After his wife’s funeral, a grieving father and his newly 18-year-old daughter cross a line neither can take back in the quiet of their empty house.
The house is too quiet.
That’s the first thing you notice when you stumble into the kitchen, the whiskey burning a path down your throat that doesn’t quite take the edge off the grief. The clock ticks like a metronome counting down to something you can’t name. The fridge hums. Ice clinks in your glass when you pour another finger, amber liquid sloshing over the rim and dripping onto your knuckles like a slow sticky confession.
You shouldn’t be this drunk. You know that.
But your wife’s side of the bed is still cold, and the funeral was today, and your daughter, fuck, your daughter just turned eighteen last month. Now it’s just the two of you in this goddamn mausoleum of a house and you don’t know how to breathe without her mother’s laughter in the halls.
You hear her before you see her.
A soft rustle of cotton against skin. Bare feet on hardwood. The scent of her shampoo, something floral and sweet, curling around you like a question. You turn and there she is in the doorway, hair still damp from the shower, wearing your oversized T-shirt, the one she stole years ago and never gave back. It clings to curves she didn’t used to have. The hem rides high on her thighs and the fabric is thin enough that you can see the shadow of her nipples underneath, tight and curious.
She freezes when she sees you. Not in fear. In recognition.
“Dad,” she murmurs, and your name on her lips does something wrong to your chest. “You’re drunk.”
You should look away. You should.
But you don’t.
Instead you let your gaze drag down her body, slow and heavy, like a hand you’re not brave enough to put on her. You watch her breath hitch and her fingers twist in the fabric at her hip. She’s not innocent, not really. She’s eighteen. She’s seen things. Felt things. And right now, the way her thighs press together and her tongue darts out to wet her lower lip, she’s thinking about them.
“Yeah,” you slur, but it’s not the alcohol making your voice rough. It’s the way her nipples pebble harder under your stare. It’s the way her breath comes faster, shallow little pants that make her chest rise and fall.
She takes a step closer. Then another.
The air between you feels thick and charged, like the moment before a storm breaks. You can smell her, soap and something warmer, something musky, the scent of a body waking up to its own hunger. Your cock twists in your jeans, heavy and traitorous, and when her fingers brush your wrist as she reaches for the bottle you jolt, a shudder running through you that has nothing to do with the whiskey.
“You shouldn’t drink alone,” she says, but her voice is breathy and her eyes are dark as she tilts her head, just slightly, exposing the line of her throat.
You could kiss her there. Right there. You could press your mouth to that fluttering pulse and feel her heartbeat against your lips.
You shouldn’t.
But god, you want to.
Her fingers curl around the neck of the bottle and her knuckles graze yours. The contact is electric. Forbidden. Perfect.
“Baby girl,” you rasp, and her eyelashes flutter. Her breath catches at the nickname she hasn’t heard in years. Not since she grew tits. Not since she started filling out in ways that made your throat go dry.
She licks her lips again. “Yeah, Dad?”
That’s when you lose it.
Your hand snakes out, fingers tangling in her damp hair, yanking her forward until her body collides with yours. You feel the heat of her through the thin cotton and her gasp gets swallowed by your mouth crashing down on hers.
She melts.
Not in surprise. In surrender.
Her lips part under yours. Her tongue is slick and shy at first, then bolder, hungrier. She moans into your mouth, hands clutching at your shirt like she’s drowning and you’re the only air left. You groan, the sound raw, and your free hand slides down to grip her ass, hauling her up against you so she can feel exactly what she’s doing to you. The ridge of your cock presses against her stomach, thick and demanding, and she whimpers, hips rolling instinctively, seeking friction.
“Fuck,” you growl against her lips, fingers tightening in her hair as you tilt her head back and kiss her deeper, harder, teeth nipping at her lower lip until she whines. “You’re so fucking perfect. So sweet.”
She arches into you. Her back hits the counter. The bottle of whiskey rolls away and shatters on the floor, but neither of you care. Her legs spread, cradling your hips, and you grind against her, the friction maddening, denim rough against the softness of her thighs.
“Dad,” she pants, nails digging into your shoulders, voice wrecked and needy. “Please.”
You don’t ask what she’s begging for.
