Chapter 9 - Tasha
"Inevitable," I just said that word out loud.
Did I really just tell Brock Sullivan—my best friend's father—that our kiss was inevitable? Like some foregone conclusion? Like I've been expecting it all along?
Which, if I'm being honest with myself, I have.
His hands still cradle my face, strong and warm against my skin. The intensity in his blue eyes should frighten me, but instead, it sends a thrill down my body and straight to my panties.
"I shouldn't have said that," I whisper, suddenly self-conscious. "It sounds so..."
"Honest," he finishes for me, his thumb brushing across my lower lip in a gesture so intimate it makes me shiver. "Don't apologize for honesty, Tasha. Not with me."
My ankle throbs distantly, but it's nothing compared to the pulsing need building in my core, the desperate hunger for more of him.
"I've also been thinking about this since the first moment I saw you," he confesses, his voice rough with desire. "I've been fighting it every second, telling myself all the reasons I shouldn't want you."
"And now?" I barely recognize my own voice, breathless and eager.
His eyes darken as they travel over my face, down to where the borrowed t-shirt has slipped further off my shoulder. "Now I want to kiss every beautiful inch of your body."
The boldness of his statement makes me flush with heat. I should be scandalized, should pull back and reestablish the appropriate boundaries between us. Instead, I hear myself say, "Go for it. Consequences be damned."
"There'll be consequences for sure," he murmurs, his lips brushing against my temple, "but I can't stop myself now. You're too close, too beautiful for a man like me to hold back."
"Then don't," I tell him, feeling braver than I ever have before. "I may be younger, but I'm not made of porcelain. Don't treat me like I might break."
He squints slightly as if making a final decision, then surges forward, claiming my mouth again.
His hands move to my borrowed t-shirt, tugging it down my shoulders. His mouth follows the path of exposed skin, trailing hot kisses from my shoulder across my collarbone and down toward my breasts.
I've always been self-conscious about my body—curves too full, breasts too large by fashion magazine standards—but beneath Brock's hungry gaze and reverent touch, those insecurities evaporate. He looks at me like I'm a masterpiece, something precious and desirable.
When he tugs the shirt lower, exposing my breasts completely, I resist the urge to cover myself. His sharp intake of breath tells me everything I need to know before he even speaks.
"Perfect," he breathes, cupping their weight in his large hands. "God, you're perfect, Tasha."
Then his mouth is on me, kissing, tasting, his tongue circling one stiff nipple while his fingers tease the other.
The sensation sends lightning through my body, pooling between my thighs.
When he sucks one hard nipple into his mouth, applying just enough pressure with his teeth, I cry out, my back arching in response.
His hands are everywhere—squeezing, caressing, exploring curves that I've hidden under looser clothes my whole life. But he touches me with such appreciation, such hunger, that for the first time, I feel truly beautiful in my own skin.
There's a worship in his attention that I've never experienced before. Each kiss, each touch feels deliberate and meaningful. I thread my fingers through his dark hair, holding him against me, marveling at how right this feels.
But there's something I need to tell him before we go further. Something he deserves to know.
"Brock," I say, placing my hand against his cheek. "Wait."
He looks up immediately, concern replacing desire in his eyes. "Is your ankle hurting too much? Am I going too fast?"
I shake my head. "No, it's nothing like that. I just... I need to tell you something."
He arches an eyebrow, waiting patiently despite the obvious desire still evident in his expression.
I decide to say it fast, like ripping off a bandaid. "I'm a virgin. And I want you to be my first."
His eyebrows rise, genuine surprise crossing his features. For one horrible moment, I think he's going to pull away, to tell me this is a mistake after all.
Instead, he cups my face with unexpected tenderness. "Are you absolutely sure about this? About me?"
I nod without hesitation. What I don't tell him is how many nights I've lain awake, imagining his hands on me, his body over mine. How many times I've touched myself while thinking about his strong arms, his broad shoulders, the strength and control in everything he does.
"I've never been surer of anything," I tell him, and it's the truth.
