Chapter 4: The Morning After
The morning light crept through her curtains like a thief, pale and accusing. Frannie's eyes fluttered open to the familiar press of her pillow against her cheek, but everything else felt foreign—the soreness between her thighs, the ache in her lower back, the ghost of his weight still pressed against her skin.
Voices filtered up from the kitchen. Not the cheerful clatter of breakfast being made, but the sharp, brittle edge of an argument in progress.
She sat up slowly, wincing as the sheets slid away from her bare skin. The glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling looked different now—less innocent, somehow, like they'd witnessed something they shouldn't have. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and padded silently to her door, pressing her ear against the cool wood.
"—constantly pawing at me, Dale." Her mother's voice was thin and accusatory, cutting through the morning quiet. "You always want to touch me and kiss me. You're being clingy. Don't you get that I don't like it?"
Frannie's breath caught in her throat. She heard her father's low mumble, too quiet to make out, followed by the sharp clatter of a mug being set down hard.
"Don't give me that," Margaret snapped. "You barely touched your dinner last night. You were staring off into space. And this morning you're once again trying to touch my butt in the middle of the kitchen."
A slow smile spread across Frannie's lips. She pressed her palm flat against the door, savoring the heat of the wood, the vibration of their voices through the frame.
Oh, Mom. If only you knew. He touched another butt last night.
"I'm just tired," her father said, his voice strained. "Work's been stressful."
"Then talk to me about it! That's what husbands do." A pause, heavy with years of disappointment. "Unless you'd rather keep whatever's going on in that head of yours to yourself. Like you always do."
Frannie heard the scrape of a chair against tile, the heavy tread of her father's boots retreating. The back door slammed. A moment later, her mother sighed, the sound so full of resignation that Frannie almost felt sorry for her.
Almost.
She waited until the house fell quiet, until she heard her mother's footsteps retreat up the stairs, then slipped back to her bed. The sheets were still rumpled, still smelling of sex and sweat and him. She buried her face in his pillow, and breathed deep.
School was a blur of fluorescent lights and droning teachers. Frannie sat in her classes, notebook open, pen in hand, but her mind was elsewhere. She replayed every touch, every gasp, every filthy word that had spilled from her father's mouth. She felt him between her legs when she shifted in her seat. She tasted him when she bit her lip. She felt him deep inside her teen ass, how that huge cock had slid all the way up her shithole and how good it had felt.
By the time the final bell rang, she was vibrating with a need so intense it was almost painful.
She drove to his job site without calling ahead. The truck was parked at the edge of a half-finished development, dust coating the fenders, and she pulled in beside it, cutting the engine. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she climbed out, her book bag slung over one shoulder, her legs unsteady.
He was standing near a pile of lumber, talking to one of his crew, a pencil tucked behind his ear. When he saw her, his face went through a rapid series of changes—surprise, confusion, then something darker and hungrier that made her thighs clench.
"Frannie?" He said her name like it was a question, like he was trying to remember how to speak. "What are you doing here?"
"I need to talk to you." She kept her voice steady, even though her pulse was a wild thing in her throat. "Privately."
He glanced at his crew, then at her, then at his truck. "Now?"
"Now."
The parking lot was abandoned—a cracked expanse of asphalt behind a shuttered grocery store, littered with broken glass and dead leaves. He pulled in and killed the engine, and the silence rushed in like a held breath.
Frannie didn't wait. As soon as the truck stopped, she was climbing over the center console, throwing her leg across his lap, settling her weight on his thighs. He caught her hips with a groan, his fingers digging into the denim of her jeans.
"Already?" he rasped.
"I've been thinking about it all day," she breathed, grinding against him. "Every second. I couldn't focus on anything. I just kept feeling you inside me. I want you so much, daddy!"
His hands found the button of her jeans, working it open with clumsy urgency. "We shouldn't—"
"You said that last night." She leaned in, her mouth brushing his ear, her voice dropping to a whisper. "And then you came inside me four times. So stop pretending you have any control."
He made a sound low in his throat, something between a laugh and a growl, and flipped her around. She landed on her back across the bench seat, her legs dangling over the armrest, her jeans already half off her hips.
