Page 26 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

His eyes darken instantly. “That’s my girl.”

I swear my knees nearly buckle.

His hand closes around the back clasp and opens it with humiliating ease, then he draws the straps from my shoulders one by one and peels the bra away. The second my breasts are bare his whole expression changes, hunger sharpening into something lower and rougher, reverence laced with possession. He looks like a man standing in front of something he has imagined too often and now gets to touch for real.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs.

His hands come up slowly, broad palms cupping the weight of me, thumbs stroking across the outer curves before gliding inward. The first brush over my nipples makes me gasp and grip his shoulders hard enough to wrinkle the fabric of his shirt. He watches my face while he toys with me, rubbing and rolling and teasing until my head tips back and my mouth falls open helplessly.

“That feels good?” he asks, though he clearly knows.

“Yes.”

“Good.” His thumb circles again, slower, firmer, and I make a sound I absolutely did not mean to make. “Let me hear it.”

His mouth closes over one nipple before I can answer.

The sensation shoots through me so hard my back hits the wall. Heat floods low and immediate. His tongue works me with devastating patience, licking, suckling, drawing me deeper into the sensation while one hand keeps shaping the other breast, massaging, pinching just enough to make me writhe.

“Daddy—”

He groans against my skin at that, the vibration nearly unbearable. “Again.”

“Daddy, please.”

He releases me with a wet sound, then flicks his tongue across the neglected nipple as if he can’t resist evening the score. “Please what?”

I’m going to die in this room or office or whatever liminal space this is between professional ruin and the best night of my life.

“Anything,” I breathe.

His gaze lifts to mine, predatory and pleased. “Careful.”

Then he drops to his knees.

The sight of him kneeling in front of me while I stand half-undressed in my scrubs would be enough to wreck me even if he didn’t immediately start stripping me further. His fingers hook into the waistband of my scrub pants and he glances up first, just long enough to hold my gaze while he unties them. The slow pull of the drawstring sounds absurdly loud in the room. I can hear my own heartbeat.

“Step out,” he says.

I do.

He drags the pants down my legs along with my underwear, bunching both at my ankles, then lifts one foot and then the other so he can remove them completely. The move is so efficient, so controlled, so practiced in handling bodies without ever making the touch feel clinical, that I actually moan at the sheer competence of it.

His mouth twitches. “You liked that.”

“You did that on purpose.”

“Yes.”

I’m standing naked in front of him now except for my shoes and socks, and he runs his hands up the backs of my calves, over my knees, along my thighs, not skipping a single inch, until his palms settle high and firm. He spreads my legs with slow pressure and looks at me with open appreciation.

“Look at you.”

My face burns.

“Don’t hide.” His thumb strokes the inner thigh. “You’ve wanted this too long to hide now.”

I don’t. I can’t. I stand there shaking while his eyes move over me, while his hands keep me open, while the sheer shamelessness of being seen like this by him makes every nerve in my body spark alive.