Page 73 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

“Thought you said no movement,” I pant.

“Inside stays still. Outside obeys. Tell me if your thighs tremble.”

They already are, but I grit my teeth. “No.”

“Liar.” His breath hitches. “You forget how well I know that body. Six years didn’t erase the map.” He goes quiet except for the hum of his engine. “Did you hate me when you labored alone?”

The question cuts. My fingers freeze. “I didn’t have the luxury to hate you. I was too busy not dying.”

“I would have been there,” he snarls. “You took that from me.”

“You said you never wanted kids!”

“I said I didn’t want to parent with resentment, Athena! I would have made the exception for you. Jesus.”

My chest heaves. Old arguments claw at the newly laid truce. I grind harder, half from stubborn rage, half to drown out the ache. “Well, you didn’t get the chance. I did it alone.”

“And you did it perfectly.” His voice softens like a hand over a bruise. “You made a warrior. Ivy is fearless. She’s bright. You did that. I want to thank you for every night you didn’t sleep, every fever you calmed, every parent-teacher conference you attended alone. I also want to fuck you until you forget every minute I wasn’t there.”

My body convulses. Tears spill uninvited. “Do you think that makes up for it?”

“No,” he says, steady. “That’s why I’m not just asking. I’m on my way. But I need you soft for me when I get there. Keep rubbing. I want you shaking.”

“I’m already shaking,” I whisper.

“Then let go,” he orders. “Come for me while I listen. I want every sound. Bite a pillow if you have to, but don’t hide from me.”

The command slices the last rope holding me together. I circle my clit faster, keeping my fingers buried still inside, the tension unbearable. His praise pours through the line. “That’s it. That’s my good girl. You’re so fucking strong. You held our family together when I failed. Now let me hear you fall apart.”

My orgasm rips through me. I choke on a cry, slam my free hand over my mouth, and ride the pulses while he murmurs “Yes, yes, that’s it,” through gritted teeth. My muscles flutter around my fingers, slick spilling over my knuckles. The house tilts. I press my forehead to my knees and breathe like I just ran ten miles.

When I finally gasp air, he’s quiet. I hear his car idling.

“Where are you?” I croak.

“Your driveway.” The words crack. “I sat here listening to your pleasure and almost drove through the garage.”

The admission fires a bolt of heat straight to my core. “What are you waiting for then?”

“Permission,” he says, stripped down to the bone. “Do I come in, Athena? Do I walk through that door and do what you begged for?”

I swallow, heart ramming my ribs. The truth I’ve been choking on all night unfurls.

“Come in.” My voice breaks once, but I don’t stop. “Come in and fuck me until I can’t remember how to hate you.”

15

NATHAN SR

Her message still burns in my ears—Come in and fuck me until I can’t remember how to hate you—and I catch myself grinning like a man who’s just been handed his sentence and his salvation in the same breath.

She’s already standing by the bed when I walk into the room, bare legs gleaming in the lamp glow, hair tangled from the nerves she pretends she doesn’t feel. The hoodie she’s wearing barely skims her hips, and the curve of her breasts strains against the fabric. Her mouth is swollen from the kiss we didn’t finish. Her eyes are all wildfire and warning. I love every fragment of it.

“On the bed,” I say, letting the rough edge in my voice grip both of us. I strip my jacket off, toss it onto the chair, and step toward her. She doesn’t retreat. She climbs onto the mattress with a defiant tilt to her chin and I follow, capturing her ankle in my hand. Her skin is warm from the sexting that detonated both our restraint.

I drag her toward me, the comforter bunching under her thighs, and tug the hoodie up and over her head. She’s nude beneath it. No bra, no panties. My breath leaves my lungs in a slow, uneven exhale.

The faint silver of the C-section scar slashes across her lower belly, a mark I didn’t earn, a history I didn’t bleed for. Guilt punches me. I slide lower and kiss that scar, a series of apologies pressed into the skin I longed to touch while she labored alone. Her fingers dive into my hair, clutching hard enough to sting.