Daddy Crush - Adriana Anders Page 0,22

take it. The urge to spread my legs and show him is immense. “I feel empty,” I whisper instead.

He growls, drops his head on the back of the sofa, closes his eyes. “I want to slide inside you, Jerusha.” I don’t expect him to respond like that, but he does, as if he can’t talk and watch me at the same time. A thrill runs through me at the idea that I might hold power over this big, strong man.

“I want to run my cock up and down your sweet cunt. Sink in deep.” His words steal my breath and my moment of dominance.

A gentle pull at my hair. I drop my head so I’m facing him head-on. All I can do is breathe, hyper-aware of his closeness, his distance, the tightness in my breasts…my lack of underwear. I shift my legs, press them together so he won’t smell me.

“Thought you looked young that first day, which made me feel…” He lifts his hand and pats the air. “Wrong. But I guess I’ve adjusted to that. You’re young, but you’re…not.”

I can’t help a little smirk. “I’m glad.”

“Fuck. Me, too.” Still holding my curl, he strokes the backs of his fingers from my temple down. I twist to meet him with my mouth and let my lips open, let him press one thick knuckle to the inner edge. I don’t stop my tongue from touching, tasting, feeling the hard ridges of rough skin and calluses. His gasp urges me on, further down, to the tip of that finger, which I lick and bite.

I’m a shaky, breathless mess of nerves, but his expression gives me courage. He looks utterly lost, like I’ve stolen his brain and replaced it with pure lust and, since that’s exactly what I feel, I go on, kissing, biting, learning, and then it’s nothing but his mouth and mine, teeth clashing before some inner rhythm takes over and we’re dancing. Together. Heads tilting, tongues twisting, lips ebbing and flowing with our conjoined inner pulse.

I’m panting into his mouth and he’s making these low, happy noises that are closer to animal than human. As close as communication can get.

I love it. I knew I would, given the chance, but I love it more than I’d imagined. More than food. Well… I giggle into his mouth and he drinks it up. As much as food. And making art. As much as the smell of fall and floating in water.

What I like about this sensory experience is that it’s shared.

And I like who I’m sharing it with.

I’m not sure who pulls away first or if we’re so in tune that we do it together. There’s enough space for breathing, then smelling, then eye contact, which sizzles so deep in my chest it hurts.

I blink back to the dim room, a light smell of dog, my too-soft sofa.

A car drives by outside, the sound of water under their tires.

I almost can’t believe the world’s moved on while we kissed. It doesn’t seem possible.

“You okay?” Karl watches me, reaches up, pushes a stray curl from my face. Which is good, since I’m not sure I can move my arms yet.

“Amazing.”

His smile’s sweet and young, making me wish I’d known him as a child. But then the lines around his eyes come into focus, and the sprinkle of grey in his hair, the intensity in his almost-black eyes… No. No, I like this version—weathered and wise and fully aware of who he is. I want to be that self-aware.

“That was…” I let out a long, slow exhale and roll my eyes up to the black ceiling fan that reminds me of him. “Better than I’d imagined.”

He chuckles and yawns at the same time.

“Oh, gosh, you must be exhausted. I kept you up so late!”

“You kept me up late? Next you’ll be saying that you corrupted me.”

“Obviously I debauched you, Karl. Led you unto evil.”

His smile slowly fades, leaving an expression I can’t define in its place. “Nothing evil about you, Jerusha. Far from it.”

I swallow something back. It’s not regret; I’ll never feel that around this man. But fear, maybe? Of losing this before it’s begun? What is this anyway? A man doing a woman a favor? Whatever. I shove the feelings down, do my best to ignore them, because fear of living’s the opposite of what I do now.

Fear is what my parents have, and the rest of my family. Fear of doing something wrong and missing out on the afterlife. Fear of