Daddy Crush - Adriana Anders Page 0,34

closer to him. I don’t realize right away that he’s hard under my leg, but when I do, it’s all I can think about.

No, that’s not true. There’s that hand, which has gone from the occasional accidental touch to a deliberate stroke. The side of my breast tingles, my nipples harden into painful points. But when I turn to look at him, he’s clearly engrossed in what we’re watching. His eyes meet mine. “You okay? Like it?” One eyebrow goes up. “The movie, I mean?”

I nod.

“Good.” His eyes slide away from mine. “Keep watching.” His voice is ominously deep. A daddy voice, I’ll bet my friends would call it.

What feels like ages later, he shifts again. This time, his right hand slides between my legs, to my calf, and slowly up. I let out a sound—more grunt than language. In response, he lifts his hips. He’s undeniably hard.

And I’m undeniably wet.

“Are we…” I turn to press my face just below his neck. “Pretending we’re not doing this?”

He bends. “You like it?”

At my nod, he leans back again, spreads out his body, taking up more space on this sofa than any single person should. The wide-open pose is arrogant and casual. I have no idea why that turns me on, but it does. I’m all squirmy inside.

And then my brain catches up to my body with a rush of understanding, and I get it. Everything Mikey and Alba talked about makes sense in a way it didn’t before.

His hand twists between my legs, making space there the way he’s done on my couch. In my life. My knees fall inexorably open.

His hot palm on my sex forces my eyes shut. I don’t make a sound.

He does, though. He grunts, with something like satisfaction though when I turn unfocused eyes from the screen, nothing about his position has changed. If anything, he looks even more relaxed and comfortable than before, almost lazy, I’d say, if it weren’t for the ticking in his jaw.

It’s heady to take him in up close like this. And it’s not just his size, though he’s so much bigger than me, but the details that I’ve only been able to admire from afar—thick black stubble, with the occasional silvery glint, the strong bump of his Adam’s apple, the hair peeking out from the unbuttoned V-neck of his long-sleeved cotton T-shirt. These details, maybe more than anything we’ve done, make this whole thing feel real. Slowly, so as not to somehow break the unspoken rules, I let my head fall against his chest.

Barely breathing, I soak it up: the slow thump of his heartbeat against my ear, the primitive smell of him, sexy and indescribable, and there—oh, God, there—the insistent press of his fingers between my legs.

I catch sight of them and gasp. His hand is huge. Those fingers wide and thick. Yes, I’ve seen them before, but I’ve never seen them working my body, never pictured them stretching me open, the way he promised—threatened—last night.

He has to know how worked up I am, but he ignores it, like it’s no concern of his. He’ll do things in his own sweet time.

At this point, I’d give anything to take things farther. He doesn’t even have to ask. He can do what he wants, sitting there, massive and full of himself and in-charge. Pure daddy.

By the time he sets me away from him, I’m so caught up in the reality blurring into the fantasy that I’m his.

He lifts his chin, eyes still glued to the screen. “Close the curtains.”

I jump to comply, on a spring, too turned on to be embarrassed by my eagerness, or annoyed that he’s making me do it.

“Take off your pants,” he says, the way he’d order a coffee.

“Okay,” I whisper, my mouth clamping down before the Daddy can escape.

“Good.” He sprawls, legs and arms wider, and watches me through slitted eyes. I’ve no idea what he thinks of my best blue underwear—plain, but pretty—my soft belly, my trembling thighs. “Sit on me.”

“Uh. Oh, sure.” I move to do it, face-to-face, but he stops me with a curt head shake and a firm hand on my hip.

“Other way.”

I’m bubbling up with nerves when I settle on his lap. His arm captures my chest, drawing my top half to him, while his other hand spreads my legs open, pressing them wide, against his. I’m his rag doll.

“Good.” He pats my knee. “Very good.”

My legs try to shut of their own accord, to squeeze all the pleasure I