Chapter 3: The Tease
The bacon grease hissed and popped in the pan, a sharp sound that cut through the morning quiet. Evie reached for the spatula, deliberately standing on her toes, her arms stretching above her head. The crop top she'd chosen—a faded pink thing from her cheerleading days that barely covered her ribs—rode up another inch, exposing the smooth skin of her stomach and the delicate dip of her lower back.
She heard his breath hitch behind her.
"Smells good, princess."
She smiled to herself, not turning around. "Almost done. You want your eggs scrambled or over easy?"
"What you're making is fine." Ritchie shuffled past her toward the coffee maker, his bare feet slapping against the linoleum. He was wearing only a pair of gray sweatpants and a thin t-shirt, his hair still mussed from sleep.
Evie watched him from the corner of her eye, cataloging every detail. The sharp cheekbones he'd never lost, even as the rest of him had softened into middle age. The broad set of his shoulders, the way the t-shirt clung to the muscles of his back. The tiredness that seemed permanently etched into his face these days, the dark circles under his eyes that spoke of long nights and longer silences.
She'd missed him. Missed this.
Not that she'd tell him that.
"Did you sleep okay?" she asked, turning back to the stove. She stirred the eggs with more force than necessary, watching them scramble and curdle. "You were up late."
Something flickered across his face. "Couldn't sleep. Work stuff."
"On your computer?"
His jaw tightened. "Emails. Lots of emails."
She almost laughed at that. Almost. The lies came so easily to him, even now. She wondered if he'd always been like this, hiding behind excuses and convenient explanations, or if she'd just never noticed because she'd been too caught up in her own life.
The toast popped up. She grabbed it quickly, burning her fingers slightly, and dropped it onto the plate. "I'll bring it in. You sit. Relax."
He hesitated, then nodded, moving toward the small dining table that was more cluttered with takeout containers and old mail than actual meals. She'd noticed that. How he'd let himself go in the three years since her mother died. The house was too still, too empty. He'd filled the space with work and shadows, but never with light.
She carried the plate over to him, letting her hips sway with each step. She set it down in front of him, then bent over to grab the salt shaker from the center of the table, making sure the movement was slow, deliberate. The hem of her shorts rode up. The fabric of her crop top pulled tight across her chest.
He looked away.
But not before she caught his eyes flicking down, then up again, a flash of something dark and hungry passing through them before he reined it in.
She felt a hot pulse of satisfaction.
"Anything else I can get you, dad?" She said the word with a soft emphasis, letting it curl around her tongue. He shifted in his chair, crossing one leg over the other.
"No, this is good." He cleared his throat. "You didn't have to do all this."
"I wanted to." She sat down across from him, propping her chin on her hand. "What else am I supposed to do all day? It's not like I can go to class."
"How are your classes going? The online stuff?"
She shrugged. "Fine. Weird. Professor Harrison keeps freezing mid-lecture, so we just watch him glitch like a robot until IT figures it out."
A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "Sounds."
"It's total bullshit," she said, feeling a genuine laugh bubble up. "Like the whole world just decided to stop. And we're all just sitting here. Waiting."
"Waiting for what?"
She tilted her head, considering. "I don't know. For it to be over, maybe. For things to go back to normal."
"Maybe they won't."
The words hung between them, heavy and uncertain. She saw something in his face then, a flicker of the grief he carried so quietly, and her smile faded.
"Maybe that's okay," she said softly. "Maybe we shouldn't want things to go back. Maybe we should just figure out what comes next."
He looked at her for a long moment, something shifting in his eyes. She'd been speaking generally, but the weight of his gaze made her feel like he was reading a different story in her words.
She looked away first, suddenly uncomfortable. She tried to remember what day it was. Sunday, probably. The days all blurred together now, each one bleeding into the next. She'd given up on tracking time, given up on her original plan to spend quarantine catching up on Spanish homework and whatever prestige TV shows everyone was obsessing over.
