Chapter 5: The Morning After
The grey light of dawn filtered through the blinds, striping the rumpled bed in bars of pale silver. David’s bedroom smelled of old laundry, dust, and the faint, sour tang of last night’s whiskey. Beneath it all, lingering like a ghost, was the musk of sex.
Charlotte woke first. She was on her side, one bare leg hooked over her father’s thick waist, her face pressed into the warmth between his shoulder and chest. His breathing was a deep, ragged snore. The flannel sheets were scratchy against her skin. She didn’t move, just let her eyes adjust, cataloging the familiar chaos of his room—the leaning tower of paperwork, the cracked mirror, the closet door perpetually ajar. Her new kingdom.
Carefully, so slowly, she extricated herself from his heavy arm. He grunted, smacked his lips, but didn’t wake. She propped herself up on one elbow and looked at him. In sleep, the lines of worry and awkwardness smoothed away, leaving him looking older, softer. Vulnerable. A thin line of drool had traced a path from his mouth to the pillow. She found it endearing.
Her gaze traveled down his body, the sheet pooled around his hips. His stomach rose and fell, a gentle mound. Lower still, a soft, dormant shape beneath the cotton.
A smile touched her lips. A plan, simple and perfect, formed.
She slid down the bed, the sheets whispering as she moved. The air was cooler down here, raising goosebumps on her skin. She lifted the edge of the sheet and ducked underneath, into the dark, warm cave of his body heat and his smell—that aftershave, yes, but now underpinned by something else, something deeply and uniquely him.
It was dim and close. She nuzzled the inside of his thigh, the skin surprisingly soft. She breathed him in. With a feather-light touch, she took his cock in her hand. It was soft, fleshy, resting against his leg. She gave it a gentle squeeze, then leaned forward and took the head into her mouth.
He tasted clean, slightly salty. She lapped at him, her tongue circling the crown, teasing the slit. She used her hand to cradle his balls, rolling them gently in her palm. She was methodical, patient. A worshiper at a shrine she had defiled and now claimed as her own.
Above her, David stirred. A deep, unconscious sigh. His hips twitched.
Charlotte increased her pressure, taking more of him into the wet heat of her mouth. She hollowed her cheeks, sucking softly, then firmly. Her other hand stroked the length of him, base to tip, in a smooth, synchronized rhythm. She could feel him changing, the tissue swelling, firming, filling her mouth. A quiet triumph bloomed in her chest.
“Mmmph…” he groaned, a sound of sleepy confusion.
She released him with a soft pop and surfaced. His eyes were open, bleary, unfocused. He stared at the ceiling, then slowly, as if dreading what he’d find, his head turned. He looked at her, nestled beside his hip, her lips wet, her hair a mess of gold on his pillow.
Awareness flooded his face, a crash of remembering. Shame. Horror. And beneath it, a hunger that last night had forged into an unbreakable chain.
“Charlotte…” His voice was a gravelly ruin.
“Shhh, Daddy,” she whispered, shifting to straddle him. The sheet fell away. She was naked, pale and slight in the grey light. She leaned over him, her hair curtaining their faces. “It’s okay. It’s just a dream. A good dream.”
She kissed him, her tongue slipping past his lips before he could protest. He tasted of sleep. His hands came up, not to push her away, but to settle hesitantly on her narrow waist. The resignation in his touch was more thrilling than any passion.
She broke the kiss and sat up, positioning herself over him. He was fully hard now, a thick, insistent pressure against her thigh. She reached between them, guided him to her entrance. She was already wet, her arousal a slick, ready heat from the moment she woke.
She sank down onto him in one slow, inexorable slide.
They both gasped. It was different than last night—deeper, more intimate, without an audience. The silence of the morning house wrapped around them, making every sound obscenely clear: the moist sound of her taking him, the creak of the bedsprings, his sharp intake of breath.
“Oh, god,” he choked out, his eyes screwing shut.
“Look at me,” she commanded, her voice soft but iron. “Look at me while I ride you, Daddy.”
His eyes opened. They were wet. He looked utterly broken. And he was rock-hard inside her.
She began to move, a slow, undulating rise and fall. She took her time, savoring the full, stretching feel of him, the way her inner walls clutched at his invading length. She placed her small hands on his broad, hairy chest for balance, her fingers splayed.
“This is how it’s gonna be now,” she said, her voice steady even as her breath started to hitch. “I’m gonna take care of you. You don’t need anyone else. Not Sabrina. Not Marla. Just me.” She leaned forward, her breasts brushing his chest, her lips at his ear. “Your little girl is all the woman you need.”
She fucked him with a deliberate, possessive rhythm. Each downward stroke was a claim. Each upward retreat a promise of return. His hands clutched at her hips, his blunt fingers digging into her flesh, following her lead.
“It’s wrong,” he moaned, but his hips lifted to meet her, burying himself deeper.
“It’s perfect,” she countered, nipping his earlobe. “Feel how perfect we are. My tight little cunt was made for your cock. Admit it.”
He couldn’t speak. A sob and a thrust merged into one frantic motion. His control was unspooling. The dam of his repression, once cracked, was now fully burst, and a torrent of feral need was rushing out. He bucked beneath her, his movements growing ragged, chasing his release.
“That’s it,” she panted, riding him harder, the bedframe now knocking a steady beat against the wall. “Give it to me. Come inside me, Daddy. Fill me up. Mark me. I want it.”
Her words were the final trigger. With a strangled cry that was half-anguish, half-ecstasy, he came. His body arched, spine bowing off the mattress as he emptied himself in hot, pulsing jets deep inside her. She felt every spasm, milking him with rhythmic clenches of her own until he was spent, collapsing back into the damp sheets.
She didn’t stop. She continued to move, sliding on his slickness, chasing the coil of pleasure tightening in her own belly. She reached between their joined bodies, her fingers finding her swollen clit. She rubbed quick, hard circles, her breaths coming in sharp gasps, her eyes locked on his wrecked face.
“Watch me,” she demanded, her voice tight. “Watch your daughter come on your cock.”
His glazed eyes obeyed. She threw her head back, a sharp, high cry tearing from her throat as her orgasm ripped through her, a cascade of contractions that squeezed his softening length inside her. She shuddered, trembling violently, before slumping forward onto his chest, spent.
Silence. Their sweat mingled. The room smelled intensely of them. Of what they’d done.
After a long while, she pushed herself up. She dismounted from him, a trickle of his release leaking down her inner thigh. She paid it no mind. She curled into his side, her head on his shoulder, her hand splayed over his still-pounding heart.
He didn’t embrace her. He lay like stone, staring at a water stain on the ceiling.
“I’ll make coffee,” she said, as if commenting on the weather. “You just rest. I’ve got you.”
She pressed a kiss to his pectoral muscle, then slipped out of bed. Naked, she padded across the messy room and out the door. He heard her light footsteps descend the stairs.
David didn’t move. The physical evidence of their act cooled on his stomach. The phantom sensation of her tight, desperate heat still clenched around him. He was empty. He was full. He was damned.
Downstairs, a cupboard door clicked open. The tap ran. The mundane sounds of morning in his house.
They were now the most terrifying sounds he’d ever heard.