Page 28 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

I sink to my knees before him.

He goes very still.

The angle is obscene and perfect; me naked at his feet, him towering above me with his shirt half-open and his tie loose and his silver fox composure hanging on by a thread. I look up at him through my lashes and watch his jaw tighten when I stroke him once, slowly, getting a feel for his weight in my hand.

“Fuck,” he says under his breath.

The satisfaction that gives me is immediate and wicked. I lean in and kiss the tip first, just to feel him twitch, then take him into my mouth with a slow drag that makes his head fall back slightly.

His hand comes to my hair at once, but he merely holds me instead of shoving or guiding.

“That’s it,” he says roughly. “Easy.”

I take more of him, hollowing my cheeks, learning his reactions the way he learned mine. Every breath he gives me is heavier now, less controlled, and the knowledge that I can do that to him sends a dizzy thrill through me. I work him with mouth and hand together, savoring the way his stomach tightens under his shirt, the way one forearm braces against the wall beside my head, veins standing out under his skin.

“That’s my girl,” he says. “So fucking pretty like this.”

I moan around him at that and he curses softly.

My scalp tingles where his fingers tighten in my hair. “Look at me.”

I do.

The expression on his face is enough to ruin me all over again. Hungry, yes. More than hungry. Possessed. Almost disbelieving in the most flattering possible way, like he cannot quite believe I’m really here, really kneeling for him, really taking him into my mouth after years of wanting.

I take him deeper.

He groans, low and broken. “Jesus Christ.”

I pull back just enough to breathe and he guides me again, setting the pace now, not rough but unmistakably in control. The rhythm turns dirtier, wetter, my lipstick probably ruined if I still have any on, spit slick on my hand and his cock and the sound of it all embarrassingly obscene in the room.

“Such a good mouth,” he says. “Made for this.”

Praise blooms through me like liquor. I moan again, and this time he stops me.

“That’s enough.”

I blink up at him, dazed and needy.

He draws me to my feet with one hand under my arm, then gathers my face in both palms and kisses me hard, almost punishing in the heat of it.

“If I let you keep going,” he says against my mouth, “I’ll come before I’ve finished with you, and I’m not doing that.”

The line sends a fresh pulse between my thighs.

He turns me, bends me briefly over the nearest surface just long enough to let his hands roam over my back and ass and the backs of my thighs, groaning quietly at the sight of me. Then he lifts me again and carries me the few steps to the narrow bed.

He spreads me out there and looks at me with open, ravenous appreciation.

“Stay.”

The command is absurdly effective. I lie there shivering while he undoes more of his shirt, exposing hard muscle and that maddening spread of chest dusted with just enough hair to make my mouth water. Silver fox doesn’t even begin to cover it. He is all mature heat and earned confidence, all strength under restraint, all the dangerous polish of a man who knows exactly what he can do with his body and exactly how to make it feel like a privilege when he uses it on you.

He kneels over me and kisses his way down, worshiping in earnest now. My breasts again, slower this time. My stomach. My hips. The inside of each thigh, making me spread wider for him with every touch. Every kiss feels chosen. Every pause feels like a lesson in suspense.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he mutters against my skin, more to himself than to me.

My heart squeezes hard at the rough honesty of it.