Daddy Crush - Adriana Anders Page 0,51

like every bowl I see. It’s what I like about this room, even more than the stainless steel appliances, the massive cupboards, the pristine work spaces. There’s art on every wall.

I fill the vase at the massive sink, half watching while he shakes a sizzling pan and checks on something in the oven. “Smells amazing.”

He chuckles and turns to me. “I keep picturing you eating my food.”

“Oh.” I make a funny face and look side to side. “That’s nice.”

“Nice?” He throws a kitchen towel over his shoulder as he moves in my direction, pushing his long sleeves over his elbows. It’s like foreplay. I mean those forearms, they’re lethal. I’m weak just looking at them. “There’s nothing nice about the way I feel about you, Jerusha.” His eyes flick to my mouth, then briefly down my body before rising to meet mine. “I want to taste you again.” He sounds strangled; in pain.

“Oh.” Understanding hits, in a flash. Good thing I’m not holding the vase of flowers or I’d drop it. My knees go weak, which is something I’ve only read about. If my hands were functional right now, I’d lift my skirt and offer myself up like a dish. Instead, all I can do is stand here and stare. We’re breathing hard, not touching, not talking, just looking.

His brows crinkle, like there’s something he’s working hard to figure out. “Jerusha.” Just my name sounds intense. I brace myself. “I—”

The oven timer shrieks, startling us both.

21

How soon is now?

Karl

“Shit.”

Heart thumping hard enough to crack my ribs, I grab a mitt and take out the sweet potatoes, set the dish on the counter and toss the pan once before shutting the stove off.

“Fuck it.” I turn to her, put my hands on the sides of her face and treat myself to the kiss I’ve been fantasizing about for the past two hours—in other words, forever. I show her my need in all its explicit glory.

She gives it right back, punctuated with grunts that have me digging deep for air—because I just can’t stop. I don’t fucking want to.

She’s right. This is more than lust or sex.

My hands are everywhere, on her ass, in her hair, at her waist, her arms. And she’s doing the same—pulling and stroking, and feeling me like I’ve never been felt. This isn’t the urgency of a quickie, it’s more extreme, like my life depends on getting close. I have to touch her. I need this and, Christ, she needs it back. She gasps when I pick her up and plop her on the counter, but she doesn’t stop, she takes more. Gives more.

I’ve never felt a fraction of this for another woman. In this moment, I understand the thing I’ve been denying since the day I met Jerusha—I can’t keep away.

She bites my lip and I groan, helpless to keep the sound in. My body slides between her legs, my crotch almost pressing to that hot, sweet juncture and I shut my eyes, going still, while she laps at me.

“I…” Love you. What is it about saying the words aloud that feels like doomsday?

Her expression’s indescribably perfect—heavy-lidded excitement. Awe mixed with desire and affection, honestly, that’s what does it. The look. How can I resist that combination?

After years of getting off on one-night stands or porn and my right hand, the way she wants me is a drug. The way I want her is devastating.

“I like that you’re out of control…from being with me. I want that again. Seeing you come was…” She smiles, panting. “My favorite.”

I let out a weak laugh and tighten my hold on her. “You’re killing me.”

“Will you come again?”

“Will you?” I stroke her thighs and she spreads them so I sink right into her, aching cock pressed to hot pussy. Her skirt’s this thin, silky material. She nudges me back and gathers it above her knees. It’s blue-green and looks like water pouring over her legs.

“I want to fuck you so bad, Jerusha.”

“Do it,” she gasps. “Do everything.”

How easy would it be to rip my jeans open, tear her panties aside and sink in, fill her up with thick cock so she’ll never need another? Never think of looking elsewhere? Shit, I could fuck her so long and so hard…

I meet her eyes and see none of the sunny innocence I’d imagined that first day. There’s joy, though, which is better. She loves this. And I love how unashamed she is. I’m twisting myself up in knots, while she’s nothing but