21. Ari
TWENTY-ONE
ARI
Light caught the fresh paint along the trim as I opened the rec room door, the faint chemical bite of floor polish trailing in after me.
Boone’s new light fixture cast soft shadows across the mural wall.
The vending machine—thank you, Marco—hummed quietly in the corner, already half-stocked with off-brand sodas and leftover Gatorades.
Someone—probably Trent—had propped a half-working speaker on the windowsill, like that would magically fix the broken aux port. It wouldn’t.
This was starting to feel like something. Not just a room. A place people wanted to sit in, maybe laugh in, crash in when a shift ran too long, and nobody had the energy to drive home.
I dropped my backpack in the corner and crouched to uncap a paint can, already humming to myself.
Two weeks in and the mural was maybe two-thirds done, the skyline taking shape in layered lines and warm blocks of earth tone.
I'd blended in hints of fire, subtle at first, but unmistakable the closer you looked.
The captain had nodded with approval. Marco said he got goosebumps.
Daddy hadn’t said anything.
Just stood in the doorway two nights ago, arms crossed, watching like he was memorizing something.
He came in when he could. Never announced himself. Never knocked. One minute I was up a ladder touching up the sky, the next his hands were sliding around my waist, warm and confident, breath grazing the back of my neck.
“You missed a spot,” he’d murmured, voice low.
"Where?"
"Right here," he'd said, pressing his mouth to the curve of my jaw.
I was still thinking about it.
About him .
When he was on shift, I kept my head down. Got work done. Tried not to check the time every twenty minutes like some lovesick idiot. When he wasn’t? I got less done. But smiled more. Let him pin me to a wall once—okay, twice—when we were sure no one was coming down the hall.
“You keep kissing me like that,” I’d whispered, breathless, “and I’m gonna paint a mural of your dick on this wall.”
He’d grinned. “Make sure it’s flattering.”
I pressed my hand to that same spot on the wall now, smirking to myself. Still warm from the morning sun filtering through the window. Still soft from yesterday’s second coat.
I’d gotten here early. Wanted time to work alone. Not because I didn’t like the help—Boone could patch drywall like a pro, and Trent was way too excited about hanging hooks—but because I liked this . The rhythm. The focus.
And, maybe, because part of me was hoping he’d sneak in behind me again.
Ten more minutes passed. No boots in the hallway. No voice murmuring something dirty against my ear.
I dipped the roller into the tray and pressed it to the wall.
Work now. Fantasize later.
Footsteps padded across the floor behind me—quiet enough to almost miss—then the door creaked shut with a soft click.
I didn’t turn around. Just kept rolling the last edge of the top trim, the angle awkward but doable, even with my heart suddenly thudding harder.
“You know,” Daddy’s voice came, casual, just the faintest edge of smugness, “most people take lunch breaks.”
“I’m not most people.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
His heat got closer, slow and deliberate. He never rushed. Never made a sound unless he wanted me to hear it. By the time his chest brushed my back, I was already grinning.
“Paint’s wet,” I warned.
“So am I.”
That earned a quiet laugh from me, low and helpless. “Classy, Daddy.”
“Didn’t come here to be classy.”
His hands slipped beneath the hem of my T-shirt. Just fingertips at first, dragging lightly over the skin above my waistband. I shivered.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” I murmured, still not looking back. “Didn’t you get assigned cleanup duty after Marco nearly set the grill on fire?”
“I ditched it.”
I finally turned. He was close—too close for someone who claimed to be just checking in. Sunglasses hooked on the collar of his shirt, a smudge of soot on one forearm like a badge of mischief.
“You ditched cleanup for me?”
He hummed, not quite yes, not quite no. “Maybe I wanted to see if you still blush when I tell you you’re doing a good job.”
My stomach flipped. “Daddy?—”
“You are, by the way,” he murmured, voice lower now. “Doing a good job.”
And then his mouth was on mine.
Quick at first—hungry, sharp-edged, a little desperate like he’d needed this all morning. Like I was water and he’d been parched. I kissed him back with everything I had, hands gripping his shirt, dragging him in closer. He tasted like heat and mint and too much restraint.
His hand slipped behind my neck, thumb grazing the underside of my jaw as his other palm planted against the wall, caging me in. The mural behind me was still drying. I didn’t care. Let it smear. Let it mark us.
I gasped into his mouth when his teeth grazed my lower lip. He swallowed the sound.
“I’ve got maybe fifteen minutes before someone notices I’m gone,” he said, breath hot against my cheek.
“What’re you gonna do with them?”
“Thinking about bending you over the supply cabinet.”
I choked out a laugh. “You’re not serious.”
His grin was slow, wicked. “Only ’cause you’d squeak too loud.”
“You’re the worst.”
“You’re hard,” he murmured, hand dragging down between us, grazing the front of my jeans.
My breath hitched.
So yeah. Maybe I was.
I caught his wrist. “Fifteen minutes?”
“Maybe twelve now.”
I looked up at him—this man with fire in his eyes and heat in his touch—and nodded once, tight.
“Then make ’em count.”
He kissed me again, deeper this time. Tongue sweeping into my mouth like he owned it—and maybe he did. I couldn't think straight when he touched me. Couldn't breathe properly when his hands were on me like this.
The hand I’d grabbed? Slipped free. Flattened low on my belly, dragging slow and sure over the front of my jeans. I gasped against his mouth when his palm cupped me through the denim.
"Fuck," I whispered.
"That for me?"
I didn’t answer. Just let my head fall back against the wall and bit down on a moan.
Daddy knelt, lips brushing the button of my jeans before he popped it open. His fingers worked quick, practiced, and then I was free, the air cool on my cock. I swore again, one hand bracing on the wall, the other slipping into his hair as his mouth found me.
Warm. Wet. Devastating.
He sucked me in like it was nothing. Like we had all the time in the world. No fumbling. No hesitation. Just deep, slow pulls that made my knees shake.
"Jesus, Daddy."
He hummed, the vibration shooting straight up my spine. Tongue tracing along the underside, slow and deliberate. One hand on my hip, the other wrapping around the base.
Every time I thought I had my balance, he stole it. Every time I tried to stay quiet, he did something with his mouth that made it impossible.
I looked down and nearly came right then.
Him—on his knees, shirt riding up, that soot-smudge on his arm, his mouth full of me. Eyes locked on mine like I was the only thing that mattered.
"Daddy, I?—"
He pulled off just enough to say, "Not yet, baby. I want you right there. Just holding on."
And I did. God, I did. I held on while he sucked me down again, while his hand worked me in rhythm with his mouth, while my entire body clenched with the need to fall apart.
The creak of a floorboard somewhere down the hall snapped something in my chest.
"Fuck—"
Daddy pulled off with a wet sound and pressed a kiss just beneath the head of my cock.
"We’re not getting caught," he said, voice low. "But you’re gonna come for me. Right here. Just like this."
He wrapped his lips around me again, sucked hard, and that was it.
I came with a strangled sound, one hand over my mouth to muffle it. He didn’t stop. Licked me through it, swallowed everything, and then stood up slowly, eyes still burning.
"Good boy," he murmured, thumb brushing my lower lip. "Always so good for me."
I leaned into him, dazed, catching my breath as he tucked me back into my jeans and zipped me up.
"Now get back to painting," he whispered. "Or they’ll know."
He kissed my cheek once, then slipped out the door like nothing had happened.
And I stood there, flushed and wrecked and smiling like a fool, already counting the minutes until he found me again.