Instead, she woke up early and started cooking breakfast, and she smoothed her body into the finest clothes she hadn't worn since high school. She moved through the house like a ghost, shifting chairs no one else was sitting in, re-filling a mug of coffee he’d already drained, the cold air from the open fridge raising goosebumps on her skin as she reached for cream she knew he didn't take, all so he would watch her from behind the screen of his laptop, pretending to work while his eyes tracked her.
Now Ritchie chewed a piece of bacon, a muscle in his jaw working. He never looked her in the eye. Not when she was wearing this. He looked at the wall, around the room, over her head. She thought about the way he’d been in his goon cave all day and felt a kind of power, a mad, thrilling power.
In the late afternoon, with the sun angling low through the kitchen window and turning the dust motes in the air golden, Evie decided to clean.
She'd changed into a pair of jean shorts and a loose tank top with no bra. When she bent over to pick up the laundry basket, she knew her shirt gaped forward, giving him a clear view down her top. She didn't fix it.
Ritchie was sitting at the table, deep in a work call. He'd been on it for a while, his voice low and flat as he talked about shipping delays and inventory levels. He had his computer set up on the table, a pair of wired headphones pressed tight to his ears. He kept his back to her, conducting his work with one hand draped over the back of his chair.
But she saw the tension in his shoulders as she walked past, the way he shifted his weight. He was aware of her, she knew, even if he wasn’t looking.
She set the laundry basket down on the table behind him, loading the washing machine with his shirts, and when she drew back up to standing, she let her ass brush against his shoulder.
He flinched like she'd struck him.
"Sorry, daddy," she said, her voice innocent. She didn’t mean it.
He was still on the call. He couldn’t respond. She watched him swallow, his throat bobbing, since his mic was muted. She heard the choked-off sound of him clearing his throat.
She gathered the rest of the laundry slowly, bending and stretching in a way that made her shorts pull tight across her ass. She couldn’t help but wonder if he liked what he saw. Whether the curve of her hips and the shape of her legs did anything for him. Whether he thought about watching this for real, not just on a screen.
The sun was starting to set when Evie decided to make her move.
"Yeah, I'll send that over tonight. Sounds good. You too."
He clicked a button to end his call, taking off the headphones with a tired sigh. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezed shut. He looked so old in that moment.
"Hey, Dad?" she said, her voice dropping.
"Hm?"
She stepped closer, close enough that he'd feel the heat of her body. She then climbed into his lap, straddling him, her weight settling on his thighs. She was careful not to put too much pressure on his crotch. She wanted him to feel her, but not to push him into panicking.
Ritchie sucked in a breath, his hands frozen in midair, hovering uncertainly. She settled, feeling the coarse denim of his jeans against the soft inside of her thighs. He must have come from the bedroom fully dressed, she realized, avoiding the laundry basket she’d stacked in the hall.
"Evie—what are you…?"
"I need a favor." She gave him her prettiest, most innocent smile. "You know the website to check the mail isn't working."
"A favor?" he repeated, his voice strained. "You set up the mail table."
"It’s comfier here."
He was stiff beneath her, his body unyielding, his breathing shallow. Her thigh pressed against his, and she could feel the heat building between his legs. It felt like she was sitting on a furnace, a taut coil of energy that was ready to spring.
"Could you reach my laptop from the couch? I think the site's having a stroke." Her words were casual, even as she shifted her thigh against him, deliberate.
He didn't move. Didn't answer. His hands remained frozen in the air.
"Daddy?"
He blinked, snapping out of some kind of trance. His hands slowly lower, resting on her hips. A light, almost tentative touch that could be construed as paternal, as gentle guidance, if she didn't know the truth. She didn't move. Instead, she leaned closer.
"You okay?" she pressed, "You look tired." Her hand came up to cup his cheek, her thumb tracing the coarse stubble along his jaw. "Maybe you worked too hard today, daddy."
She watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. His grip on her hips tightened for a moment before relaxing.
"I'm fine," he managed. "Just… busy."
