Page 67 of Hot Dad Summer

“That’s not...”

“House rules,” Flynn said, already elbow-deep in the fridge. “New ones. We just made them up.”

What followed was the strangest, sweetest meal of my life. They brought me things. Cold fried chicken from the good leftovers, strawberries, a wedge of the cheese I liked, a slice of the peach pie I’d made two days ago. Wes held the chicken to my lips and pulled it back half an inch when I leaned in, making me chase it, his eyes going darker every time I did. Max fed me strawberries one at a time with a patience that shouldn’t have been legal. Flynn held the bite of pie just out of reach until I grabbed his wrist with both hands and made him watch me take it slow, and the joke started curdling into something else entirely, the way everything had all summer.

“You’ve got...” Flynn’s voice had dropped. He touched the corner of my mouth where the peach filling was. “Right there.”

“So help me with it.”

He did. Not with a napkin.

By the time he pulled back, the kitchen had gone quiet and warm, three men crowded close around the island, my dress riding up my thighs, everybody breathing a little differently than they had five minutes ago. Then Flynn reached behind him without breaking eye contact and produced the can of whipped cream from the fridge door, and shook it with entirely too much showmanship.

“Flynn Calloway.”

“You said you were hungry.” He tipped my chin up and painted a small stripe of cream along my collarbone like he was decorating a cake. “So am I.”

He licked it off slow, and I stopped pretending I had objections. Wes drew a line of it down the other side of my neck and followed it with his mouth. Max stole the can and pressed a cold dollop to the inside of my wrist, of all places, then dragged his tongue across my pulse while looking me dead in the eye, and my whole body forgot how it worked. Somewhere in there I ended up laughing and gasping at the same time, sticky in three different places. I’d spent my whole life making dessert for other people. Nobody, not once, had ever made dessert of me.

It was Max who finally pulled back, breathing hard, his control hanging on by its very last thread, and looked around at all of us.

“I think I’m about ready to take this to the bedroom.”

51

***Max***

Ithrew Daisy over my shoulder and took the stairs two at a time while she shrieked and laughed and smacked my ass like that was going to do anything but make me walk faster.

“Max! Maximillian Richard Calloway, I am covered in whipped cream!”

“And we plan on licking it all off of you.”

My brothers were right behind us, and Flynn was narrating the whole climb like a golf announcer, something about form and follow-through, and Daisy was laughing so hard she could barely breathe by the time I carried her into my room and tossed her into the middle of my bed. She bounced with a yelp, curls flying, sticky and flushed and so beautiful it almost hurt to look at her.

Wes shut the door. Flynn was already pulling his shirt off.

“Your room?” Daisy pushed up on her elbows and raised an eyebrow at me. “Bold choice.”

“My sheets are about to smell like you. I’ve thought this through.”

Her laugh cut off into something breathier when I gripped her ankle and dragged her to the edge of the bed. I’d spent all summer taking sips of this woman and telling myself it was enough. I was done sipping.

“Strip her,” I said to my brothers. “Slowly. I want to watch you all touch her.”

Daisy’s breath caught and her thighs pressed together, and my brothers didn’t need telling twice. Flynn came up behind her and dragged the zipper of her dress down like he was unwrapping a present he’d waited all year for. Wes knelt and slid the dress down her hips, following it with his mouth, pressing kisses to every new inch of skin. She was still sticky with whipped cream in places and neither of them seemed to mind. Her bra went, then her panties, until she was standing between them wearing nothing but the afternoon light coming through my window.

“On the bed, sweetheart.” Flynn walked her backwards and laid her out in the middle of my bed like an offering.

I stayed where I was and let myself look at her. Her heavy tits rose and fell with every breath, her nipples hard and flushed dark, whipped cream still smeared along one collarbone. Her soft thighs had fallen open and her pussy was already glistening, wet and swollen before anyone had properly touched her, her lips parted like she was aching to be filled. Daisy spread out on my sheets was the single best thing I’d ever seen and I planned on telling her that every day for the rest of my life.

They went to work and I watched them do it. Flynn took her mouth first, kissing her slow and deep while his hand covered her tit, rolling her nipple until she whimpered into him. Wes settled between her thighs and dragged two fingers through her soaked lips, spreading her open, taking his time.

“Look at that,” he murmured. “Dripping for us already.”

I moved to the head of the bed and slid my hand into her hair, tilting her chin down so she couldn’t look away from Wes’s fingers working her open. “Eyes open, Daisy. You’re going to watch everything they do to you.”

She moaned, and when Wes pushed two thick fingers inside her and curled them, her back arched clean off my bed. Flynn ducked and sucked her nipple into his mouth, and I held her head still and made her watch her own body take everything my brothers gave it. Her first orgasm rolled through her fast, her thighs clamping around Wes’s wrist, her cries filling the room with nobody’s hand over her mouth for once, because the kids were gone and the house was ours and I wanted to hear every sound she’d make.