Make Me Moan, Daddy-Chapter 9

REINA’POV

"Why did you call me father," he asked between strokes, voice rough and wicked. "While your husband spoke to you."

"Because you are," I whispered, losing the last of my shame. "Because you are my bad choice. Because you make me feel owned."

"Say it," he said.

"You own my pussy," I breathed, and watched heat flash through his eyes like lightning in dark water.

"Again."

"You own my pussy, daddy."

He groaned and closed his mouth over me like he wanted to swallow the words straight out of my body. I bit down on the heel of my hand to keep quiet. He pulled my hips to his face and let my legs clamp around his neck and did not stop even when my heels dug into his back and the water rocked as if a wind had risen. He ate me like a punishment and a reward.

He ate me like he would never be full.

"I already came," I said, helpless and desperate. How many more times was he going to make me cum before he lef me go?

I knew I shouldn’t be complaining because this was exactly what I had always wanted. Just what I had been craving. For two years.

"I know," he said. "I want the rest of your pussy juice."

The second climax built meaner than the first. It started low and sharp, a hot ache that turned to pressure that turned to need so intense I almost cried. My eyes watered. My thighs trembled. He curled his fingers deep, then flattened them and slid, then curled again.

His tongue drew tight circles that went smaller and sloppier and then true. He found my rhythm and made me swear I would be good and then made me break it. I begged. I told him I could not. I told him I would. It did not matter. He had decided for me.

"Look at me," he said.

I forced my eyes open. The pool lights gilded the hard lines of his face. His hair lay slicked back from his forehead, silver at the temples, mouth wet with me. He looked like a king beneath the water. He looked like the last man I should ever let inside my life.

"Come for me," he said. "Come on my tongue. Give me all of it."

It ripped through me. There was no leading edge, only the break and the flood. My vision went bright and then dark. My body arched tight. I clung to the edge with both hands and then to him with my thighs and then to nothing at all.

I felt everything at once. I felt the warm water, the hard tile, the slide of his mouth, the pull of his fingers, the rush, the drop, the relief so fierce it hurt. My release or perhaps squirt, spilled hot and thick, and he took it, humming, greedy, relentless, until I was empty and then still shaking with aftershocks.

He did not lift his mouth until I whimpered from sensitivity. Then he kissed the inside of my knee like a consolation and licked me clean.

He chased every last taste with slow laps of his tongue, dragging his mouth over me as if he had all the time in the world.

When he finally surfaced, the light hit his face and I saw slickness on his chin and down the strong line of his throat and across his chest. My mess on his body.

Pride in his eyes.

"Look what you did," he said softly.

I swallowed and shook my head because there were no words that could hold what I felt. Shame and triumph and terror all braided together. He had made me do it. I had begged him to. Both were true.

Somewhere in the movement, my fingers brushed against something soft in my grip. I looked down—and froze.

The scrap of lace in my hand was all that was left of my panties, the waistband hanging limp, elastic shot, seams torn clean through. I hadn’t even realized when they’d ripped. Or maybe I had completely forgotten about it.

I blushed so hard my skin burned. I slid off his shoulders and reached for the step, legs heavy and weak. I climbed out and almost slipped. He steadied me with a hand around my waist and then let me go.

I snatched the ruined scrap of fabric from where it floated alongside the step and bunched it in my fist.

"Run if you like," he said, voice a stroke down my spine. "I will still find you."

"Do not," I said, breathless and shaky. "Please."

He smiled like a sin given a human mouth. "Sleep well, love. Dream of me."

I backed away from the pool, chest heaving, mind a storm. Then I turned and ran. Water fell from me in bright drops, pattering on the tile. The night felt loud with every step, as if the house should have woken and judged me.

I held the torn lace of my panties to my stomach like it could cover what I had done. I did not look back.

The bedroom door closed with a small click that sounded like salvation. My knees gave up and I slid down onto the rug for a second, laughing in a breathless, panicked way that I could not control. I pressed my fist to my mouth.

Hysteria trembled against the edge of something else. My whole body buzzed. My skin was too tight.

It was a good thing my husband hadn’t been back yet.

"Reina, this must not happen again." I grinned, biting down hard on my lower lip.

I stood on shaky legs and crossed to the bed. The sheets were cool. They smelled like my husband. A clean, familiar scent that had once been comfort and was now a reminder of how far I had wandered.

I put my face into the pillow and pulled the top sheet over my head and let myself giggle because if I did not laugh I would cry. The giddy sound dissolved into a low moan that I swallowed quickly.

I dragged the sheet to my nose again. Paolo. My husband. The man who had just told me not to stay too long in the pool. The man who had missed the sight of his father kneeling for me under the water.

Guilt came first, the way it always did. Heavy and punishing. It told me I was the worst kind of woman. It told me I had thrown away loyalty for heat. It told me that if Paolo found out he would make sure my aunt paid the price for my sin, because that would hurt me most.

It showed me my aunt’s kitchen with sunlight on the chipped table and a pot of stew that had fed three people and then four when I arrived with a suitcase. It showed me her hands when she braided my hair for the first day of a new school. It showed me my cousins asleep on a thin pillow.

It squeezed my throat until I could not breathe.

Then the memory of Domenico’s mouth rose up and washed the guilt gray. The way he had held me open. The way he had told me to look at him and then taken what he wanted and made me want it too. The way he had not stopped when I said stop because both of us knew I did not mean it.

I pressed my thighs together. Heat flickered low, an aftershock that made my cheeks flush against the pillowcase. I pressed my hips down into the mattress and felt the tender throb he had left behind.

"This is all Paolo’s fault. If he hadn’t been distant with me, neglecting his marital duties as my husband, I wouldn’t have done this."

I rolled onto my side and drew my knees up and wrapped my arms around them like a girl who had been startled out of sleep.

My mind replayed the scene in a loop that sped up and slowed down in all the wrong places. Paolo’s voice. The water lit blue. The exact angle of Domenico’s jaw when he looked up at me and told me to give him everything.

I pressed my face into the sheet and breathed in the ghost of my husband and the echo of his father and felt the sick, sweet curl of satisfaction that came from having both in the same space, even if one of them had not known it.

It was monstrous and it felt like winning.

I told myself I would end it. I told myself I would look Domenico in the face tomorrow and say enough. I would tell him I was done. I would tell him I could not risk my aunt’s home or my cousins’ quiet or my own thin peace. I would tell him the truth and make it stick.

I would be good. I could be good.

Sleep came slow and inevitable. My last thought as it took me was not a prayer or a promise. It was a confession so quiet it felt like the truth.

I loved it.