All Chapters of MY Ex's Father, My Obsession : Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Caitlyn Clarke's pov Let me go," I whisper, but my voice cracks halfway. "Or else..."I don’t even know what I’m threatening him with.The words spill out in this pathetic, breathy stammer that makes me want to smack myself.Tick.A fracture appears. Not on my skin, but inside. A clean split through the fortress I’ve spent years building.Tick.And he feels it.Of course he does.The bastard smiles—slow and smug—like he owns the panic laced beneath my ribcage. Like my fear belongs to him now.I hate that he can read me.Worse, I hate that he enjoys it.Then he reluctantly lets me go. And I bolt.Full sprint. No pause. No backward glance.My heart slams against my chest like it’s trying to break free. The world becomes a blur of noise and color, my soles slapping pavement, lungs threatening collapse.I round the corner to my street, nearly trip over the curb, and slam through my front door with more force than necessary. I double over, clutching my knees as the air thins, my vision e

Caitlyn’s POV I freeze like a deer in headlights, caught mid-stare. My hand still clutches his dripping shirt, and my gaze is very much not on his face. It’s on his abs. His stupid, chiseled, unfair abs that glisten like something from a Calvin Klein ad. And Mia—my sister, my very loud, very unfiltered sister—is standing in the doorway with her mouth curled into a slow, amused smirk. “Well damn,” she drawls, clearly enjoying this way too much. “Don’t mind me. Carry on.” Kill me. “I will, um…” I fumble with the shirt in my hands like it’s suddenly radioactive, avoiding both their gazes. “Be throwing your shirt in the dryer. In a few. Just...yeah.” I dart toward the hallway like a fugitive on the run, shirt clutched to my chest like it’s the last shred of my dignity. Behind me, I hear Mia sigh and say, “You. Mr Grumpy. Sit. We need to talk.” Oh God. I’m in the laundry room two seconds later, dumping his shirt into the dryer with more force than necessary. I’m willing my

Vladislav Mikhailov’s pov A gasp erupts in the air when I slap her damp pussy with my right hand, my cock buried deep inside her. Once she is relaxed I drive in and out of her tight pussy with a calculated rhythm, steady yet not too fast and not too slow. “So fucking tight, we're going to have to stretch this pussy a little further so it can comfortably fit my cock,” “But don't worry am going to take it easy on you since it's your first time,” I reassure her softly running my hand over her pebbled nipples. Still, I can sense her heavy breathing, the way her breath hitches to my words. I know I have assured her that I will go easy on her but my easy is not soft, but it's much better compared to my normal fucking style. But she doesn't have to know that, all women love...I mean they adore how I fuck them she is going to come for more. Pushing her legs farther apart with mine, I pull out to the hilt before I push back into her soaked pussy, her back arches and another roun

Caitlyn Clarke's pov The whole sham of pretending to be empathetic to people’s emotions is proving… futile. And I should be good at this. It’s my job. It’s what I do for a living. Hell, I didn’t just fall into psychology—I chose it. It was my passion. My escape. It gave me purpose when the world felt too loud, too big for someone like me. Call me stupid, but relishing in the pain of others used to center me. Ground me. It worked—until he broke me open. Now, not even listening to trauma dumps can untie the knots in my muscles. Not after what my pussy encountered three nights ago. Three. Fucking. Days. Three days of pretending I’m fine. Of pretending my thighs don’t ache from being split open by him. Of comparing every random man I pass on the street, wondering if they could fuck like him. If they could turn me into a wanton mess with just their stare. Spoiler alert: they can’t. I find myself walking past his office building on purpose, the little coffee shop I’ve alwa

My breath comes in short gulps—shallow and fast.Hyperventilating.My lungs feel heavy, compressed like I’m breathing through water.I can’t breathe. Not when every gasp of air I manage to drag in is soaked in his scent—deep, woodsy, edged with the faint spice of something darker.Not when he’s standing so close I can feel the heat of his fury radiating off him in waves, as if even his ears could steam.He looks straight at my face, his eyes cold, his expression stoic. Silence—thick, oppressive—wraps around me like a shroud under his sharp scrutiny. The only sound is the wind whispering through the hedges.I feel like I could crumble under the pressure.The fine hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and a shiver creeps down my spine.My heart hammers inside my chest as he lifts his large arm at a deliberately slow pace. “Ohh God, I'm not gonna survive this blow,” I mumble to myself, flinching while I shut my eyes, instinct kicking in, waiting for the impact.“Then you should hav