My Darkest Desires by James Thomas (red white royal blue .TXT) 📖

legs.

 

"My god, you're sweating." He tests my forehead with the back of his hand. "You're burning up."

 

I wave his hands away. I don't want him to touch me again; I might like it too much.

 

"I'm fine, Daddy. You can stop worrying about me."

 

"Sorry, no can do." And just like that, he's my dork of a dad again.

 

Thunder rumbles in the distance, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on-end. I hate storms—have hated them ever since my mom left me out in a parked car during a thunderstorm when I was little. Eyes trained away from the window, I reach for the water bottle I always keep at my bedside. My dad grabs it first and passes it to me.

 

"Thanks," I say, then take a few gulps. The cold feels good sliding down my throat.

 

My dad watches my throat as I swallow. "Want to talk about it?"

 

My throat clenches. I cough. "About what?"

 

"Your dream."

 

Oh, sure. Why the hell not?

 

"Not really," I say.

 

Lightning flashes, illuminating the room. I brace for the crack of thunder to follow. My dad grasps my shoulders and I can't help but lean into him, pressing my brow to his warm chest.

 

"It's okay, babygirl. Daddy's here." I hear him chuckle, then i shiver as the rain picks up, harder and faster against the metal roof. He smooths my hair. "Want me to stay with you tonight?"

 

I do and I don't. Though the memory of the dream has faded somewhat, I can still feel the echoes of it in my body, the flutter of arousal in my belly, the pressure of his fingers on clit. Another show of lightning, the crash-boom of thunder. The storm is practically on top of us now. My dad doesn't wait for me to respond before he eases me back onto the mattress and slips beneath the covers. He aligns himself with my body, spooning me like he used to when he'd get up in the middle of the night to check on me, and find me crying in bed for my mother. He slides one arm under my neck and wraps it around my shoulders. With his other hand, he rubs my back.

 

"Do you have class tomorrow?" he asks.

 

"Not till the afternoon."

 

"I can give you a ride if you're too tired."

 

"Thanks, Daddy." I smile. "I love you."

 

He kisses my shoulder, his big hand spreading warmth down my arm.

 

"I love you, too, sweetheart."

 

I nestle against him, his form so much bigger and stronger than mine. Hard in all the places I'm soft. I can feel the haze of sleep washing over me, until another crackle of lightning makes tense up and curl into myself.

 

"Shh," my father whispers. "It's all right." He holds me tighter, wrapping his leg around mine to form a shell around me. His skin is hot even through his cotton pajama pants. "Let's talk about your nightmare."

 

My stomach knots. He's trying to distract me from the storm, and technically speaking, it works. Not the way he intended it to, I'm sure. But it works.

 

"It wasn't a nightmare," I mumble. "Not exactly."

 

"Oh? What was it?"

 

I press my face to the pillow. "I don't want to say. It's embarrassing."

 

"Come on, it can't be that bad." He squeezes my shoulder. "Was I in it?"

 

"No," I say, a little too forcefully. "I mean...not really."

 

"Okay." He laughs. "Now you have to tell me."

 

I bite my lips together. Mortification and arousal prickle up my spine. I shake my head, then tense as he lays a hand on my stomach.

 

"Do I have to tickle it out of you?" he says, his tone playful. He flutters his fingertips across my belly, searching for the hem of my tank top. I shriek and wriggle and gasp as his fingers make contact with the soft flesh of my abdomen. My nipples tighten into points and my clit pulses. I picture his hand moving downward—

 

"No!" I cry out, breathless. "Stop it, okay... I'll tell you."

 

He resumes rubbing my back. I swallow thickly, trying to think of a way to play down the sex, to make it sound less perverted than it actually was.

 

"We were sitting on a couch, in a house like the one we used to live in with Mom. Only, I was me, as I am now. Not me back then. We were watching something on TV, I can't remember what. But you were laughing. Then I was laughing. Then... we laid down."

 

"On the couch?"

 

"Yeah. But it wasn't a couch anymore. It was a bed. Like my bed."

 

My father's hand stills. "Okay."

 

"Then..." I pause, not sure how to say it, and so I just say it. "You kissed me."

 

I hold my breath. He doesn't say anything for a moment. Then, "Where did I kiss you?"

 

"On the mouth."

 

He doesn't move a muscle. My stomach drops. I should've lied, I think. Why couldn't I just lie?

 

I couldn't because I promised that I would never lie to him. My mom used to lie to both of us all the time, so my father and I made a pact after she left that we would always trust each other, never hide things from one another. But there had to be exceptions, right? Some things that should never be spoken, not even in the dark?

 

I clear my throat. "It's no big deal. Anyway, I don't have to keep going if—"

 

"No, it's fine," he says. I want to crawl into a hole and die. "Are you saying there's more?"

 

"Yeah." I take a deep breath. "You kissed me and moved on top of me. Then you pulled my shirt down and started...touching me. I think you may have taken your shirt off, too. After that, you put your hand over my panties and just...rubbed me for a bit."