"Then I'll take care of you," he promises, his voice tender but still heated with desire.
He kisses me again, deep and thorough, before trailing his mouth down my body—over the valley between my breasts, across my soft stomach, lingering at the waistband of the borrowed sweatpants.
His eyes meet mine, seeking final permission before he hooks his fingers into the elastic and pulls them down my legs, careful to avoid jostling my injured ankle.
I'm left in just my panties, more exposed than I've ever been in front of another person. But the way he looks at me—like he can't believe what he's seeing—makes me feel powerful rather than vulnerable.
"You are extraordinary," he murmurs, his hands running up my thighs with gentle pressure. "Every inch of you."
Then he's kissing lower, over the fabric of my panties, the heat of his mouth tangible even through the thin cotton. I squirm beneath him, gasping at sensations I've only ever imagined.
"Brock," I moan, my fingers finding their way back into his hair, gripping tightly.
"It feels good?" he asks, though he must know the answer from my reaction.
"So good," I confirm, the words catching in my throat.
"It's about to get better," he promises, and then he's hooking his fingers into the sides of my panties, drawing them down and off, leaving me completely naked before him.
He settles between my thighs, his broad shoulders keeping them apart. The first touch of his tongue against my pussy tears a cry from my throat. He then licks a firm stripe through it, ending with a gentle flick against my clit that makes my hips buck involuntarily.
"Sorry," I gasp, embarrassed by my eager response.
"Don't apologize," he growls, his voice deeper than I've heard it yet. "I want to know what makes you feel good. I want to hear you."
Then his mouth is on me again, his tongue working back and forth with increasing intensity.
One large hand splays across my stomach, holding me in place while the other teases at my entrance.
The dual sensation is overwhelming—his mouth hot and insistent on my clit, his finger gently circling where I'm wet and aching.
I've touched myself before, of course, but nothing could have prepared me for the skill of his mouth, the confident way he reads my body's responses and adjusts accordingly. Pressure builds low in my belly, a tightening coil of pleasure that winds tighter with each stroke of his tongue.
When he finally raises his head, his beard glistens with my juices. The sight should be embarrassing but is instead profoundly erotic.
"You're so wet," he groans.
"That's a problem sometimes," I admit, feeling a flash of self-consciousness.
"Not tonight," he assures me with a heated look. "Definitely not tonight."
He rises to his feet beside the sofa, his hands moving to his belt. I watch, mesmerized, as he unbuckles it, tossing it to the floor before lowering both his jeans and briefs.
His erection springs free, thick and hard, and I swallow dryly at the sight.
It's the first time I've seen a man naked in person, and the reality is more intimidating than I expected.
But even as a flutter of nervousness passes through me, I feel my body responding, preparing itself for him, my thighs parting further in invitation.
"I'm sorry about your couch," I say, suddenly aware of the dampness beneath me.
"Don't worry about that," he dismisses with a shake of his head, his eyes never leaving mine as he spits into his palm and strokes himself, coating his length.
He positions himself above me, careful not to put weight on my injured ankle, as he guides the head of his cock to my entrance. The first touch of him against me draws a gasp from us both.
"You're so tight," he groans, his expression caught between pleasure and concern. "I can't promise I'll last long. It's been so fucking long."
"Having you finish fast would be a pleasure," I assure him, surprising myself with my boldness.
A smile tugs at his lips before he pushes forward, entering me with slowly. I bite my lip against the unfamiliar stretching sensation—not painful exactly, but intense, overwhelming.
"Breathe," he reminds me, his own breathing unsteady as he continues to press forward.
I inhale deeply, focusing on relaxing around him, and he slides deeper. My ankle still throbs, but the sensation is completely overshadowed by the feeling of him filling me, stretching me, making space for himself inside my body.
When he's entirely inside me, he pauses, his forehead dropping to rest against mine.
"You feel incredible," he murmurs, his voice strained with the effort of control.
He begins to move, his thrusts measured and steady at first. Each movement sends waves of sensation through me—different from what I felt with his mouth, deeper somehow, more profound.
