2. Chapter 2
Ihear her bare feet on the stairs, soft, one and then the next, and then the hall floor above me, and then nothing.
I'm hard. I have been since the first pull, since the first mouthful.
It's been pressed up against the inside of my jeans the whole time, and I've been ignoring it, and now there's nobody left in the room to ignore it for, and it aches.
It actually aches. I sit there with my forehead on my palms and my cock straining against my zipper and I think about her mouth.
Just once. Just the shape of it. The way she said goodnight.
I hear her door close upstairs. Soft. The latch doesn't even catch loud.
And then I do it. I don't decide to. My hand's already on my belt by the time I notice, and I pop the button and drag the zipper down, and I get my cock out into the air of that kitchen, and it's so hard it's almost purple at the head, wet at the tip, and the air on it makes me hiss through my teeth.
I wrap my hand around it. Slow. Nothing fancy. Just the grip I've used a thousand times in this house, in the shower, in the bed next to her mother, and I start to work it, and I close my eyes, and I let myself have the thing I've been not letting myself have for two years.
Her mouth. That's what I see. Her mouth on me, that bottom lip of hers dragged down over the head of it, her eyes up, looking at me the way she looked at me across this table at dinner.
Her hair falling forward. The little sound she'd make.
I know the sound. I've heard her make it at the table when something's good, that soft mm that comes up out of her chest, and I put it in her throat and I make her make it around my cock.
The hand speeds up on its own. My breathing's loud in the empty kitchen. There's pre-cum slicking my palm now, and it makes the pull wet, makes a sound.
"Ray."
My eyes snap open.
She's in the doorway.
She's got the water glass in her hand. That's what she came back for — the water she forgot, the whole reason she was down here in the first place, and she's standing in the doorway of the kitchen in her thin nightshirt with the glass in her hand and her mouth open, and her eyes are on my cock. On my hand. On the whole thing.
I don't stop.
I should. I know I should. Her mother's forty feet away and this is my stepdaughter, and she's married, and she's carrying another man's child, and I should let go of myself and stand up and say something decent.
But she's looking at it. She's looking at it like she's never seen one before, like it's something that got left on the counter, and my hand won't stop, and I hear myself say it before I've decided to.
"I can't help myself."
Her eyes come up to mine.
"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.
" My voice comes out wrecked. Low. I'm still working my cock while I say it, slow now, because she's watching and I want her to watch.
She doesn't move. The glass is in her hand, and the condensation's already beading on it, running down her knuckles, and she doesn't move.
"I know what I'm supposed to say right now," I tell her. "I know what I'm supposed to do as your stepfather, but I'm not going to do it."
Her tongue comes out and touches her top lip.
Quick. She's still got her eyes on mine, and her chest is moving fast under that thin cotton, and I can see her nipples through it — hard again, both of them, dark against the fabric, and there's a wet patch spreading on the front of the shirt where the milk's already starting to come back up.
I can see the dark of it. Two dark circles.
My mouth waters and I'm not ashamed of it.
She looks down at the glass in her hand like she forgot it was there. Then she looks back at me and something in her face goes — I don't know the word for it. Settled. Like a decision she'd already made before she walked through that door and just now let herself know about it.
She sets the glass down on the counter. It's the only sound in the room besides my hand and my breathing.
She sets it down slowly, and she doesn't look away from me while she does it, and then she takes a step into the kitchen, and the linoleum creaks under her foot, and the whole house feels like it's holding its breath.
Another step. The nightshirt's swinging at her thighs.
Her belly's round and low and her hair's a mess, and she's got that look on her face, that quiet look she gets, the same one she had at the table the night she first sat down, and she crosses the kitchen to me, and she stops right in front of the chair.
I look up at her. My hand's still on my cock. I don't take it off.
She looks down at me. Then down at it. Then back up at my face.
And she reaches out and wraps her fingers around me.
Her hand's warm. Warmer than mine. She's got a good grip on it too — firm, thumb and the first two fingers, right below the head, and she squeezes just enough that I feel my own pulse in her palm.