 

He lay still as a statue behind me. I pause, not wanting to go on, but also wanting to go on, because he hasn't told me not to. And because part of me wonders if it might be better to just put it out there rather than let it grow inside me like a wildfire. Devouring everything in its path. I steel myself for the next confession, then pause when I feel movement against my backside. It's a slight movement, but it's enough to make me gasp. He's getting hard.

 

"And then?" he whispers, so quiet I almost miss the question.

 

I swallow. "Then, you put your hand in my panties."

 

It's only then that I notice the storm has passed. All that's left is a light rain plinking against the roof. The sound fills the silence like air sweeping into a vacuum. My father's cock is hard and wedged against my ass cheeks. Arousal washes over me like a full-body flush. I can't stay still. I press my ass against him, and his breath catches. He grips my hip to steady me.

 

"Jen," he says, his voice gruff with warning. "Don't."

 

I freeze, embarrassed. I try to feign ignorance.

 

"Don't what?"

 

My dad lifts the covers and rolls away from me. Cold air hits my back like a slap. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he holds his face in his hands and sighs heavily.

 

"I'm sorry," he says. "Fuck, I'm so sorry."

 

"It's fine," I say.

 

I start to cry. Rolling onto my stomach, I let my tears soak into the pillow as I tremble. My clit aches. This man is my father, my protector, my literal shelter from the storm. He's not supposed to get hard at the thought of touching me. But he did. And I liked it. I really, really liked it. I don't know what to feel anymore. I'm disgusted with myself, yet somehow I'm still turned on. It's wrong. Everything about this situation is wrong. So why does him pulling away feel like the opposite of right? A warm hand rests between my shoulder blades.

 

"Sweetheart?"

 

I sniffle and angle my face just enough so that I can see him. My dad's gaze is pained, twisted with guilt and concern. I don't like that look. He hasn't done anything to deserve that look. This is all my fault.

 

"I shouldn't have said anything."

 

He shushes me softly. "It's okay."

 

"No, it's not." I close my eyes. "I wish you hadn't woken me up."

 

He squeezes the back of my neck. "I'm sorry. That must've been so fucking surreal—"

 

"No—I mean, yes, it was. But I wish I could've...finished the dream."

 

My dad says nothing for a while, and then asks, "Were you really enjoying it?"

 

I roll onto my side away from him, ashamed. The rain has stopped. I listen to the sound of my father's breathing—the only sound in the room—slow and steady at first, then quicker, shallower. The bed dips and he's behind me again.

 

"Remind me," he says. "In your dream, where was my hand?"

 

My eyes flick open as he flattens his hand on my belly. I gasp. "Um..."

 

Slowly, he inches down, until he reaches the gap between my shirt and my underwear.

 

"Was it here?"

 

"Lower," I whisper.

 

He runs his fingertip along the waistband of my panties. I want him to move them lower. He's not as hard as he was a few minutes ago, but he's well on his way. I grind myself against him, and his cock pulses, straining at his pajama pants in a way that can't possibly be comfortable. He teases his hand into my underwear.

 

"Here?"

 

I nod and lift my leg, hooking it behind my dad's knee as he wedges his knee between my legs. I'm so open, so exposed. When he inches his hand down to stroke my lips, my clit is the first thing he touches.

 

"My god, Jen." He circles the tender nub, hard like a pebble beneath his fingers. "You really want me to do this?"

 

"Yes." I rock my hips as he strokes me, pushing back against cock, then forward towards his fingers. Back and forth. A delirious pleasure dance that has me keening for more.

 

"Hold on, baby girl." My dad grabs hold of my waist and flips us so that I'm lying on top of him, but facing away. He smooths both hands over my breasts, then draws my tank top up to my chest so he can reach my nipples.

 

"Oh god," I moan. "That feels so good." I buck my hips, desperate for any sort of contact against my clitoris. He rubs my nipples, then pinched them, all the while kissing and biting at my neck and shoulder.

 

"Your tits are fucking perfect," he says, jiggling them. "I knew they were big but damn, they're perky, too."

 

"You say that like you've been checking them out for a while."

 

He laughs quietly. "Maybe a little while."

 

The crotch of my panties is practically soaked through. I wouldn't be surprised if I'd already left a damp spot on his pajamas. I can still feel my father's cock against my ass, hard and long and thick between my cheeks. He glides a hand down my belly to massage my pussy through my panties, just like in my dream.

 

"Please, Daddy," I beg. "Please touch me."

 

He pauses, as though he's not sure how to feel about me calling him Daddy in this context. I can almost pinpoint the moment he decides he likes it from the way his heartbeat quickens against my back. Instead of reaching into my panties, he slides them off, then spreads my legs. When his hand returns, there's no hesitation.

 

"That's it, angel," he says, rubbing my clit and rubbing my nipple with renewed fervor. It's how I like to touch myself, but the fact that he's the one doing it makes the whole thing hotter. I can only imagine how insane this would look from the outside, me with my legs splayed and my tits out.

 

"Oh, god. Daddy... Daddy please..."

 

I can feel my orgasm building like a storm inside me. Hands grasping at the sheets, I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth and hold on for dear life. My father seems to get the implication, spreading my legs wider with his knees and using his whole hand to stroke me. I come like thunder, a crack and rumble