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“Daddy,” I gasp. “Oh,God, please, please,please,fuck me, Daddy, come inside me, I'll be so good for you, I'm your good girl, I want you to fill me up, Daddy,please.”
“JesusfuckingChrist.”
He rears up, hand tight on the back of my neck to keep me down as his pace stutters. He presses deep, and goes still with another rough noise. I moan softly as I feel the bloom of warmth inside me, his cock twitching as he fills me with his cum just like I asked for.
I know there's a huge, dopey smile on my face, but I don't have enough brain cells to rub together to give a shit. I want to take off the blindfold and watch his face when he comes. I want to tell him that I know it's him and that I’m okay with it. Then we wouldn't have to pretend. He's still technically my stepdad, and he’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a father. I like thinking about him that way and I’m pretty sure he feels the same way.
But I don't say anything. I can't. Not just because of this job but because I have no idea how he will react. For all I know, he will freak out. There is a tiny part of me that still wonders if he really knows who I am. It’s ridiculous because I am sure he knows it’s me…but what if he thinks I’m just some random chick here to fulfill his dirty incest fantasies?
No, I can't let him know I know.
Not here, at least. Not yet.
7
LOGAN
The last two weeks have flown by, and I find myself thinking about Layla constantly. I know the obsession is interfering with my daily life and my work because I can barely make it fifteen minutes without thinking about her, without a sharp ache forming low in my stomach, that's a mix of anticipation and longing. I want to be around her all the time, to hear her voice and kiss her, to lose myself inside her every minute of every day. No one has commented how distracted I am at work yet, but I can feel myself slipping as I torture myself with thoughts of what she's doing when she's not with me.
When we’re at the club, when she's being the perfect obedient girl for me, it's easy to forget that the outside world exists. It's too easy to lose myself inside her, in the feel of her skin, the press of her hands, the scent of her—and then me on her. Then all too quickly, I'm finished and it's time to leave. That’s when things begin to unravel.
What does she do when she leaves me? Does she have a boyfriend? Does she go out dancing, taking home random strangers for a quick, casual, no-strings-attached night of fun? The thought unsettles me more than I want it to. Possessiveness and jealousy for these nameless, faceless strangers wells up in me without conscious thought. When she's at the club, I know she's all mine, but outside of it, she could belong to anybody and there’s nothing I can do to stop that.
Unless I take matters into my own hands.
I know where her mother lives, so I start there. With any luck, she will still be living at home, making it easy for me to track her down. It's easy to find the neighbourhood again, a place I haven't gone to for what feels like a lifetime. I park outside her house below a broken streetlight and wait, not even sure what I expect to see. A quiet night in, curled up with a book by the window so I can watch her read?
Not likely.
A car turns the corner behind me, and I lower myself in my seat as it passes by. It's another girl, around Layla's age, her face dolled up and hair done like she's going out. I watch with narrowed eyes as the car drives up in front of Layla's mother's house, shifting into park, the horn honking once.
Less than a minute later, Layla steps out of the front door looking like my own personal wet dream. Her hair lays long and straight, a shiny waterfall down her back, her dress, bright blue and clinging to every curve of her body. I can already tell she's not wearing a bra from the sharp peaks of her nipples that threaten to slice through the flimsy material. Something ugly and wanting twists in me at the thought of pushing it down and up, wrapping it into a tight belt to hold her body still while I take her from behind.
Fuck, she's so beautiful and graceful, like a living muse.
It’s crazy how far I will go to make sure she’s mine and only mine, but I can’t stop myself. My mouth waters with venom at the thought of another man looking at her with the same dirty thoughts I have. My knuckles go white as I clench hold of the steering wheel. She gets into her friend's car with a grin and they drive off.
I count to three before following them, making sure to stay far enough away that I don't raise suspicion, but close enough to keep them in my line of sight. They end up at a bar I have never been to. It’s one of those places for those just barely of legal age with loud bass music pumping out onto the street, a few tables with heat lamps and fairy lights to illuminate a patio where people can smoke or hang out outside.
They park, and so do I, a few spaces away from them. I watch them head inside, laughing as they walk arm in arm. I wait for a full minute before getting out of my car and creeping to the edge of the parking lot, where I have a view of the patio but not much else.
I'm debating whether it's worth the risk to head inside to watch her, not knowing the layout or if it would even be possible to remain out of sight, when I see Layla and her friend come back out with bright pink cocktails in hand. They claim one of the tables as their own, close enough for me to see them but not close enough to hear what they’re saying.
It isn't long before the first lot of brave men approach. Two of them this time, each of them claiming a girl for their attention and striking up conversation. I know all the moves, I was a young boy once, too. I know the benefits of flanking an object of desire, taking a friend each, suggesting a group hangout that will inevitably lead to them pairing off and having a drunken fuck on the nearest available surface, like the backseat of his car.
My mouth twists without my permission.
The guy flirting with Layla is her height, stocky and broad, very much the classic male model type with slicked-back blond hair and a too-wide grin. He oozes confidence and keeps leaning in close to Layla, whispering right in her ear, one hand on the small of her back like he's physically marking his territory. It’s fucking indecent. He may as well be pissing on her for how obvious he's being.
My fingers curl at my sides, instinctive rage roaring up in me at seeing this bitch of a boy touch what's mine. Even worse, to see Layla flirting back, fluttering her lashes and pouting her lips around her straw every time she sips her cocktail. She has her weight on one leg, hip canted out, bowed slightly forward over the table so her ass is barely covered by her dress. It makes me see red, consumed with the thought of walking up behind her and pushing her dress up to fuck her right there, in front of everyone, staking my claim publicly.
She’s going to pay for this.
I don't know how long I stand there, watching her flirt with Mr. Magazine Cover, but eventually he must offer to get her a drink, or something comes up, because he leaves. Her friend and his friend are already halfway to hooking up, hanging off each other and sucking marks into each other's necks.
Layla's nose wrinkles, she rolls her eyes and mutters some excuse, before finishing her cocktail and leaving it on the table. She takes her phone out of her bag, probably to call an uber, then she starts walking towards the parking lot. Towards me.
This is my chance.
