Page 27 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

Then his mouth finds me.

I cry out instantly, one hand flying to the wall, the other dropping into his hair because there is simply nowhere else to put all that feeling. He doesn’t ease into it. He begins with intent, knowledge, a kind of focused hunger that tells me he has thought about this too, imagined it too, wanted it badly enough to arrive already knowing he was going to take his time making me lose my mind.

His tongue moves through me with wicked precision, broad and then pointed, teasing and then pressing harder, and every time I start to get used to a rhythm he shifts it just enough to make my knees weaken again.

He holds my thighs apart with both hands and eats me like he means to prove a thesis, like somewhere deep in that silver-haired head of his is the absolute conviction that no one has ever touched me properly before and he is here to correct the error.

“Oh my god⁠—”

“No.” He doesn’t stop, only glances up, his mouth still wet on me, eyes half-lidded and devastating. “Who?”

The correction alone makes my stomach clench.

“Daddy,” I gasp.

“That’s right.”

Then he goes back to it harder.

My head falls against the wall. He licks into me like he’s starving, then slows to drag the tip of his tongue exactly where it makes me shake, then seals his mouth around the most sensitive place and sucks until I nearly sob. The sound that leaves me is raw and helpless and so far past modesty I don’t even recognize myself in it.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs against me. “Give it to me.”

I’m already close. Humiliatingly close. Every nerve feels bright and oversensitive. My thighs are trembling against his shoulders, my fingers tangled in his silver-threaded hair, and each quiet word of praise drops straight into the deepest, neediest part of me.

“So pretty when you fall apart.”

“Daddy—”

“Yes. Use it.”

The approval in his voice shatters something. My orgasm hits hard and sudden, tearing a cry out of me as my legs threaten to give out. He keeps me upright with both hands gripping my thighs, keeps his mouth on me through every violent pulse of it, milking it until I’m gasping and twitching and trying to squirm away because it’s too much.

He lets me.

Eventually.

When he rises, his face is flushed, his mouth wet, his expression a ruin of self-control. He kisses me before I can catch my breath, and tasting myself on him feels so obscene and intimate that another wave of heat rolls through me immediately.

“You’re evil,” I whisper.

His hand slides up my spine. “And you love it.”

I do. God, I do.

My eyes drop to the front of his trousers and this time there is no pretending patience. I reach for him, hands clumsy with urgency, and he lets me undo him, watching my face the whole time with that same infuriating steadiness. When I finally push his trousers and briefs down enough to free him, my breath catches.

He is gorgeous. Thick, flushed, already hard enough to make me ache at the sight alone.

“Still with me?” he asks.

I nod too fast.

His hand cups my jaw. “Words.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Good girl.”