All Chapters of Daddy's secret Obsession: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

Jeffrey I woke up to the sound of her crying. Not loud. Just soft, broken little hiccups against my chest, the kind that come after you’ve screamed yourself raw and your body doesn’t know how to stop yet. Jessy was curled into me like she was trying to disappear inside my skin. My hoodie (the one I’d worn the night I stood outside her bedroom door at sixteen and listened to her touch herself for the first time) swallowed her whole. The sleeves hung past her fingertips. Her thighs were sticky with me. With us. My come still leaked out of her, slow and filthy, every time she shifted. I’d taken her four times before sunrise. Once on the stairs. Once bent over the kitchen island while she begged for water and I gave her my cock instead. Once slow and deep in her childhood bed, whispering every sick thing I’d ever wanted to do to her while she sobbed “yes, Daddy” into the pillow. And once right here, on the floor of the master bedroom, with the morning light crawling across her ba

Jessy POVThe yacht rocked gently under a black sky full of stars I didn’t know the names of anymore.We were three days out from the Croatian coast, engine cut, drifting somewhere in the Adriatic where no one would ever think to look. Jeffrey had paid a fisherman in cash to forget he’d ever seen us. The man had taken the money, spat over the side, and motored away without a word.Just us, the sea, and the low hum of the generator.I stood at the rail of the flybridge, barefoot, wearing nothing but Jeffrey’s white dress shirt, sleeves rolled to my elbows. Salt wind whipped my hair across my face. My thighs still ached in the sweetest way; there were bruises shaped like his fingers on the inside of each one, and every time the yacht rolled, the throb between my legs reminded me exactly who I belonged to now.He came up behind me without a sound, slid his arms around my waist, mouth finding the mark he’d left on my neck this morning.“Cold?” he murmured.“No.” I leaned back into him, fe

Jessy POVI wait until the yacht is nothing but engine hum and moonlight.Jeffrey is asleep on his stomach across the master bed, one arm flung out like he’s still reaching for me even unconscious. The sheet is tangled low on his hips. There are scratch marks down his back that I put there an hour after Mark left the table. I told myself they were victory marks. They feel like apology scars now.I slip out from under his arm, grab his discarded dress shirt from the floor, and pad barefoot through the corridor.The guest cabin is two decks down, port side. The door is cracked open like he knew I’d come.Mark is sitting on the edge of the narrow bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Shirt unbuttoned, bandage stark white against the bronze of his chest. He looks up when the light from the hallway spills across his face.For a second we just stare.Then I close the door behind me and flip the lock.He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.“Jessy.”One word. My

JessyWe didn’t speak. We didn’t need to.The second the bedroom door slammed shut behind us, the air turned molten.Mark’s eyes were black with violence and lust. Jeffrey’s were glassy with pain and hunger. Mine, I didn’t know what they looked like; I only knew I was already dripping down my thighs before either of them touched me.I stripped first. One savage yank and Jeffrey’s ruined T-shirt tore down the middle. I let it fall open, breasts bare, nipples hard enough to cut glass. The bikini bottoms followed, kicked somewhere into the dark.Mark’s breath hissed between his teeth. Jeffrey made a wounded sound, half-sob, half-growl.I crawled onto the mattress on all fours, looked back over my shoulder, and spread my knees wide.“Stop pretending you don’t want to ruin me.The silence snapped like a tripwire.Mark moved first, shirt ripped over his head, bandage be damned. Blood seeped through the gauze, but he didn’t slow. Belt clattered. Pants shoved down. His cock sprang free,

JESSYThe Lexus was a tomb of expensive leather and suppressed hostility. Mark was the driver, the picture of tailored respectability, his hands gripping the wheel at ten and two like he was steering a bomb. I was the passenger, dressed in a new pair of khakis and a soft blue sweater—the uniform of a girl with a bright, untouched future. And Jeffrey was the ghost in the back, silent, breathing slow and heavy like a predator waiting for its chance. The distance between us was the length of the lie. It was immense. I kept my eyes fixed on the highway, using the blur of the passing trees as a distraction from the throbbing ache between my legs. The skin on my inner thighs was sticky, a constant, physical reminder that I was fresh from an act of irreversible ruin. Every respectable fiber of my blue sweater screamed lie.Mark had sprayed himself with some cologne that smelled like fresh rain and cold, hard granite. An attempt to drown out the gunpowder and burnt lace, maybe. But the