Page 37 of Pucking Daddy

Lily’s homework.

But nothing sticks. Every thought dissolves the moment it forms, drowned out by the memory of us at the bar. Jaxon’s eyes on me. Jaxon fucking me senseless.

I groan, hurling the pillow aside.

My hand rests on my stomach, fingers splayed across the thin cotton of my sleep shirt.

My skin feels too warm, too sensitive. Like every nerve ending is standing at attention, waiting for something.

I shift against the sheets, the fabric catching against my nipples. They're hard, aching, and I realize I've been lying here for twenty minutes fighting a losing battle.

My fingers creep down my stomach, slow and deliberate, tracing the line of my waistband.

I bite my lip, imagining his lips there instead. His breath hot against my neck. His stubble scraping against my collarbone.

My pulse quickens as I slip my hand under the elastic of my panties, my fingers brushing against the dampness already gathering between my thighs.

I'm wet. Embarrassingly wet. The kind of wet that comes from hours of suppressed wanting and inappropriate thoughts.

I close my eyes tighter, pretending it's his touch.

His fingers sliding between my legs, firm and purposeful. I can almost feel the calluses on his palms, the strength in his hands as he parts my folds and finds the spot that makes me shiver.

I let out a soft moan, my hips tilting up to meet my hand as I press harder, circling my clit in slow, tight strokes.

The pleasure builds gradually, spreading outward like ripples in still water.

In my mind, Jaxon is above me. His eyes bore into mine, that serious expression he wears focused entirely on me.

His weight pressing me into the mattress. His mouth claiming mine with a hunger that matches my own.

My fingers move faster now, my breath coming in shallow gasps.

I slide one finger inside myself, then two, feeling the tight heat grip them. I thrust shallowly, my palm grinding against my clit with each movement.

I imagine Jaxon watching me. Standing at the foot of my bed with his arms crossed, his eyes dark and hungry. His voice commanding me to touch myself for him.

"Show me," he'd say. "Show me how you like it."

I obey, my fingers curling inside, finding that spot that makes my back arch off the mattress. My thumb works my clit in frantic circles, the wet sounds of my arousal filling the quiet room.

I picture the way he’d look at me.

Not with the polite distance he kept today as my employer, but with something raw and unfiltered. The way his jaw would tighten. The way his chest would rise and fall with barely restrained need.

My thighs clench, my body tightening like a coil ready to snap. The pleasure is building too fast now, cresting like a wave, and I'm helpless to stop it.

My fingers plunge deeper, harder. My hips buck against my hand. The wet, obscene sounds of my fucking myself fill the room, mixing with my ragged breathing and the soft moans I can't contain.

"Fuck," I whisper, my voice hoarse. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

I'm close. So close. The tension coils tighter and tighter, my muscles trembling, my skin on fire.

And then—

I come, my body arching off the bed, a strangled cry torn from my throat.

The orgasm crashes through me in waves, pulsing around my fingers, radiating outward until I'm left shaking and gasping in its aftermath.