.

There it is. The bulge.

It wasn't just a bump. It was a mountain. It strained against the grey fabric of his dress pants, heavy and thick. I could see the outline of the head, the ridge of the vein running down the side.

My ex was nothing. My ex was a pencil. This… this is a baseball bat. This is a weapon. I wonder… if he unzipped right now, would it hit me in the stomach? Would it be purple? Would it split me open?

I imagined wrapping my hand around it. My fingers looked so small next to his thigh. I bet I couldn't even close my hand around the girth. I bet my palm wouldn't even reach the other side.

I want to choke on it. I want to feel it hitting the back of my throat, making my eyes water. I want to gag while he fucks my mouth.

He opened his black, bottomless eyes. He looked at my wet hand, then back at my face.

"Look at this mess," he whispered. His voice was wrecked and deep. He brought my fingers to his lips. He didn't kiss them. He bit them.

He bit my index finger, right where the knuckle bent. Hard.

"Ah!" I gasped, my hips bucking off the mattress.

"Shh," he hissed, releasing my finger with a pop. A string of saliva connected his lip to my skin. "Your mother is making pasta downstairs. If you make one more sound… I won’t just bite your finger."

He let go of my wrist.

My hand fell back onto the bed, throbbing.

He stepped back. But he didn't leave. He leaned against the dresser, crossing his arms over that massive chest. His biceps bulged, popping the seams of his shirt.

He looked at my spread legs. At my pussy, still open, still dripping, waiting.

"You're not finished," he said. It wasn't a question.

My eyes widened. "What?"

"I said you're not finished." His eyes dropped to my clit that was swollen and red. "You were making such a pretty sound. Don't stop now just because I walked in."

He reached down and adjusted himself. He grabbed the front of his pants and shoved the bulge to the side, fixing it. The movement made his ab muscles flex under the shirt.

"Finish it," he commanded, his voice was dark and dirty. "But if you look at me… if you make eye contact while you cum… I’m going to make sure you never walk right again."

And just like that, my stepdad turned and walked right out of my room, leaving me in a daze.

Oh. My. Fucking. Goodness!

Did that just happen?

___________

I didn’t want to come downstairs.

I had spent the last three hours staring at the ceiling, replaying the sound of his belt unbuckling in my head until I thought I’d go insane.

My skin felt tight, and feverish. I was wearing my own grey oversized and shapeless hoodie.

And my stomach was growling, i was more than hungry.

I crept down the stairs, hugging the wall. I kept my head down, my eyes fixed on the scuffed wood of the steps, praying, actually praying, that the kitchen would be empty.

It wasn’t.

The air in the kitchen was heavy.

He was standing by the sink. His back was to me. He wasn’t moving. He was just staring out the window into the grey backyard, his hands gripping the edge of the granite counter so hard his knuckles were white.

He heard me. I know he did. His shoulders tensed, the muscles in his back jumping under his white dress shirt, but he didn’t turn around.

I froze in the doorway. My heart was hammering so loud I was sure he could hear it.

"He was here," he suddenly said.

His voice wasn’t loud. It was low, and raspy, like he’d been screaming or swallowing smoke. It vibrated right through the floorboards and up my legs.

I stopped breathing. "Who?" I asked, though I knew. God, I knew.

"Your boyfriend." He finally turned around. Slowly.

He looked wrecked. His tie was gone, his collar unbuttoned, his hair messy like he’d been running his hands through it. But his eyes… his eyes were terrifying. They were dark, furious slits fixed right on me.

"He rang the bell ten minutes ago," he continued, walking toward me. He didn’t stop until he was leaning against the counter, crossing his arms, blocking my path to the fridge. "Left a cardboard box on the porch. Like a damn delivery driver."

He let out a short, harsh laugh that held zero humor.

"I opened the door. He jumped like he’d seen a ghost. Stammered some shit about 'returning her things.' I looked at him… I looked at that stupid kid… and I told him if he didn’t get back in his car in ten seconds, I was going to break his jaw."

I stared at him, my mouth dry. "You… you threatened him?"

"I threatened him," he confirmed, taking a step closer. The heat radiating off him was like a wall. "Because he looked at me with those pathetic, wet puppy eyes and said, 'Take care of her.' Like you’re a burden. Like you’re a chore he’s finally done with."

He stopped right in front of me. He was so tall he blocked out the light from the window. I had to crane my neck to look at him.

"Is that what you think?" he asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "That you’re a chore?"

"Stop it," I whispered, shrinking back into my hoodie. "Don't do that. Don't act like you care."

"I don't care," he lied. His eyes raked down my body, over the baggy hoodie, lingering on my legs. "I care that you’re downstairs crying over a boy who doesn't have the guts to face you. I care that you’re weak."

"I'm not weak!" I snapped, my voice cracking. Tears pricked my eyes instantly. "He left me! He just left!"

"Good!" he roared, the sound echoing off the tiles.

I flinched. He saw me flinch, and his jaw clenched. He took a deep, shaky breath, trying to rein it in.

"Good," he said again, quieter this time, leaning down so his face was level with mine. I could smell the scotch on his breath. It made my head spin. "Because he was nothing. You know that, don't you? You know he was nothing compared to..."

He stopped. He bit the inside of his cheek, looking away. The silence stretched.

Compared to what? Compared to you?

"Go get the box," he ordered suddenly, pushing off the counter and turning his back to me again. His voice was rough, strained. "Bring it in here. I want to see what kind of pathetic gifts he left you."

"I don't want to," I whined, my lip trembling.

"I don't care what you want," he snapped, not looking at me. "Go. Get. The box. And if you cry one more tear over that idiot… I’m going to make you cry for a completely different reason."

He walked out of the kitchen, the heavy thud-thud-thud of his boots fading down the hall.

I stood there, shaking. My hand drifted down to my stomach, pressing against the ache that wouldn't go away.

He fought for me.

The thought was like a sick, twisted little flower blooming in my chest.

He chased my ex away. He hates that I’m crying. And he wants me to bring the box in so he can mock me.

I wiped my eyes with my sleeve.

God help me… I had no idea why I was doing exactly everything he told me.

I turned and walked toward the front door.