The house smelled of pine and old rain when I came home that weekend. Dad was already there, shirtless on the back deck, fixing the railing with those thick forearms I had tried so hard to stop noticing. I was twenty-two, old enough to know better, but the second he looked up and smiled that slow, crooked smile, my stomach dropped the way it always did.
We didn’t talk about it at first. We never did. Supper was quiet, just the clink of forks and the hum of the fridge. Afterward he poured two glasses of whiskey and we sat on the couch like we always had, except now the space between us felt electric. I could feel the heat coming off his skin.
“You’ve been quiet,” he said finally, voice low.
“I’ve been thinking about last time,” I answered. My voice sounded steadier than I felt.
He set his glass down. His hand found my knee, thumb moving in slow circles. “We said we wouldn’t.”
“I know what we said.” I shifted closer until my thigh pressed against his. “Doesn’t change what I want.”
His breath hitched. Then his mouth was on mine, hard and hungry, tasting like whiskey and salt. I climbed into his lap without thinking, knees on either side of his hips. His hands slid under my shirt, rough palms dragging up my back, and I arched into the touch like I had been waiting months for it.
We didn’t make it to the bedroom. He pulled my shorts down right there on the couch, fingers slipping between my legs to find me already wet. I moaned into his neck while he worked two thick fingers inside me, curling them just right. “Fuck, baby girl,” he growled, “you’re soaked for your old man.”
I reached between us, freed his cock, and sank down onto it in one slow, shaking motion. The stretch burned in the best way. He grabbed my hips and thrust up to meet me, deep and steady, the couch creaking under us. Every time he bottomed out I saw stars. I rode him until my thighs shook, then he flipped me onto my back and fucked me harder, one hand braced on the armrest, the other rubbing my clit in tight circles until I came with a broken cry.
We didn’t stop there. He carried me to the bedroom, laid me out on the sheets that still smelled like cedar, and took his time.
Mouth on my breasts, teeth grazing nipples, tongue tracing every inch of skin he could reach. When he pushed back inside me I wrapped my legs around his waist and held on, whispering filthy things I’d never said out loud to anyone else. He answered in that rough, reverent voice, telling me how tight I felt, how long he’d wanted this, how he was going to fill me up.
Later, when we were both slick with sweat and breathing hard, he pulled me against his chest and stroked my hair. Outside the window the rain started again, soft against the roof. I traced the line of his collarbone with one fingertip and smiled against his skin.
“We’re not stopping this time,” I said.
He kissed the top of my head. “No, sweetheart. We’re not.”
The night stretched on, slow and greedy, the way it always did when we finally gave in. And when the sun came up we were still tangled together, the sheets kicked to the floor, the house quiet except for the sound of our breathing and the steady rhythm of the rain.
