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“Because no one can live on sex and cuddling alone?”
“I’m willing to test that theory.”
I laughed, relaxing into the feeling of being trapped by his weight.
We did in fact have plans to meet up with a small group of my father’s friends and colleagues for dinner. After an early start in the studio—he preferred morning light for painting—we’d spent the afternoon alternately napping and making love. I used to cringe at that phrase. Making love. It sounded so corny. But that’s exactly what we were doing, transforming desire into something tangible with our bodies.
My father’s love was alchemy. He made me into something else, like new growth after a forest fire. Supple, yet strong.
I thought about sex all the time now. The first night we spent together, he joked that he'd created a monster and we’d laughed about it. But it was true.
“I was thinking I’d invite everyone back for drinks tonight,” he said.
“Sounds good.” I skimmed my fingernails down the center of his back and relished the rush of warm breath that followed. He kissed my neck, then rose from the bed, his hair wild and chest sheened with sweat. His and mine.
He stretched his arms and shoulders, smiling with a look that made my skin tingle as if his gaze could physically touch me.
“What?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
“No, really. What is it?”
“I was just thinking I could paint you from every angle and still not come close to capturing the beauty of your soul.”
My chest swelled with warmth.
“I love you, too, Dad.”
He studied me a moment longer, then went into the bathroom to shower. I spread out like a starfish on the bed and listened for the water beating against the tile. I’d join him in a minute. But for now, I simply wanted to lay here and marvel at how this had become my life.
I was in love with my father.
It was like a bomb had gone off inside me, forever altering the landscape. Nothing would be the same again. We'd done things to each other that I hadn’t even known were doable, yet we’d somehow managed to hold off on the one thing I craved more than anything. I was still a virgin, technically speaking, but for how much longer?
Not too long, I hoped.
At first, my father had insisted we wait until I was on birth control. When I suggested condoms, he thanked me for reminding him to go get tested. Then he said he wanted my first time to be something special. I told him every day with him was special, so could he please hurry up and fuck me before my pussy imploded.
That one earned me a time-out in the studio with a box of crayons and a bowl of fruit.
I couldn’t help it. I was cock-hungry. He made me feel edgy and desperate, like my consciousness had been condensed and then relocated to my pelvis. I didn’t like feeling desperate. I tried to be patient—really, I did. Until last week, when all that pent-up frustration came to a head.
We were in the elevator on our way back from a Youth in the Arts fundraiser. He had me pinned to the wall with his erection prodding my backside and his mouth at my ear. His voice gruff and breathy, he whispered in detail all the ways he was going to make me come. All the ways except the one I was dying to hear. Distraught and out of my mind with arousal, I threatened to pack my things and leave that night if he didn’t fuck me.
He called my bluff as soon as we reached his floor, then he called me a brat when I suddenly “changed my mind” about leaving. The gravity in his stare as he assured me that he would not be manipulated nearly plunged my stomach back to the ground. If I wanted him to do this, I was going to have to wait however long it took for him to be ready.
I had a choice. With him, I always had a choice.
I chose to wait.
My father’s phone vibrated on the nightstand. Feeling nosy, I checked to see who had texted him and then instantly regretted it. The text was from Kristin, the model whose job I’d assumed when she’d come down with the flu a few weeks ago. I was pretty sure he had been sleeping with her before I came to New York. In the text, she claimed to be feeling much better, and that someone named Maddox was in town. She wanted to know if my father was free tonight, followed by two question marks and a winky-faced kiss emoji.
I thought about deleting it. I even fantasized about how satisfying it would feel to erase every trace of her from his phone. But that would be petty and childish, and I was working so hard to prove I could be mature.
Leaving the phone on the bed, I tiptoed into the bathroom and slipped inside the walk-in shower. My father smiled when he saw me, his skin frothed with body wash.
“You got a text a few minutes ago,” I said, trying to sound aloof.