You know.
Your hand slides up her thigh, pushing the hem of the shirt higher until your fingers brush the damp heat of her. Her panties are already soaked through. She jerks, a broken sound tearing from her throat as you press the pad of your finger against her clit and circle it slow while your mouth keeps devouring hers.
“You’re dripping,” you snarl. “Is this for me, baby? Have you been thinking about this?”
She whines, hips bucking against your hand, body begging even as her mind tries to catch up. “I… I don’t know.”
You pinch her clit just hard enough to make her scream, her back bowing off the counter. “Liar,” you murmur against her throat, tasting the salt of her skin and the wild pulse beneath. “You’ve fantasized. Haven’t you? About your daddy’s hands on you. His mouth.”
She nods, a broken needy sound escaping her as your fingers hook into the waistband of her panties and yank them down her legs. The air hits her bare glistening cunt and you groan at the sight of her, so pink, so wet, so fucking yours. Your cock throbs painfully.
“Spread your legs,” you tell her, voice rough, and she does it instantly, thighs falling open, offering herself up like the good girl she is.
You drop to your knees.
The first lick is slow and teasing. A flat broad stroke of your tongue from her entrance to her clit, savoring the way she tastes, sweet and tangy. She cries out, fingers tangling in your hair, hips lifting off the counter to chase your mouth.
“Daddy, please.”
You chuckle against her and the vibration makes her shudder. “Since you asked so nicely.”
Then you feast.
Your tongue spears into her, fucking her in deep wet strokes while your thumb works her clit, relentless. She’s soaking you, thighs trembling, moans getting louder and more desperate as her body tightens like a bowstring about to snap.
“That’s it,” you growl against her, breath hot on her slick folds. “Come on my tongue, baby. Let me taste it.”
She shatters with a scream, back arching, cunt pulsing around your tongue as she comes. Her release floods your mouth, sweet and thick. You keep lapping at her, drawing out every last tremor until she’s boneless and panting, chest heaving, skin flushed and glowing.
You stand and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. Your cock is a steel rod in your jeans, aching. Her eyes are glazed, lips swollen from your kisses. When she reaches for your belt, fingers fumbling with the buckle, you don’t stop her.
You can’t.
The zipper comes down with a hiss and your cock springs free, thick and veined and already leaking for her. She wraps her small hand around you, thumb swiping over the slick head, and you hiss as your hips jerk into her touch.
“Fuck, baby.”
She looks up at you through her lashes, voice a soft sultry whisper. “I want you inside me, Daddy. Please.”
That’s all it takes.
You lift her off the counter. Her legs wrap around your waist as you carry her to the kitchen table and sweep everything off it with a crash. Plates, glasses, none of it matters. You lay her down on the cool wood. She spreads for you, knees falling open, cunt glistening and ready, and you slam into her in one brutal thrust.
She screams, nails raking down your back as her body stretches to take you. She’s so tight, so hot, walls clenching around you like a fist.
“Fuck,” you groan, hips snapping forward, driving into her with deep punishing strokes. The table creaks under you. “You take me so good, baby. Like you were made for this.”
She moans, head thrashing, tits bouncing with every thrust, cunt fluttering around you, milking you.
“Harder,” she gasps, legs locking around your waist, heels digging into your ass. “Fuck me harder, Daddy.”
You obey.
The kitchen disappears. The world narrows down to the slick sounds of your bodies slapping together, the way her cunt grips you like a vice, the desperate needy noises spilling from her lips. You pound into her, balls drawing up, spine tingling with the promise of release.
“Come for me,” you demand, voice guttural. “Come on my cock, baby. Now.”
Her back arches. Her mouth opens in a silent scream as the orgasm crashes over her. Her cunt clamps down around you, walls rippling and milking you over the edge. You roar, hips stuttering as you bury yourself to the hilt and pulse deep inside her, filling her with thick hot ropes of cum, marking her, claiming her.
You collapse over her, forehead pressed to hers, both of you breathing hard. Your bodies are slick with sweat and the air smells like sex.
Her fingers card through your hair. Her voice is soft and sated.
“Again?”
You groan, already hardening inside her.
“Oh, baby girl. We’re only just getting started.”
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