Elena barely slept. She tossed and turned in the large bed that still felt both familiar and foreign after months away at college and then moving in with Jake. Every time she closed her eyes, she replayed the kitchen moment: the solid heat of Marcus’s body behind her, the unmistakable press of his thick cock against her ass, the way his hands had gripped her hips like he was barely holding himself back. Her skin still tingled where he had touched her.
Guilt gnawed at her. This was Marcus—Daddy—the man who had attended her school events, helped her with homework, and been the steady presence when her mother worked long hours. Thinking of him this way felt like a betrayal. Yet her body refused to listen. She was wet, aching, and restless.
Around 2:30 a.m., she gave up on sleep entirely. She pulled on a light robe over her t-shirt and shorts and crept downstairs again, hoping a glass of water or warm milk might settle her nerves.
The kitchen light was still on.
Marcus sat at the island with a glass of whiskey, staring out the tall windows at the rain-lashed forest beyond. He looked deep in thought, jaw tight, one hand slowly turning the glass. The black tank top stretched across his powerful chest and shoulders, and the sweatpants did little to hide the lingering bulge at his crotch.
He turned his head the moment she appeared, as if he had been waiting for her.
“Still awake?” His voice was quiet, rough around the edges.
Elena nodded, clutching the robe tighter around herself. “Can’t shut my brain off. Mind if I sit with you for a bit?”
“Of course.” He gestured to the stool beside him. When she sat, their knees brushed again. This time, Marcus didn’t pull away. Neither did she.
For a long while, they simply sat in silence. The rain provided the only soundtrack. Marcus eventually reached over and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on the shell of her ear, then tracing lightly down the side of her neck. The touch was feather-light, but it sent electricity racing across her skin.
“You’ve grown up so much,” he said softly, almost to himself. “Hard to believe the little girl who used to fall asleep on my lap during movies is now… this.”
Elena’s breath hitched. “I’m still the same person.”
“Are you?” His hand dropped to rest on her knee, large and warm. His thumb began those slow, soothing circles again, inching slightly higher each time, slipping under the hem of her robe. “Because the way you looked at me earlier in the kitchen… that wasn’t the same little girl.”
She swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know.” His voice dropped lower. “But I felt it too. The way you pressed back against me. The way your body reacted.” His fingers traced higher up her thigh, stopping just short of anything overtly inappropriate. “You’re hurting, baby girl. And I hate seeing you hurt.”
The tenderness in his voice mixed dangerously with the hunger in his eyes. Elena shifted on the stool, her thighs pressing together. Marcus noticed. His grip tightened slightly, holding her leg in place.
“Talk to me,” he urged. “Tell me what you’re feeling right now.”
“Confused,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Safe with you… but also… something else. Something I shouldn’t feel.”
Marcus leaned closer. His breath brushed her cheek. “And what’s that something else?”
Heat flooded her face. She couldn’t say it out loud. Instead, she turned toward him, and their faces were suddenly inches apart. His hand slid further up her thigh, stopping at the very edge of her shorts, fingers brushing the sensitive skin where her leg met her body. The touch was electric. Promising. But he held back, waiting.
“You can tell Daddy anything,” he murmured, the word “Daddy” carrying new weight tonight. “I’ve always taken care of you. That hasn’t changed.”
Elena’s heart pounded so hard she was sure he could hear it. She placed her hand over his on her thigh, not pushing it away, but not guiding it higher either. They stayed like that for several long minutes—touching, breathing the same air, the tension coiling tighter and tighter without snapping.
Finally, Marcus pulled back with visible effort. He stood, towering over her, and kissed the top of her head. The kiss lingered, his lips pressing firmly against her hair as he inhaled her scent.
“Go back to bed, Elena,” he said hoarsely. “Before we both do something we can’t take back tonight.”
She nodded, legs shaky as she stood. As she walked away, she felt his eyes burning into her back and the curve of her ass.
Upstairs, she closed her door and leaned against it, sliding down to the floor. Her hand slipped between her legs almost unconsciously, finding herself drenched. She bit her lip to stay quiet as she touched herself, thinking of his hands, his voice, his body.
In the kitchen, Marcus gripped the counter hard enough to turn his knuckles white, his cock straining painfully against his sweatpants. He poured another whiskey and downed it in one go.
He had promised himself he would never cross this line.
But with Elena home, looking at him like that… that promise was already crumbling.