"Yeah." Her voice was barely a whisper. "You’ve always got a lot on your mind."
She leaned in closer, her hair falling around them like a curtain. She brought her lips to his ear, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his skin, could smell the fading scent of his cologne mixed with something darker, muskier.
"You like this, daddy?"
The words hung in the air between them, soft and treacherous.
His whole body went rigid. His heart was hammering so hard she could feel it through his shirt.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. She felt his cock twitch against her thigh through his jeans, thick and harder than her own racing pulse, and a secret, savage thrill shot through her. He was fighting it. He was trying so hard to be good.
But she could feel him losing.
Finally, she moved. She slid off his lap in one fluid motion, leaving him alone, cold, aching. She padded away without looking back, leaving him sitting there with his hands on the empty place where she'd been. A muttered curse, torn from his throat. The sound of his chair scraping against the floor as he stood abruptly, stalking off toward his room.
She heard the click of his door latch.
That night, Evie lay in her bed with the lights off. She'd changed into a silk camisole and a pair of lace underwear, just a little something she'd picked up online. She didn’t intend to sleep.
She listened.
At first, all she heard was the hum of the house, the steady tick of the clock on the wall. Then, faint and muffled through the walls, a sound.
A low groan. A creak of bedsprings.
Her father's room was only two doors down from hers. The walls were thin enough that she could hear the shower running, or his alarm clock. But she'd never heard this before. Never listened for it.
Now she did.
She shoved her hand down the front of her underwear, pressing two fingers against her clit at the first rough whisper of a moan. She bit her lip, stifling her own sounds as she listened to the sounds he was making for her, for the image of her.
A harsh exhale. The rhythmic squeak of his mattress, like he was rocking his hips. A wet, slapping sound that made her skin prickle with heat.
He was stroking himself. She could picture it perfectly: him in his chair, his thick, white cock in his hand, watching her on that screen. The image of her in that coral bikini, paused so he could look at her face, her tits. The flicker of a girl reduced to pixels and arching for him.
Then she heard it. A groan, torn from the back of his throat. The sound of her name, swallowed and mangled.
"Evie…"
The word was barely audible, a breath more than a sound. But she heard it.
She arched her back violently as she heard it, her fingers moving steadily as a flashfire of pleasure ripped through her. The orgasm tore through her veins, so intense she had to bite down on her pillow to keep from screaming. Her body shuddered and trembled, wave after wave of release washing over her.
She lay there after, panting, drenched in sweat. The silence from his room was absolute, a vacuum.
He'd come. He'd come thinking of her.
He’d always had that power over her, she realized. The power to make her feel.
Tomorrow she was going to make him feel a whole lot worse.
The next morning arrived bruised and gray, light struggling through the clouds like it wasn't sure it wanted to commit.
Evie woke with a heaviness in her limbs and a strange, humming anticipation coiled low in her belly. She lay still for a moment, listening to the house. The silence was different now. Thicker. Charged with something that hadn't been there before.
She heard him moving around downstairs. The clink of a mug. The low murmur of the television tuned to some morning news show.
Last night's sounds replayed in her mind, the broken way he'd said her name. She let the memory sit with her, feeling its weight. Then she got out of bed.
She chose her outfit with care. A loose, threadbare sweater that slipped off one shoulder. Leggings that hugged every curve. No bra again, because she'd noticed how his gaze snagged on the way her nipples pressed against thin fabric.
She padded downstairs barefoot, her hair messy and tangled in a way she knew made her look younger. Vulnerable. Like a girl who needed guidance.
He was standing at the kitchen counter, staring at his phone. His back was to her, shoulders hunched. He was wearing a rumpled button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows—he'd been doing more video calls lately, trying to look professional for his team. She noticed a fresh stain on the cuff.
"Morning," she said, pitching her voice sleepy and soft.
He startled, nearly dropping his phone. When he turned, his eyes were ringed with dark circles, his stubble heavier than it had been yesterday. He looked like he hadn't slept at all.
