DADDY'S LITTLE SLUT

CHAPTER 1

The summer heat stuck to my skin the second I stepped out of the car. Lily’s lake house. Two weeks. No parents of my own to answer to. Just Lily, the pool, the long empty afternoons… and him.

Marcus. Forty. Divorced two years now. Still looked like he could ruin a girl with one look. Tall, broad shoulders that filled every shirt, dark hair going a little silver at the temples, that quiet mouth that never smiled enough. I’d been wet for him psince the night of my eighteenth birthday when he’d hugged me a second too long and I’d felt the hard line of his chest against my t**s. I’d gone home that night and rubbed my cunt raw thinking about it.

Now I was twenty and I was done waiting.

Lily was still upstairs unpacking. Marcus was somewhere in the house—I could hear the low murmur of the TV in the living room. My suitcase sat open on the guest-room bed. I peeled off my clothes slowly, deliberately. Bra first. The soft weight of my t**s dropped free, n*****s already tight from the thought of him. Then the panties, damp between my legs even before I’d started. I left them on the floor and walked out into the hallway naked except for the thin white tank top I’d pulled back on. No bra. The fabric clung to my hard n*****s. No panties. Just the soft, bare lips of my p***y rubbing together with every step.

I needed to come before I even said hello.

I slipped into the bathroom at the end of the hall, left the door cracked, and sat on the closed toilet lid with my knees spread wide. One hand shoved the tank top up over my t**s so I could pinch and twist my n*****s until they ached. The other hand went straight between my legs. My fingers slid through the slick mess already coating my folds. I was soaked—thick, sticky wetness that clung to my fingertips when I pulled them away and looked at the shiny strings.

“f**k,” I whispered, pushing two fingers into my cunt and starting to f**k myself hard. Wet sounds filled the small bathroom. I closed my eyes and pictured him.

Marcus in the kitchen that time last summer, shirt off after mowing the lawn, sweat running down the grooves of his abs, the dark trail of hair disappearing into his shorts. The way those shorts had tented when I’d bent over in front of him “accidentally.” The low voice when he’d said my name. I imagined that same voice telling me to spread wider. Imagined those big hands gripping my thighs and holding me open while he stared at my pink, dripping hole.

I rubbed my c**t in tight, filthy circles, fingers still buried knuckle-deep. My hips jerked. More wetness spilled out onto my hand and the toilet seat. I was so close already it hurt. I thought about him walking in right now, finding me like this—tank top rucked up, t**s out, three fingers stretching my cunt, thighs shaking. I thought about him dropping to his knees, burying his face between my legs, and licking up every drop while I pulled his hair and came on his tongue.

I came hard, biting my lip to stay quiet, cunt pulsing and squeezing around my fingers, a fresh rush of slick dripping down onto the floor. I kept rubbing through it, oversensitive and greedy, until my legs trembled.

I didn’t clean up. I wanted the evidence. Wanted to walk around the house with my p***y still shiny and swollen and smelling like s*x.

I tugged the tank top back down. It barely covered the tops of my thighs. The hem rode up if I moved wrong. Perfect. I stepped out into the hallway and headed toward the living room, bare feet silent on the wood floors. Every step made my bare lips slide against each other, still slick, still sensitive.

Marcus was on the couch, long legs stretched out, remote in one hand. He looked up when I appeared in the doorway.

I smiled, sweet and innocent, and walked past him toward the kitchen like I needed a drink. Halfway there I “dropped” my phone. I bent at the waist, slow, legs straight, ass pushed out. The tank top rode up completely. Cool air kissed the wet heat between my legs. I knew exactly what he could see from the couch—my smooth, bare cheeks, the soft lips of my p***y glistening pink and open just enough to show how wet I still was, a thin string of my earlier come catching the light.

I stayed bent longer than I needed to, pretending to fumble with the phone, giving him the full view. My cunt throbbed. I wondered if he was hard already. Wondered if he could smell me from across the room.

When I finally straightened and turned, Marcus’s eyes were locked on me. Dark. Hungry. His jaw was tight. The remote sat forgotten in his hand.

I licked my lower lip, slow, and let the tank top stay rucked up just high enough that the bottom curves of my ass still showed.

“Hey, Mr. Hale,” I said, voice soft and a little breathless. “Thanks for letting me stay.”

I didn’t wait for an answer. I walked the rest of the way into the kitchen, hips swaying, bare and wet and open under the thin fabric, already planning how I was going to bend over again before the night was over.