Naughty Empire [An Erotic Collection]

Daddy Little Girl _ Chapter 3

Mom left before the sun was even thinking about rising.

The phone rang at 3:47 a.m.—sharp, insistent, cutting through the dark like a knife. I heard her muffled voice from the hallway, then footsteps, the zipper of her travel bag, the front door clicking shut. She whispered something about an emergency at her sister’s place upstate, said she’d call when she got there, and then she was gone. The house settled back into silence, heavier now that it was just the two of us.

I didn’t get up right away. I stayed in bed, sheets tangled around my legs, replaying last night in the kitchen until my skin felt too warm again. The ache between my thighs hadn’t really gone away. If anything, it had settled deeper, like it was waiting.

Around seven the light started creeping through the curtains—soft gold, lazy. I heard him moving downstairs first: coffee maker gurgling, fridge opening and closing. Normal sounds. Safe sounds. Then the stairs creaked under his weight.

My door was already open a crack from when I’d come up last night. He didn’t knock. Just pushed it wider and stepped inside.

He looked different in the morning light. Less guarded. Hair still sleep-mussed, wearing nothing but gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips. No shirt. The sight of his bare chest—broad, dusted with dark hair, muscles shifting as he moved—made my breath catch.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood at the foot of the bed and looked at me.

I was on my back, one leg bent, sheet pulled up just to my waist. My tank top had ridden up in the night, exposing the flat plane of my stomach. I didn’t fix it.

“You’re awake,” he said quietly.

“Couldn’t sleep much.”

He nodded like he understood. “She’s gone till Sunday. Maybe longer.”

The words hung there. No Mom. No schedule. Just time. Dangerous, empty time.

He sat on the edge of the mattress. The bed dipped under his weight. His hand found my ankle—warm, steady. Thumb stroked the inside slowly, tracing small circles that sent tiny sparks up my leg.

“Laura,” he said. Low. Careful. “We should talk about this.”

I swallowed. “Do we have to?”

His eyes met mine. Dark. Searching. “Yeah. We do.”

But he didn’t talk. Instead his hand slid higher—calf, knee, inner thigh. Slow. Giving me every chance to stop him. I didn’t. My breathing grew shallower with each inch he claimed.

When he reached the hem of my shorts—same ones from yesterday, still a little wrinkled—he paused. Fingers toyed with the elastic, not pulling yet. Just resting there, letting the anticipation build.

“Tell me no,” he murmured.

I shook my head. My voice came out small. “Don’t stop.”

His fingers hooked the fabric, tugged gently. I lifted my hips without thinking. The shorts slid down my legs, off, tossed somewhere on the floor. Cool air hit my bare skin. I wasn’t wearing anything underneath again. His gaze dropped, darkened. He exhaled slowly through his nose, like the sight of me stole his breath.

“Jesus,” he breathed again, quieter this time.

He moved then—careful, deliberate. Shifted so he was between my legs. Big hands on my thighs, spreading them slowly. Not rough. Almost reverent. My knees fell open for him. Heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat, in my fingertips, everywhere.

He lowered himself inch by inch. Kissed the inside of one thigh first—soft, open-mouthed. Lingered there. Tongue flicked out, tasting skin. Then the other thigh. Working inward so gradually I started to tremble before he even reached the center.

My fingers curled into the sheets. I tried to stay still, but my hips lifted toward him anyway—small, needy movements I couldn’t control.

When his mouth finally found me, it was gentle at first. Just lips brushing, warm breath fanning over slick folds. I gasped anyway. The sound seemed too loud in the quiet morning house. Outside, a lawnmower started somewhere down the street—normal Saturday noise. It made the risk feel sharper, more real.

He made a low sound in his throat—almost a growl—and pressed closer. Tongue flat, one long, slow lick from bottom to top. Then he paused. Let me feel the absence. Let the ache build again before he did it once more. Slower. Wetter. I whimpered, thighs quivering.

He took his time. Licking in lazy, deliberate strokes. Circling my c**t without quite touching it—teasing the edges until I was squirming. Then finally—finally—his tongue pressed directly over the swollen bud. Soft circles. Then firmer ones. Then a gentle suck that made my back arch off the mattress.

I moaned—soft, broken. One hand flew to his hair, fingers threading through the short strands at the back of his head. Not pulling. Just holding on, anchoring myself while he unraveled me.

He slid his hands under my ass, lifting me slightly so he could angle deeper. Tongue pressing inside now—slow, wet thrusts that mimicked something more. His nose nudged my c**t with every movement. The dual sensation made my vision blur.

I tried to keep quiet—neighbors were close, windows open in the summer heat. Every little sound felt like it could carry. The risk sat right there between us, electric and terrifying and impossibly hot.

His thumb joined his tongue. Found my c**t again. Rubbed in tight, steady circles while his tongue kept thrusting below. The rhythm was unhurried, relentless. Building me up so gradually I didn’t realize how close I was until my thighs started shaking harder.

“Daddy—” The word slipped out, small and desperate.

He groaned against me. The vibration sent a jolt straight through my core. He didn’t speed up. He just kept that same torturously perfect pace—thumb circling, tongue curling inside, lips sucking softly now and then. Drawing it out. Making me feel every second.

My breathing turned ragged. Hips rocking against his face in small, helpless jerks. The coil in my belly tightened, tighter, until it felt like I might snap.

He sensed it. Pressed his tongue deeper one last time, thumb pressing harder on my c**t—firm, steady pressure—and held there while the wave finally broke.

I came with a choked cry—muffled into my own arm because I had to be quiet. Body arching off the bed, thighs clamping around his ears, pulsing around his tongue in sharp, endless waves. He stayed with me through every tremor, licking softer now, gentler, drawing out the aftershocks until I was whimpering, oversensitive, legs trembling uncontrollably.

When he finally lifted his head, his lips were shiny, chin wet. Eyes heavy and dark. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand—slow, deliberate—then crawled up my body.

He kissed me. Deep. Slow. I tasted myself on his tongue, salty-sweet. It made me shiver all over again.

He settled beside me, one arm draped across my waist, pulling me close. His erection pressed against my hip through the sweatpants—hard, insistent—but he didn’t push for more.

Not yet.

We lay there in the quiet morning light. Sheets tangled. Breathing slowing. My body still humming, skin flushed and sensitive.

After a long while he spoke, voice rough. “This… we can’t keep pretending it’s nothing.”

“I know.”

“But I don’t want to stop.”

I turned my face into his neck. Inhaled him—coffee, soap, something darker underneath.

“Me neither.”

He kissed the top of my head. Held me tighter.