"Hey, princess." His voice was gravelly, rough from disuse. "Didn't hear you come down."
She stretched, arching her back in a way that made the sweater ride up. His eyes flickered down, then away. A muscle in his jaw twitched.
"Couldn't sleep," she said, moving past him to the coffee maker. She let her hip brush against his arm as she reached for a mug. "Too much on my mind, I guess."
"Yeah." He cleared his throat. "Me neither."
She poured herself coffee, adding cream and sugar with deliberate slowness. She could feel his gaze on her back, hot and uncertain. He was trying not to look. Failing.
"Hey," she said, turning to lean against the counter. "I was thinking. We've been cooped up in here for almost two weeks now. We should do something fun tonight."
"Fun?" He said the word like it was foreign. "Like what?"
She shrugged, letting the sweater slip further down her shoulder. "I don't know. Maybe we could have a drink or two. Play some music. Actually talk to each other instead of just existing in the same house."
Something flickered in his eyes. Hesitation, maybe. Or wariness. But underneath that, she saw a spark of interest.
"I'm not sure that's a good idea, Evie."
"Why not?" She pouted, just a little. "We're both stuck here. It's not like either of us has anywhere to be. And I miss you, Dad. I feel like I haven't really talked to you in years."
She watched him soften at the words. Knew what she was doing. Knew he knew too, on some level.
But he nodded anyway. "Okay. Fine. We can have a drink tonight."
She smiled, bright and genuine. "Great. I'll make us something special."
The afternoon crawled by. Evie busied herself with small tasks, always staying close to him. She folded laundry in the living room while he worked at the kitchen table. She made snacks and brought them to him. Each time she passed, she made sure to brush against him somehow. A hand on his shoulder. Her hip against his arm.
He grew more and more agitated with each passing hour. She could feel it radiating off him.
By evening, he'd opened a bottle of whiskey.
She let him pour the first glass. Then the second.
They sat on opposite ends of the couch, a careful distance between them. But she'd chosen to sit close enough that the air between them was charged, thick with unspoken things.
"I didn't realize you kept good whiskey in the house," she said, swirling the amber liquid in her glass. "Mom never let you drink anything fancy."
He smiled at that, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "She said I had cheap taste. She said it was because I grew up in the Midwest."
"Did she ever try to fix that?"
"All the time." He took a sip of his drink, and something soft passed through his eyes. "She was always trying to improve me. Made me learn to cook Korean food. Forced me to watch all her favorite movies with subtitles."
Evie laughed softly, a genuine sound rising from her chest. "She did the same to me. Tried to teach me how to make kimchi. I was terrible at it."
"You were." He grinned. "You burned the rice three times in a row. She was so frustrated she banned you from the kitchen for a month."
"Hey, I was thirteen. I didn't know you had to watch the pot."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, remembering her. Evie felt the ghost of her mother between them, warm and painful all at once.
"I miss her," she said quietly.
He looked at her; his eyes were heavy. "Me too, princess. Every day."
She took another sip of her whiskey, letting the burn settle in her chest. "Can I ask you something weird?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Weird how?"
"I don't know." She shrugged, feigning casualness. "Just something I've been wondering about. Since we're talking."
"Sure. Ask away."
She set her glass down on the coffee table and turned to face him more fully. She tucked her legs under herself, leaning slightly toward him. "When I was in high school, I dated this Korean guy. Minho. Do you remember him?"
Ritchie's jaw tightened slightly. "I remember him."
"He was sweet. Really sweet. But..." She trailed off, as if embarrassed. "Okay, this is going to sound terrible. But he wasn't very... endowed. You know?"
Ritchie blinked. His hand, holding the whiskey glass, froze partway to his mouth. "Evie—"
"See, I told you it was weird." She let out a nervous laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "But I've been thinking about it lately. Because I've only ever dated Asian guys. And I keep wondering if I'm missing something. Like, is it different with white guys?"
