Touch Me, Daddy

8 - Greg.

I can't believe I'm doing this.

Can't believe we're doing this.

I change my bed sheets with shaking hands, my heart thumping so loud I bet Tessa can hear it all the way from the bathroom. Every now and then, I hear the gentle slosh of water. The click of a shampoo bottle cap.

She's here. Inside my house.

In my goddamn bathtub. Wet and soft and naked.

Fuck. No, I can't let my mind go there. Not when Tessa could get out any second, could pad down the hallway into the bedroom with nothing but trust in her eyes. If she saw the hunger gripping me, if she saw my c**k swollen behind my fly, she'd never trust me again. She'd run screaming out into the street.

And I don't know exactly what's happening between us tonight, don't fully understand it—all I know is, it's sweet relief to my soul. Like a drink of cool water after a long, hot day. Like flying down a long stretch of open road, an engine roaring between my thighs.

Tessa wants me to take care of her? No strings attached?

Fuck. I'm happy to do it. I'm blessed.

Because I'd rather spend my life putting that young woman to bed, and driving her home from work, and stocking her fridge with groceries, than bedding someone else. Someone else that don't want me fully. She's it for me. And I can tell that Tessa is very appreciative. She's always been.

"Greg?" Tessa's smile is shy as she hovers in the bedroom doorway, my heather gray t-shirt falling almost to her knees. She's toweled her hair until it's damp rather than soaked, but it's still seeping into the fabric. Creating dark spots.

I beckon her inside, my chest so full. Flip the corner of the bed sheet back. "Come here."

The scent of tea tree and mint follows Tessa into my bedroom. Her bare thighs are tanned and muscular, strong from cycling everywhere, and I choke back a groan as she crawls into the center of my bed. She flops back against the pillows, her black hair sprawling in damp waves.

I tug the bed sheet over her body. Let it settle over her curves.

And if we lived somewhere colder, if I could pile more blankets on her, maybe this would be less of a torment. Maybe I'd see less of her body; maybe I wouldn't be half-wondering if those are her hard n*****s I can see.

"You smell nice," I grunt.

Always the smooth talker.

But Tessa smiles up at me, and there's so much peace in her eyes, so much warmth and comfort that I can barely breathe. I didn't even realize before how tired she was, how much strain she was carrying, until finally seeing it lift away.

I swallow hard. What happens next? I've never put someone to bed before.

"I'll be downstairs if you need anything." I lean down before I can stop myself, brushing a bristly kiss on Tessa's forehead. Her skin is so soft, and when I straighten up, she looks as dazed as I feel.

And god help me, I am not a good man. I'm not as trustworthy as she thinks. Because all I want to do is tear that sheet away and climb on top of her; to bury my face in Tessa's throat and inhale that mint smell, all while rutting between her soft thighs.

"Goodnight," I rasp, stumbling for the door.

Thoughts aren't deeds.

And I will never make Tessa regret coming to me for care.

* * *

The next morning, Tessa pads down the stairs so softly that I don't hear her coming until she's almost on top of me. She stands over the sofa where I'm crashed out, her black hair mussed and her eyes bleary, and she rubs one eye as she gives me a sleepy smile.

Fuck.

Thank god I slept in my jeans and a shirt. It was uncomfortable, but it's saving my dignity right now. One glimpse of Tessa and my c**k's surging to life, pressing against the teeth of my fly.

"Uh." I heave myself upright, the sofa groaning beneath me. My mouth feels like it's full of sand, and I carefully aim my face away. "Morning, honey."

Tessa's smile is so sweet, it breaks my heart. Shatters it inside my rib cage.

"Morning. Um. I was thinking I could make us pancakes? To say thank you for last night?"

She doesn't need to thank me for it—I consider myself lucky for having that privilege. For being trusted to take care of her. But hell, my stomach's growling and Tessa looks so hopeful, and I've always had a sweet tooth.

"Sounds good." My joints pop as I shove to my feet, making sure to keep the sofa between us. If Tessa notices, she doesn't say a thing. "I'll go wash up."

Because I don't like her seeing me like this. Must be so off-putting.

I'll come closer once I'm clean with minty breath and fresh clothes.

When I clatter back down the stairs twenty minutes later, beard damp and body squeaky clean, I find my guest stirring a mixing bowl by the kitchen counter. She's still in that borrowed gray shirt, her bare legs tanned and golden below, and the sight of her bare feet makes something clench deep inside me.

It's so vulnerable. So domestic.

Is this what it would be like? If she really was mine?

The early morning light cuts into the kitchen in a golden shaft, making the white tiles sparkle and picking out reddish strands in Tessa's hair.

"I'm pretty sure I remember the recipe." She wrinkles her nose at the bowl. "Well. Eighty percent sure."

I don't care. She could make the world's worst pancake and I'd eat it with a smile on my face.

The kitchen tiles are cool beneath my bare feet as I move to stand behind her.

"Looks good to me." I'm not really looking in the bowl. I'm staring at her slender shoulders, the t-shirt slipping to show a few inches of collarbone; the curl of her dark hair behind her ear; the swell of her t**s behind gray cotton. As I watch, my hot breath misting against her neck, those n*****s harden into two points.

Fuck. f**k.

Tessa's rhythm falters, but she keeps stirring the mixture, her grip tight on the wooden spoon. And her voice is breathy when she glances back at me. "Won't be long. Just a few more minutes."

* * *

We eat side by side at the kitchen table—until Tessa pushes to her feet, fork clattering to her plate. I let her shove me back, let her move me around like scenery, stunned into silence, until she settles her ass down on my thigh and starts eating again, perched on my lap.

Tessa doesn't explain herself.

I don't ask. I just wrap an arm around her waist and hug her tight.

God. What the hell am I doing here?