Daddy Crush - Adriana Anders Page 0,19

and I hold my breath. Is it him? Already home? The engine ebbs. Not him. I’m disappointed, but also excited. Anticipation is sweet when there’s something to look forward to.

I think back on the way the evening ended, with Karl walking me out onto the wide sidewalk. “You walking home?” he asked.

I nodded. “Don’t have a car.”

“You drive?”

“Farm vehicles.”

He grinned. “Got a license?”

“Working on it.”

“Want me to run you home?”

“No. I’m fine.”

His face wrinkled into that scowl that hides so much and reveals even more. “It’s late.”

“I always walk.”

He harrumphed, a low grumpy sound that appeals to me on a level I need to further explore.

Right now, on my bed, just thinking about that sound sends my nerves rushing higher. Unable to hold back, I sink two stiff fingers into my wet vagina, and grunt at the stretch. It’ll be him, one day. If he takes it this far.

He will. He has to. It has to be him with those hard eyes, hard muscles, the hard erection he pressed to me tonight. I gasp at each penetration, feeling empty and achy, wetter than I’ve ever felt myself, smelling of musk and my own desire.

What does his smell like?

I shut my eyes hard at the question. It’s too much, too real and animal. It sends my other hand down to rub messily at my clit. There’s no talent in my right hand, no rhythm, which makes the whole thing right and wrong, at once. Like maybe it’s his hand getting a feel for me, instead of my own. Like maybe he’d rub me here if I asked him to.

In my mind, I see the glint of silver in short dark hair, the clasp of his rough hand on my waist and hip, which only my imagination can provide. And right now, it tells me that he’d squeeze harder—not to hurt me, but because he couldn’t help it.

Or maybe, I don’t know, maybe he’s controlling himself, and me. Maybe he’s holding me still to make me take the pleasure. Maybe he’s so in charge that he restrains me and forces it onto me.

Before the next awkward stroke’s finished, I’m climaxing, higher, stronger than I have before. It startles me like a slap across the face, leaves me hollowed out. I’m not myself for the next handful of seconds. Or if I’m me, I’m a version I’ve never experienced before. Elemental. Stripped down. Blank as a newborn.

All body. No mind. No shame. Nothing but flesh and pulse and satisfaction.

It takes a while to come down, to re-emerge, not so much from my orgasm as from a chrysalis.

Sex with Karl won’t turn me into a new woman any more than leaving the Valley did. But given how much I’ve gotten from this single masturbation session, I suspect it’ll strip away another veil; another piece of my parents’ armor.

On the heels of that thought comes the realization that this carapace they’ve forced on me, my entire life was, indeed, for my own good, as they insisted. They force-fed me scripture not to hurt me or to quell my true self, but to protect me. From the world.

In the next breath, I’m half laughing, half crying, so full of tenderness for the people who raised me that nothing could hold it in.

Silly, silly parents. Don’t they realize there’s no saving me from myself?

8

How do you want it?

Karl

“Too old for this shit,” I mutter as I pull the back door closed and head to my truck for the quick drive home. I mean closing up after a long shift on my feet, but Jerusha comes to mind, too.

Not that she’s been far off at any point tonight.

My brain’s on a goddamn seesaw of memories versus good intentions.

Am I really the guy for the job? is the question I keep coming back to.

Compared to Dave fucking Green, the answer’s yeah. But there’s got to be someone her age who’ll treat her well and show her the ropes. Someone compatible in a way I could never be.

Then that kiss comes back and compatible’s blown out of the water. What I experienced with her in those few stolen minutes is—shit—I shiver at the memory. Not even the same realm as compatibility. Caitlin and I were compatible. And look where that ended up—arguments and anger and shitty divorce, with Harper in the middle.

When I touch Jerusha, it’s like fresh connections are made in my brain. Like dead neurons firing up, like… Shit. Like a new lease on life.

Who’ll be teaching who?