He was staring at her now. She could see him growing hard in his jeans, a tent forming that he tried to hide by shifting his weight.
"That's... that's not really appropriate to ask your dad, sweetheart."
"Why not?" She tilted her head, playing innocent. "You're the only man I can ask. And I'm not asking for details. I just want to know if there's actually a difference. Like, if white guys are bigger on average, or if that's just a racist stereotype."
He swallowed hard. She watched his throat work, watched the way his hand trembled slightly as he raised the glass to his lips. He took a long drink, longer than necessary.
"I don't think that's something I should discuss with you."
"You're avoiding the question." She leaned closer, her voice dropping to almost a whisper. "Does that mean it's true?"
"Evie—"
"Please? I just want to know." She placed her hand on his thigh, high enough to be intimate but low enough to be brushed aside. "I'm nineteen. I'm curious. And you're the only person I trust to tell me the truth."
His breathing had grown shallow. She felt the muscle in his thigh tense under her touch. She was close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath, mixed with the scent of the soap he'd used in the shower that morning.
"I can't... we shouldn't be talking about this."
"Why not?" She pressed her hand down slightly, feeling the stiff heat of him beneath his jeans. He was suddenly hard—so hard it must have been painful. "It's just biology. Sex. Everyone does it."
"Not with their children."
"We're not talking about doing anything." Her voice was a murmur. "We're just talking. And I'm just curious."
He looked at her then. Really looked. His gaze swept across her face as if searching for something, some sign that this was a prank. She held his gaze, letting him search. She kept her eyes wide and steady.
"There might be some evidence to suggest that," he said slowly, "men of European descent, on average, tend to be slightly larger than men of East Asian descent."
She felt a thrill race through her at his careful phrasing. God, he was such a professor. She pressed her thighs together, feeling the heat pooling between them.
"So..." She bit her lip, letting her gaze drop briefly to the unmistakable outline in his jeans. "Show me."
He sucked in a breath. "Absolutely not."
"Why not? I just want to see. Just once." She moved her hand slightly up his thigh, closer to where he was hard. "You don't have to do anything. Just let me look. I want to know what I've been missing."
"This is wrong, Evie." His voice was strained, barely above a whisper. "You're my daughter."
"I know." She looked up at him through her lashes. "But that doesn't change what I want."
"What you want?" His voice cracked. "You don't know what you're asking for."
"I do." She shifted closer, until she was nearly in his lap. "I know exactly what I'm asking for."
He was shaking now, his hands gripping the couch cushions so hard his knuckles went white. She could see the war raging in him, and she knew he was picturing her on the screen, her back arched. Her in that coral bikini.
She watched him break.
His hands came up to his belt, fumbling with the buckle. He was breathing hard, like he'd run a marathon. He paused for a moment, looking her in the eye, searching one last time for any sign of hesitation.
She kept her eyes steady, a faint smile curving her lips.
Slowly, he unbuttoned his jeans and pulled down the zipper. The sound was loud in the quiet room. He reached into his boxer briefs and pulled himself free.
Evie's breath caught.
He was massive. Thick and long and flushed dark with blood. His cock made her mouth water, her heart hammering as she reached out to trace the heavy weight of him. It felt like fire, burning her fingers.
"Daddy," she breathed, the word slipping out unbidden. "You're so big."
He was trembling, a breath shuddering through him. A low sound escaped his throat—pain, pleasure, she couldn't tell. But she didn't pull away. She wrapped her fingers around him, feeling his heat against her palm.
"I need you to stop before I get lost," he said hoarsely, his hand covering hers. But he didn't push it away.
Instead, he pulled her hand gently from his cock, holding it in both of his. He looked at her face, his own contorted with a conflict he couldn't hide.
"Evie," he rasped, "if you don't leave this room right now, I don't think I'm going to be able to stop myself. I don't want to hurt you."
She smiled and moved closer, her breath ghosting across his sensitive skin, her free hand landing on his thigh. "Then don't hurt me. Touch me. Please, Daddy."