Her First Time With Daddy

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

I fixed my clothes as best I could in that tiny restroom mirror, but my hands kept trembling. My lips still burned. My thighs were slick. The taste of him lingered on my tongue like something I wasn’t supposed to want but already craved again. When I stepped back into the hallway my legs felt unsteady, every step sending a fresh pulse of heat between them.

He didn’t give me time to think.

The moment the restroom door locked behind us he turned me, backed me against the cool wall, and looked down at me with those calm, dark eyes. The same eyes that had watched me fall apart on his tongue. My pulse slammed against my throat. I should have pushed him away. I should have remembered the dinner waiting upstairs, the aunt who thought I was still innocent, the boyfriend whose betrayal still sat raw in my chest. Instead I just stared up at him, breathing hard, already wet again from the way he looked at me.

“On your knees.”

The words were quiet. Certain. They slid down my spine like a hand.

I dropped.

The tile was cold under my knees. He unbuckled his belt slowly, never taking his eyes off mine, and pushed his trousers down. His c**k sprang free—thick, heavy, already hard, the head flushed and glistening. Nine inches of him. My mouth watered before I could stop it. I had never done this before. Not really. Not like this. The only man I’d ever touched had been soft and careful and ultimately false. This one was neither.

I reached for him with both hands. The heat of his skin shocked me. I stroked him once, twice, learning the weight, the way a thick vein pulsed under my palm. He exhaled through his nose, low and controlled, but his stomach tightened. That tiny reaction made something greedy unfurl low in my belly.

“Suck it.”

I leaned in and took him into my mouth.

The first taste was salt and heat and pure male. My lips stretched around the thickness. I pushed forward until the head bumped the back of my throat and my eyes watered. He made a soft sound above me—almost a growl—and his hand settled in my hair, not forcing, just holding, guiding. I pulled back for air, spit trailing from my lips to his c**k, then took him deeper again. Every time I hollowed my cheeks he throbbed against my tongue. Every time I looked up and met his eyes the ache between my legs grew sharper.

I was soaked. I could feel it sliding down my inner thighs. My c**t throbbed in time with the slow thrusts he began to give me. He f****d my mouth with careful, deliberate strokes, watching every messy second of it. The wet sounds filled the small room. My jaw ached. My eyes watered. I didn’t stop. I wanted more. I wanted the way his breath hitched when I took him especially deep. I wanted the low praise that rumbled out of him when I moaned around his length.

He pulled free with a wet pop. I sat back on my heels, panting, lips swollen, chin shiny with spit. My chest heaved. He stared down at me for a long second like he was deciding something, then hauled me up by the arms and spun me to face the mirror.

His mouth found the side of my neck—hot, open, hungry. One hand shoved my skirt up. The other slid straight into my soaked underwear and stroked through the mess I had made.

“f**k,” he muttered against my skin. “You’re dripping.”

One thick finger pushed inside me. I gasped, head falling back against his shoulder. He added a second almost immediately, stretching me, curling them until my knees nearly gave out. The wet sound of his fingers working me was obscene. My hips rolled against his hand without permission. He kissed and bit along my neck while he fingered me harder, deeper, the heel of his palm grinding against my c**t with every thrust.

I was already close. Embarrassingly close.

He dropped to his knees behind me, yanked my underwear down my thighs, and put his mouth on me from behind.

The first long lick made me cry out. He didn’t tease. He ate me like he was starving—tongue flat and broad, then pointed and thrusting inside, then sucking hard on my c**t until my vision blurred. One of his hands held me open. The other reached around to keep rubbing that swollen, desperate spot. I braced both hands on the sink and pushed back against his face, shameless, chasing the pressure building inside me like a storm.

When I came it tore through me. My thighs shook violently. A broken, high sound left my throat as I flooded his mouth, pulsing, pouring, completely out of control. He groaned against me and kept licking, kept sucking, dragging every last tremor out of my body until I was whimpering and trying to twist away from the sensitivity.

He stood, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and turned me to face him. His c**k was still rock-hard, shiny with my spit. He lifted me onto the edge of the sink, stepped between my spread thighs, and pushed inside in one slow, relentless stroke.

The stretch burned so good I saw stars. He filled me completely—thick, deep, claiming every inch. I clung to his shoulders as he began to move, long smooth thrusts that made the mirror rattle. Every time he bottomed out I felt it in my stomach. Every time he pulled back I clenched around him, already desperate for the next stroke. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the restroom. My heels dug into his back. His mouth found mine in a deep, filthy kiss that tasted like me.

He f****d me like he had all night and nowhere else to be—steady, deep, possessive—until the tension coiled tight again and I came a second time around his c**k, shaking, moaning into his mouth, completely lost in the heat and the stretch and the way he looked at me while he ruined me.

When it was over he stayed buried inside me for a long moment, forehead against mine, both of us breathing hard. The restroom was quiet except for our lungs and the distant hum of the building. My body still pulsed around him. My mind was already replaying every second.

I had never felt anything like this.

And I already wanted it again.