Chapter 2: Caught in the Act
The morning light was thin and pale, but the room was already warm. Dom surfaced from sleep not to an alarm, but to a familiar, wet sound. A rhythmic, slick squelching. And a low, steady buzz.
He opened his eyes, turning his head on the pillow.
Izzy was on her side, facing away from him, the sheet pooled at her waist. Her arm moved with a steady, desperate pump. The large, veined silicone dildo in her fist was slick and shiny, sliding in and out of her cunt with a lewd, greedy sound. Her other hand held a pink vibrator pressed firmly against her swollen clit, its persistent hum filling the space between her ragged breaths. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her lips parted, a flush spreading down her neck and across her breasts. She was close. So close.
A fierce, immediate pride surged through him, hot and possessive. She was exploring the hunger he’d unlocked in her, chasing the same relentless high. His cock stiffened against his thigh, heavy and full.
He watched for another moment, letting the sight of her—so lost in her own pleasure, so beautifully obscene—burn into him. Then he moved.
His hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around her wrist, stopping the frantic in-and-out motion of the toy buried inside her.
Her eyes flew open. She gasped, her body seizing up.
“You started without me, baby girl?” His voice was morning-rough, a deep rumble that vibrated through her.
She didn’t try to pull away. A smile touched her lips, lazy and unrepentant. “You were sleeping. I was thinking about last night. About how you felt.” She clenched around the toy still inside her, a deliberate pulse. “It got me wet.”
“Fuckin’ insatiable,” he muttered, but it was pure admiration. He released her wrist and pulled the vibrator from her other hand, thumbing it off. The sudden silence was profound, broken only by their breathing. He tugged the dildo free from her sopping cunt with a soft, wet pop and tossed both toys aside onto the nightstand. They landed with a dull clatter.
He rolled her onto her back, his body covering hers, his weight a comfort and a claim. He could smell her arousal, see the need darkening her eyes. “You don’t need plastic. You need me.”
“I always need you,” she whispered, her hands coming up to frame his stubbled jaw.
He kissed her, deep and consuming, swallowing her moan. He could taste her, a faint, musky hint on her tongue. His knee nudged her thighs apart and he settled between them. His cock, thick and hard, nudged at her entrance. She was already dripping, swollen from her play, an open invitation.
“Remember,” he said against her mouth, not asking, telling. “Remember who this belongs to.”
He thrust home in one smooth, powerful stroke. No barrier this time, just the overwhelming, perfect stretch of him filling her utterly. She cried out, her back arching, her nails biting into his shoulders. It was different from the night before—no searing pain, just a glorious, full ache and a friction that ignited every nerve.
“Yes… God, yes, Dom…” she chanted, her legs locking around his hips, pulling him deeper.
He set a punishing pace from the start, each drive of his hips slamming the bed into the wall with a solid thump thump thump. The headboard rattled. He didn’t care. Let the whole world hear. Let them know he was buried in his girl, in his daughter, claiming her all over again.
“You like that?” he grunted, his breath hot on her neck. “You like my cock fucking this tight little pussy?”
“I love it,” she sobbed, her composure splintering. “I love you, I love your cock, fuck me harder, Daddy, please…”
He obeyed, his control slipping. The raw, primal truth of it—her willingness, her hunger, the illicit perfection of her body wrapped around his—drove him to a brutal edge. He slid a hand between them, his rough thumb finding her clit, rubbing hard, fast circles.
The double assault was too much. Her scream was muffled against his chest as she came, her cunt clamping down on him in rhythmic, vicious pulses, milking his length. The sensation tore his own climax from him. With a snarled “Mine!” he plunged deep and held, pumping his release into her in hot, endless spurts.
He collapsed, shifting just enough to not crush her, his face buried in her hair. Their sweat-slicked bodies stuck together. The room smelled of sex and salt and them.
After a long while, his fingers traced idle patterns on her hip. “Sore?”
“A little,” she admitted, wincing as she stretched. “It’s a good sore.”
He nodded, pressing a kiss to her temple. The reality of the world, the garage, the responsibilities, began to seep back into the edges of the room. But here, in this bed, the reality was this.