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Blue eyes snapping, she shoves at my chest, but I’m not going anywhere.
In fact, I put a forearm around the small of her back and haul her close. Up onto her tiptoes, her high, round tits crushed to my pecs. She exhales in that shaky way that tells me she’s hot to fuck. That she’s got my cock on her mind. If we were home right now, I would unzip. I’d find that tight gate to heaven under her skirt and pump inside, bounce her until she starts crying from the intense pleasure. But we’re not home. She might be horny, but she’s still livid at me—and all I can hear are the words she said to me on the sidewalk near O’Keefe’s.
Are you who I think you are, North?
That question has haunted me for days. It haunts me now.
I’m trying to keep you safe, I want to growl at her. But I can’t. I have to show her I’ve been the same North all along. She’ll have to see it with her own eyes to believe me. Right now, in this broken state of mind, all I can do is get enough of her to sustain me until then, if that’s even possible. Maybe…maybe she hates her husband right now.
But her Daddy is a different entity altogether.
I’m suddenly burning to push the limits of that relationship, probably because she’s cut me off in every other way. If this is the only way I can have her for now, I’ll suck up every drop like a greedy man. I’ll use the only weapon I’ve got to get my Grace fix.
Up until now, this kink between us has been insanely fulfilling. I love when she calls me Daddy. She loves when I call her little girl and say things that imply our relationship is a forbidden thing. We’ve never stretched beyond that, though. Maybe out of fear that diving even deeper could spell an even deeper obsession and attachment for us both. Good. That’s what I want. What I need. I want to find the bottom of our ocean and live there.
“Your mother sent me to come find you,” I say against her temple. “You’re way too young to be in a bar. I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to ground you.”
Grace sucks in a breath, her gaze flying up to mine.
There’s no mistaking the reluctant excitement there. The surprise.
I’m already kicking myself for not exploring this sooner. My only excuse is that our sex life is already almost too good. We fuck like animals. There wasn’t any reason for a single change. Until now. Until this game became the only conduit to reach my wife.
“Please…” she whispers, wetting her lips. “Don’t ground me. Can’t you just tell her you found me at a coffee shop?”
Ah, Jesus. She’s playing along.
We’re officially going there and my cock loves it. A lot.
I’m already stiff as a motherfucker.
“No. You need some time to think about your actions, young lady.” I take her wrist and start to drag her toward the front of the bar. “Grounding you is for the best.”
“But…please?” She tugs me to a stop, her expression cajoling. Verging on flirtatious. “Can’t I do some chores or something?”
An image flashes into my head. Grace on her hands and knees, bent forward, scrubbing the floor in that tight little skirt and no panties. “My decision stands,” I say thickly.
She pouts, thinks for a moment. “Can’t we stay a little longer, then? Since I’m already in trouble?” She edges closer, closer, until our bodies are pressed together snugly. Then she reaches up and loops her arms around my neck, fingers playing with the ends of my hair. “It’s been a while since we danced together, Daddy.”
This comes so naturally to her. She’s needed this. For me to double down.
Maybe I’ve wanted to go to this forbidden place, as well, I just didn’t need it. Not when Grace already gives me everything I could ever hope for. But now? Seeing how she responds to this kind of play, I know I’ll need it in the future. It will become a favorite pastime of mine because it’s something she loves. “One dance,” I say in a threadbare voice.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, wiggling excitedly against me.
To anyone watching us in this bar, we’re a husband and wife having a romantic moment.
But we’re not husband and wife right now.
We’re man of the house and his wayward teenager.
We shouldn’t be dancing together in a crowded bar—and I definitely shouldn’t be hard.
The character I’m playing is ashamed of his body’s reaction to her. That’s not supposed to happen. It’s the very definition of bad. But he can’t help enjoying the sift of her fingers in the ends of his hair. The suppleness of her young body as it presses in tight, plumping her breasts and drawing his eye. He has to look, doesn’t he? Who could look away? Who wouldn’t marvel over the changes the years have brought to her body?