"More," I urge him, surprised by my own demand. "Faster."
His control unravels at my words. His pace increases, each thrust driving deeper, hitting places inside me that send sparks of pleasure shooting up my body. The sound of our bodies meeting fills the room, along with our mingled breaths and moans.
I can't take my eyes off him—the powerful muscles of his arms as he holds himself above me, the sheen of sweat on his forehead and chest, the way he bites his lower lip in concentration.
He's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and the fact that he's here, with me, inside me, feels impossible yet perfect.
"You're beautiful," he tells me, his voice rough with exhaustion. "Your cheeks flushed red like that… Tasha, you're incredible."
His words, coupled with the increasing intensity of his thrusts, push me toward an edge I've never approached quite like this before.
Pleasure keeps building, a gathering storm that suddenly breaks with surprising force.
My eyes roll back, my back arches, and I'm crying out his name as waves of pleasure crash through me.
He groans in response, his rhythm faltering as he watches me come apart beneath him.
"That's it," he encourages, driving deeper still. "Let go, sweetheart. Let me see you."
I'm still riding the aftershocks of my orgasm when his movements become more urgent and less controlled.
"Tasha," he warns, his voice tight. "I should pull out—"
"No," I hear myself say, wrapping my legs around him despite the twinge in my ankle. "Don't."
He searches my eyes for a moment, then thrusts deep one final time, his whole body tensing as he finds his release. I feel him pulsing inside me, warmth flooding my core as he fills me with his seed, spurt after spurt until he collapses, careful to brace his weight on his forearms.
No man has ever touched me before, let alone finished inside me.
It's an intimacy I hadn't anticipated—feeling him release within me, the warmth of it, the primal satisfaction of knowing he found his pleasure in my body.
I feel it dripping from me onto the couch, but in this moment, I can't bring myself to care about such trivial concerns.
Brock raises himself slightly, looking down at me with an expression of wonder, like he can't quite believe what just happened.
"You're incredible," he says, his voice rough but gentle. "So beautiful."
Reality begins to seep back in as our breathing steadies. I'm suddenly, acutely aware of my nakedness, of the vulnerability of my position.
"I'm a bit embarrassed now," I admit, fighting the urge to cover myself. "Being naked like this, after..."
He takes my hand, twining our fingers together. "Never be embarrassed with me," he says firmly. "There is nothing—absolutely nothing—wrong with you or your body. You're perfect exactly as you are."
The sincerity in his voice brings unexpected tears to my eyes, which I blink away hurriedly.
"Well, there might be something wrong with the fact that I just had sex with my best friend's dad," I point out, trying to lighten the moment even as the reality of what we've done begins to sink in.
He chuckles, shaking his head as he pulls out, leaving an emptiness that I immediately miss.
"That's going to be a problem," he acknowledges, reaching for his discarded t-shirt to gently clean between my legs. "I have no idea how to tell my daughter."
"First," he continues, his expression turning serious, "we need to decide what happens next. Because I can tell you right now, Tasha, this wasn't just physical for me. I want to know you better, to see where this could go. If that's something you want too."
I stare at him in disbelief, my heart hammering in my chest. Is he really saying what I think he's saying? The words I've secretly wanted to hear since I first saw his photo on Ellie's desk years ago?
"I want that too," I confess, my voice barely above a whisper. "I know it won't be easy, with the distance and... everything else. But I'm willing to work for it. To make this work."
The radiant smile that spreads across his face transforms his features with a joy that takes years off his appearance. He leans down to kiss me again, this time with gentle affection rather than desperate hunger.
"We'll figure it out," he promises against my lips. "Together."
As he pulls away to retrieve our scattered clothing, I watch him move through his living room, confident in his skin in a way I aspire to be in mine.
In the meantime, the reality of what's happened—of what might happen next—feels simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating. I, Tasha, just lost my virginity to Brock Sullivan. On his couch. With a sprained ankle.
And somehow, despite all the complications it will bring, it feels like the beginning of something rather than a mistake to regret.