Page 11 of Daddy's Girl

“Do whatcha gotta do,” I call after him, but he's gone, the door shutting firmly somewhere down the hall as I squeeze those special inside muscles and grit my teeth, which does nothing to stem the warm wetness seeping into his boxers.

The idea that my throbbing girly bits are touching the same cloth where his balls rest is not helping things at all.

I wonder if they have the same size proportions as the rest of him?

God, if so they would be the size of bull balls. I’ve seen bull balls once at the county fair. Why is that the sudden image that pushes me to the edge of an orgasm as visions of them swinging down low between Jack’s legs turn me on in a way I’ve never been before.

I fall back on the cushioned arm of the sofa, pulling a scratchy plaid blanket from the back over me, but I can’t fall asleep. No way.

After twenty minutes of staring at the ceiling, counting the knots in the wooden beams, telling myself my father’s best friend is not a turn on, oh no, definitely not… and trying to get that image of the size of his,ahem, out of my head—I can't take it anymore. The silence. The waiting. The not knowing what comes next.

I slip off the couch, padding barefoot across the cabin. The smooth, varnished wooden floor is cool beneath my feet. Everything here is so solid. The house, the floor, the sound…

Jack.

After three years of unknowns and barely hanging on, it feels both confining and like a long-awaited exhale.

I work my way down the hall to where he disappeared, but hesitate at the door at the end, putting my ear against the smooth wood and hearing nothing. Then I turn the handle, ninja style, my inner toddler unable to keep her curiosity from more than likely killing the cat. Or the possum, which around here is far more likely.

I’m hit with the warm pleasant scent of fresh wood shavings. The workshop is a cathedral of wood and metal. Tools hanging in perfect order. Projects in various stages of completion. There’s the low sound of Fleetwood Mac playing…Stevie Nicks belting out ‘Edge of Seventeen’…

And there's Jack.

Not working. Not building.

Standing.

His back is to me, one hand braced against the workbench, the other—

Oh.

Oh.

He's stroking himself. Hard, fast, desperate. His bare shoulders bunch and twitch with each movement, muscles shifting beneath his skin.

I should leave. I should turn around. I should pretend I never saw this.

Instead, my stupid brain shuts down and I whisper, "Jack."

He freezes. His entire body goes rigid. Slowly, he turns his head, catches me watching from the doorway. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide, expression caught between shame and defiance.

"You shouldn't be here." His voice is wrecked, strained.

I step forward, barely knowing myself as fascination and lust tangle my brain circuitry. "I've never..." I swallow, then try again. "I mean, I've never seen…like this, before.” I babble unintelligibly, half a beat away from sounding like Oliver Twist...

Please, Sir, may I have some more?

His brow furrows. "Like what?"

"That.” I gesture vaguely toward where his hand looks like it’s about to pull his dick off.

Something shifts in his expression—disbelief, wonder, a flash of that primal possession that makes my knees weak.

"This?” He laughs, turning his body so I get a full view and all those images of the bull come rushing back. He adds a snort, low and dangerous, only embellishing my stupid bull metaphor. "Baby girl, this is aboutneed. You should go back inside. This is a big boy problem and not for a little girl to watch."

I should run. But my feet have ideas of their own as they slide forward on the sawdust.

"Show me," I whisper. "I want to see."

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