Page 19 of Inked Daddies

Watching this pretty thing go at herself, it’s the stuff dreams are made of. Her sweet, soft body undulating, rocking, fuck. I want to be on top of her, feeling her do that. Making her do that.

It’s all I can do not to lose it right now.

But I don’t want to give her the wrong impression. She’ll never want to go at it for real if she thinks I can’t last.

The words come out harsher than I want them to, but I can’t help it. “Put it inside. Go in and out.”

She bites her lip and slides that toy inside her pussy, making me shake. Almost there. She works it back and forth, as if it’s me inside of her. My balls draw tight as sweat slides down my cheek. The familiar throb grows with every stroke. So close.

But then Marie whimpers, “Please.”

I grunt, “Now,” as I unleash myself, coming on the dirt. She grabs her pillow and holds it over her face, but I still hear it. Her cries of pleasure are imprinted on my soul.

Post-nut clarity hits hard. There’s no coming back from this. Not now. Not ever.

If she doesn’t close this window, I am crawling inside.

The thought alone is enough for my dick to try and stand at attention again. As I tuck myself away, I murmur, “Shut the curtains, baby girl, or I’m coming in there to finish this.”

That’s the only way I won’t tear into that house and into her.

As if under a spell, she stands up, and I’m even more stunned. Seeing her from a distance was one thing, but as she comes near to the open window, I can see every inch of her luscious body, and I need to pounce. I could knock the screen out of the way in a blink. I should just?—

She closes the curtains without a word.

The rest of the night is less eventful—just swamp critters and the occasional engine down the street. No people.

Pine needles and twigs crunch underfoot as I make my way to our house. The sun’s starting to rise, and dew coats everything, so my black boots are wet and shiny. It’s just a few miles away, not enough time to figure out what the hell I’m telling the guys.

I have to tell them, don’t I?

Yeah. I do. They’ll want the details.

But I know Sam is gonna give me shit. Hugo? I’m not sure. We’re all tight with Preacher, but he and Hugo have had each other’sbacks more often than me or Sam. Only by circumstance, not by choice. We’d all be there for each other if given the chance.

Which is why I have no clue how to handle any of this.

Our house is a big place, all sleek lines and glass windows, perched on a hill that overlooks the parish. Hugo insisted on it when we were looking for somewhere new, something about needing “luxurious surroundings” to match his “refined sensibilities.” Sam and I gave him shit for it, but in the end, he was the one footing most of the bill, so we didn’t argue.

I kick my boots off at the door, my body aching from staying up all night, and head to the kitchen. Hugo’s already there, sitting at the marble counter with a mug of coffee in one hand and his phone in the other.

“You look like hell,” he says without glancing up.

“Good morning to you too,” I mutter, grabbing a mug from the cabinet and pouring myself a cup.

Sam walks in a few minutes later, his hair damp from a shower and his stubble shaved. Of course.

“You stay at Preacher’s all night?” he asks, his tone clipped but not unkind.

“Yeah,” I say, taking a long sip of coffee. “Didn’t see anyone else around.”

Sam nods, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. “Anything happen?”

I hesitate. I could lie. I could say I didn’t see anything unusual, didn’t do anything out of the ordinary. They’d believe me.

But that’s not how we work.

“We need to talk about Marie,” I say finally, setting my mug down.

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