Daddy Crush - Adriana Anders Page 0,18

as much as the food fed me. Then there was the wine. Three glasses, making me happy and silly and light.

I’d have swapped every bit of it for more of that kiss in the back room.

I swipe a hand over my mouth, sad that his taste’s gone, but still so happy, I can’t help but smile.

I want to run all the way home…and then I do. There’s no one around to tell me not to. No disapproving frowns or angry glares. Just a few dog walkers, maybe some diners returning home, bellies full. There are rows upon rows of long skinny houses, lined up side to side, similar, but different, even from the street. From dilapidated to sparkling, drab to rainbow-bright. I love this place. Pumpkins on stoops, piles of rustling leaves, begging to be messed up, and wood smoke, which reminds of home.

I slow about a block from my house, breathing hard, lungs aching from the cold—but even that feels good. A fitting end to a wondrous night. Some houses are lit up, windows bare enough to see inside, but they’re like mine, which means only the entry and front room are visible, the rest are a mystery.

He’s like that—Karl. A certain way on the surface—brusque and gruff. Tough and a little mean. It’s what he shows the world, what he wants most people to see. But behind the bar, another side came out. His regular customers got a man of hospitality and kindness. Mellow, warm. I imagine his daughter sees him that way.

He showed me more, though, tonight. The white blaze at the heart of him, a brilliant core, so hot that it burned.

I’m breathing hard at the memory now, rather than from my run, like I’ve sprinted a marathon instead of five blocks. I’m on fire—from him.

And I like it.

I get home, brush my teeth, and get undressed, all jittery and excited, and flop onto my cool blankets, naked. Goose bumps race over my skin. I’m sensitive and cold on the surface, while my insides roil like lava. Still not entirely comfortable with my own touch, I reach down, tentative and a little ashamed, to caress the place between my legs.

My mons, it’s called here—the plump curl-covered mound that I used to press soap to in the bath as a teen. Shame. That’s what I’d felt back then as I’d scrubbed hard in search of sensation.

No more, I insist, again. And again, and again. No more shame, no more fear of a God who’d rather hurt than celebrate. No more living for the promise of a brighter afterlife.

In the moment, I throw off what I’ve been taught and dive into what I’ve learned on my own.

My hair down there is beautiful. It’s wiry and thick—luxurious. I don’t have to move lower to feel the wetness—also a sort of luxury. Natural, and God-given, if I’m to believe He created me.

But I don’t. I can’t. It’s not who I am. Instead, I pull away from dogma and dig into warm, pliant flesh—slick and swollen from desire. My labia—lips. Sensitive and lush. Complex in a way that mirrors my insides, though somehow simple once I got to know them.

My finger grazes the miraculous seat of all my pleasure, pushing air from my lungs in a silent gasp. My clitoris. Clit. The seed of pure sin. Would this spot even exist if we were made as my parents claim? No. I let myself moan aloud, give my bliss sound and space in a world that wanted to deny it. And then, because I’ve truly given in to my flesh’s needs, I slide down, to my opening, circle it and ease one finger inside my slick, hot hole.

Until I came here, I was ignorant of my own anatomy. Now, I know the name for this, too, and everything inside. How babies are made—and orgasms. I smile. That is an art I’ve perfected in a very short time.

I could do it now in under a minute, but I’ve learned that true extravagance lies in making it last.

He appears again, behind my eyelids, only it’s not looks I’m seeing now, it’s the other things he gave me tonight. From the press of his hips to mine, I got a taste of what is contained in those muscles. Not just good to look at or to touch, they’re full of power. What would that feel like, unleashed?

A shiver runs through me and the orgasm’s edging up, despite the lack of friction. A car thrums outside