Page 115 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

“Fuck,” she sobs. “Nathan⁠—”

“Come,” I order, thumb pressing harder, thrusts never slowing. “Come on my cock.”

She breaks. It rips out of her like a scream, body convulsing, thighs shaking. She floods me, drenches the sheets, nails tearing into my back. I don’t stop. I pound through her orgasm, keep stroking her clit until she’s sobbing with pleasure, until her voice goes wrecked. Each pulse of her climax drags me closer. I grit my teeth, release her leg, and pull out abruptly.

“Roll over,” I command, voice a rasp.

She barely manages it before I haul her up, flatten her palms against the headboard, and slam back in from behind. My hands lock around her waist. The angle is savage and perfect. She cries out, forehead pressing to the padded wood, and pushes back against me, greedy. I rock into her, deep and brutal, the bedframe groaning in protest.

“Talk to me,” I growl, leaning over her, chest slick against her back. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” she gasps, words muffled by the headboard. “I was always yours.”

“Again.”

“I’m yours. I’m yours, Nathan. I’m yours, Daddy⁠—”

I snarl, slam deeper, jaw clenched. The approval in my voice surprises even me. “Good girl.”

Her answering moan is pure devastation. She shudders, nearly collapsing, and I hook my arm under her belly, dragging her upright. I keep driving, keep praising, keep demanding. “Take every inch. You can do it.”

“Nathan—fuck⁠—”

“That’s right. Give me those sounds. Let me hear how much you missed me.”

“I hate—oh god—I hate how much I love you,” she babbles, voice shredded.

“You love me,” I growl into her ear. “Say it.”

“I love you,” she sobs. “I love you.”

“Again.”

She chokes on it. “I love you.”

It shreds the last thread of restraint. I slam into her, hand sliding around her throat, thumb under her chin. “Ride my hand.”

She obeys instinctively. My fingers find her clit again. She’s sobbing, body twitching with overstimulation, but she bears down on me, takes it, hates it, loves it. I keep going until I feel it—a new wave building, slower, deeper.

“Give me another,” I demand. “Right now. I want you shaking for an hour.”

“I can’t⁠—”

“Yes, you can. You always can. My perfect girl. My bride.”

She convulses, keens, body spasming so hard she nearly buckles. I hold her up, keep stroking, keep fucking, forcing her through the quake until she screams herself hoarse. The feel of her clamping down again, wet and relentless, finally drags me over the edge.

“Look at me,” I order, pulling out, spinning her around, and shoving her back onto the bed. I drop to my knees, drag her hips to the edge, and slide my cock inside again facing her. I want her eyes when I lose it. I pound deep, fast, already right there, the sensation overwhelming.

“Come with me,” she whispers, fingers clutching my jaw. Her legs wrap around me, heels digging into my lower back. “Come inside. Fill me.”

I groan, animal-deep. “Tell me again.”

“I love you,” she says, fierce and shaking. “I love you. Marry me. Stay.”

I bury myself to the root, grip her face, eyes locked on hers, and let go. Pleasure explodes, raw and blinding, rippling through every muscle. I spill into her with a guttural sound that tears my throat. She gasps, nails digging into my shoulders, eyes staying on mine even as her own orgasm echoes, softer this time but no less sincere. I pump through the aftershocks, slower now, riding it out, our foreheads pressed together. The heat of her, the feel of us joined, the slick warmth seeping out—it’s everything I wanted for six years and thought I’d never have again.

When the tremors finally subside, I collapse forward, bracing on my elbows, lips pressed to her jaw. We’re breathing hard, tangled, soaked with sweat. She’s trembling against me, but her hand slides into my hair, fingers curling.