He pulled them the rest of the way, yanking them down her thighs, letting out a ragged breath when he saw she wasn't wearing underwear.
"Jesus, Frannie."
"Couldn't find panties this morning," she said, grinning up at him. "I was in a hurry."
He leaned over her, caging her in with his arms, and kissed her—hard and desperate and full of teeth. She moaned into his mouth, her hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer.
"The back," she gasped between kisses. "I want the back seat."
He grabbed her by the hips, hauling her out of the cab. The air was cool on her bare skin, but she barely felt it. He yanked open the rear door and practically threw her inside. She landed on the worn upholstery, laughing, legs already spreading.
He climbed in after her, the truck rocking with his weight, and settled between her thighs. His jeans were already open, his cock hard and leaking. He looked at her, sprawled beneath him, and something in his face cracked open.
"You're going to wreck me," he said, and it didn't sound like a complaint.
"Good." She reached down, wrapping her hand around his shaft, stroking him slow. "Maybe then you'll finally stop thinking about her."
He slammed into her without warning, burying himself to the hilt, and Frannie cried out—a sharp, grateful sound swallowed by the close air of the truck's cab. His mouth found her throat, teeth grazing her skin, and she clawed at his shoulders, pulling him closer.
"Fuck," she panted. "Yes, Daddy. Give it to me."
He did. He fucked her like a starving man at a feast—hard and fast and brutal, the truck rocking on its springs, their bodies slapping together with wet, obscene sounds. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her heels digging into his ass, urging him deeper.
He flipped her onto her stomach, grabbing a handful of her hair and yanking her head back. He drove into her from behind, his other hand gripping her hip hard enough to bruise. She gasped, her cheek pressed against the dusty upholstery, her fingers curling into the seat cushions.
"That's it," she moaned. "Right there. Don't stop."
The first orgasm hit her like a wave, crashing through her body, wrenching a scream from her throat. But he didn't slow down. He kept pounding into her, chasing his own completion, and she felt herself climbing again, the second wave building even as the first still echoed.
"Come again," he grunted. "Come on my cock like you did last night."
She did. She came with a sob, her body convulsing, her vision going white. He followed moments later, slamming deep and holding, emptying himself inside her with a guttural roar.
They collapsed together, a tangle of limbs and sweat and shaking breath. The truck was quiet except for their panting. The windows had fogged up, turning the world outside into a blurry, distant dream.
Frannie lay beneath him, utterly spent, a lazy smile curving her lips. "Told you," she murmured. "I can take care of you better than anyone."
Dale pressed his forehead to the back of her neck, his breathing still ragged. "You're going to kill me," he whispered.
She laughed, soft and warm, and reached back to run her fingers through his sweat-damp hair. "Not today, Daddy. Today I just want you."
He kissed her shoulder, lingering. Then he pulled out with a wince, the condom nowhere to be seen because he hadn't bothered with one. She felt his spend leaking out of her, a warm trickle down her thigh, and she didn't mind at all.
"We should get you home," he said, but his voice was heavy, reluctant.
"Five more minutes," she said, turning her head to look at him. "Just five more minutes of us pretending the world doesn't exist."
He looked at her—messy hair, flushed cheeks, lips swollen from his mouth—and he knew he'd give her anything. "Five minutes," he agreed.
She curled into his side, her head on his chest, and listened to his heartbeat slow. She felt the stickiness between her legs, the soreness spreading through her muscles, the deep, primal satisfaction of being utterly claimed.
Tomorrow, she'd do it again. And the day after that. And every day she could.
Her father was hers now. And she was never letting go.
The engine coughed to life, the truck shuddering beneath them as he shifted into gear. Frannie pulled her jeans up, skin still damp, and settled into the passenger seat with the kind of contentment that belonged to the very young and the very wicked.
He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on her thigh. When he glanced at her, there was something unreadable in his eyes—fear and wonder and hunger all tangled together.
She smiled at him, sweet and sharp, and placed her hand on top of his. In all her 18 years, she had never felt better.