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His gaze caught mine. “You okay?”
I nodded. “I’m fine.”
“Just fine?”
“More than fine.”
I kissed him so he couldn’t look at me.
Goddamn, those hands. They were everywhere—gliding up my back, down my chest, over my breasts and belly, between my legs. His fingers grazed my folds and I shivered, whimpering around our tongues, unable to keep my hips from rocking. He pressed the heel of his hand against me, putting pressure on my clit. My father’s palm fit my mound like they’d been made for each other, like he’d sculpted me from clay to be his perfect match. I gave myself over to it, to him. I was his, whether he wanted me or not. Luckily, it seemed he did.
He dipped two fingers between my folds and spread my moisture over my clit, drawing circles that made my toes curl in delight. My nails etched into his shoulders, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care. His erection continued to prod my thigh, a reminder of all the things I should’ve been doing to him.
“I want…” I panted. “I can’t…”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
Hearing him call me sweetheart made my eyes burn with unshed tears. “I want to touch you.”
“You are touching me.”
“But…” I leaned my head on his shoulder, my thoughts coming at me in illicit pictures rather than words. He smoothed my hair.
“Paige, where do you want to touch me?”
I wanted to touch him where he’d touched me and everywhere else, to memorize the constellation of freckles on his chest and back. I wanted to know him better than he knew himself, to taste his elbows and the backs of his knees.
He grasped my hands and placed them on either side of his face.
“Start here.”
His hand returned to my clit. Meanwhile, I made it my mission to learn this man. I skimmed his cheekbones and brows, traced the edge of his jaw. I licked the pulse points below his ears, and kissed his collarbones, the hollow of his throat, and his tight, tan nipples. I mapped him, this artist who had made me, raking my fingernails down his chest and outlining the veins along his arm with my tongue.
Everything I wanted to do to my father, I did.
Finally, I reached his belt buckle. With feigned confidence, I freed the leather strap from the metal enclosure and unfastened his jeans.
He sucked in a breath as I eased his cock through the hole in his boxers. I encircled him with all five fingers, my hand warmed by the blood-hot burn of his skin. He watched intently, his eyes crescent moons and his chest heaving. I slid my fist along his length. Such silkiness, on top of all that pressure.
After a few more test strokes, he shuddered and angled his pelvis toward me. I wrapped both hands around him, one above the other, and stroked downward. He inhaled sharply.
“Was that good or bad?”
He chuckled breathlessly. “That was very good, sweetheart.”
A smile consumed my face. He cradled my pussy with his whole hand, a simple gesture that made me feel cared for, comforted. He showed me how to round the head of his cock with every pass, how tight to squeeze the shaft without hurting him. I studied his reactions and adjusted my technique accordingly, captivated by how good I could make him feel using just my hands.
A cry bubbled up from my chest as he pushed a finger inside me.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked.
I winced. The pain was brief, but sharp and unexpected. “A little.”
He stilled his hand and looked at me—really looked at me. “Paige, have you done anything like this before?”
Was my lack of experience that obvious? I shook my head, letting my hair fall over my face. How was it possible to feel both eight and eighteen in the exact same moment?
My father sighed and pressed his forehead to mine. “I really wish you’d told me. I would’ve slowed things down, checked in more.”
