Daddy Crush - Adriana Anders Page 0,27

his voice comes through. “Oh, and Jerusha.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re not a, uh…” He clears his throat. “You’re not a slut. You know that, right?”

“I know.” I giggle. “I don’t believe in that anyway.”

“Sluts?”

“Shaming people.”

“Good,” he says, low and rough enough to light another fire inside.

I open my mouth to ask if there’ll be another session, but he’s already talking.

“Sleep tight, Jerusha.”

I open my mouth to respond and he’s gone.

11

Don’t speak

Jerusha

As if I weren’t exhausted enough, everything goes haywire the next morning. I don’t have time to pack my lunch and spend my entire morning fighting the growling in my belly. I dye a batch of wool, which, due to inattention, ends up poop brown instead of purple. And I almost get run over, crossing on a red light, on the way to meet my friends in our favorite coffee shop. The driver screams insults at me for a good twenty seconds before taking off too fast down Grace Street.

Which should burst my bubble, given how lewd it was. Ironically, it feeds the hunger. And not for food this time. It’s my hunger for Karl that’s doing my head in. I’ve thought about him constantly, in a half-dream state, where my body’s this lush, heavy thing, filled with want, and bad words are things that he might say to turn me on.

Would he call me the things that driver called me? Would I like it coming from Karl’s mouth?

You do that on purpose, huh? Come to the door with no panties on?

I keep thinking about the things he said. Keep shivering like he’s beside me. Touching me.

Dirty girl, waiting for me…half-naked.

Would I like it from Karl’s mouth?

The answer’s in the way my body responds at just the notion. It’s all jittery and excited. I want dirty, I want crass. And yeah, I’d like all the bad words from Karl.

I’m the one who said the S word, after all. I burn up, just thinking about that. Probably blushing to high heaven.

I’m a dirty girl. Your dirty little slut.

Another wave of heat floods me, part embarrassment, part excitement. Strangely, the embarrassed thing almost makes the excitement…more. The two sensations, intertwined, are incendiary.

But then that other thing creeps in—worry or fear or whatever it is that swamped me after last night’s goodbye.

Another brand of embarrassment, only this one is painful rather than titillating. A little pathetic, if I’m being honest. Because this whole thing’s not dating or flirting or going out. It’s not two people working on a relationship, sexual or otherwise.

It’s my neighbor letting me use him to explore sex. And, sure, he’s gotten into it a time or two, but does he really want me?

Karl

Everything reminds me of Jerusha today. The bright oranges and reds and yellows of the leaves, someone whizzing by on a bicycle, the half-hard state of my own dick. In the coffee shop, I wait in line, wondering if she likes coffee, or if she’s more of a tea person. And then I try to guess what kind of tea she’d drink and if she’d like the hot toddies I’ve been working on at the bar, which reminds me of—

“Dad.”

“Hm?” I blink back to the present.

“Are you kidding me right now?” Harper joins me in the coffee shop line and snaps her blue-tipped fingers right in my face.

“Oh, hey! Harper!”

“Don’t Oh, hey, Harper me! I’ve been yelling for the last like seventeen minutes.” Which translates to maybe thirty seconds. She turns to take in the people sitting around inside, barely glancing my way as she goes on. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing. I’m good.”

Another look around and she sees someone she knows. “Oh. Hey! It’s Mikey! Grab me a pumpkin thingy, will you?”

“Wait, a muffin or a…”

She rolls her eyes. “A latte. Pumpkin spice.”

“With whip?”

A snort this time—I’m getting full-on teenage Harper and I kinda like it. I’ve missed my baby these past few months. “Does the pope shit in the woods?”

Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes and shake my head. You’d think she was brought up by barbarians. I glance down at my ripped work clothes and filthy shitkickers, my hands sporting the homemade tats I gave myself as a kid. Maybe she was.

I glance over at her friends, stopping her just as she’s about to take off. “Who’s Mikey?”

“They’re just someone I met when I worked on that play at the University.”

“They? The two of them together are named Mik—”

“Mikey’s non-binary, dad.”

“Oh.” I look at the table again and then away, pressing my lips together with a