My whole body jerks like she put a live wire to me, and I hear myself make a sound, low in my throat, and I don't care that she heard it.
She doesn't move her hand. She just holds it. Holds my cock in her fist in her mother's kitchen at two in the morning with her wedding ring pressing cold against the underside of it, and her eyes come up and meet mine and stay there, steady, blue, asking me nothing and telling me everything.
Her thumb moves. One stroke. Up the underside, root to head, slow enough that I can count the ridges of her fingerprint.
She does it again. Same speed. Same pressure.
She's watching my face while she does it, not my cock, like she's reading me, like she's checking her work, and I let her see it.
I let my jaw go slack. I let the breath come out of me ragged.
She lets go of me. Just opens her fingers and lets my cock drop back against my belly, wet and heavy, and then she goes down.
Not graceful. She's pregnant, and she keeps one hand on the edge of the table on the way down.
She settles back on her heels between my boots and pushes her hair out of her face with the back of her wrist, and then she looks up at me from down there, and I swear to God I will remember that look until the day they put me in the ground.
"Ray," she says. Just that. Like she's checking I'm still in the room.
"I'm here."
She takes me in her hand again. Closer now, and she's got a better angle, and she holds me up off my belly, and then she leans in and drags her tongue flat up the underside, root to tip, slow, and my whole leg jumps and my heel skids on the floor.
She does it again. Longer this time. She's got the flat of her tongue on the vein, and she follows it up, and when she gets to the head she stops and just breathes on it, warm, and I feel the wetness of it go cool.
"You're shaking," she says.
"Yeah."
"Good."
And then she takes me in her mouth.
Not all the way — she's careful, she's testing, she's got her lips stretched around the head and her tongue working underneath and her hand still fisted at the base where her mouth hasn't got to yet, and it's so much hotter than my own hand it's like a different organ entirely, like something's been done to me.
She pulls back off it with a wet pop and looks up the length of my body, and there's a string of spit hanging off her bottom lip, and she doesn't wipe it.
"Tell me if I'm doing it wrong."
"You're not." My voice is coming out of somewhere low in my chest. "You're not doing anything wrong. God. Take more of it."
She does. She sinks down on it and I feel the head of my cock hit the back of her mouth and she holds there, breathing hard through her nose, her eyes watering a little, and then she pulls back and goes again, and this time she takes me into her throat a half inch and I feel the squeeze of it and my hand comes off the arm of the chair and lands in her hair.
She doesn't stop for that. She goes faster.
Her hand works the base in time with her mouth, and she's got a rhythm now, wet and loud in that quiet kitchen, and every time she comes up she drags her tongue along the underside, and every time she goes down I feel the roof of her mouth slide over me.
Spit's running down her chin and onto my balls, and she doesn't care.
Her other hand has found my thigh, and she's gripping it, nails in, hard enough to leave marks, and I want the marks.
I look down at her. Strawberry blond hair falling forward over her face and her belly big between my knees and her wedding ring flashing every time her hand comes up and her mouth stretched around me and her eyes — she's got her eyes up on me the whole time.
Watching me. Reading me. Doing to me exactly what I did to her at that table an hour ago and knowing it.
"Ginny."
She hums around me. That sound. That soft mm out of her chest that I've heard her make at this table a hundred times over good food, and now it's coming up through my cock, and my hips come off the chair on their own, and I push into her throat, and she takes it. She takes it, and she stays.
"I'm close." It comes out cracked. "You should — I'm going to —"
She pulls off just enough to talk, her hand still working me, fast now, wet and slick and loud. "In my mouth."
"Ginny —"
"In my mouth, Ray." And she's back on me before I can answer, down on it, tongue flat, hand flying, and I've got both hands in her hair now, and I'm not gentle about it, and she's making that sound again, and I feel it start at the base of my spine and pull up through me like something being torn out.
I come in her mouth. Hard. The first one hits the back of her throat and she makes a startled sound but she doesn't pull off, and then the next and the next, and she's swallowing around me, I can feel her throat work, feel her tongue press up against the underside of it while I empty, and it goes on longer than I thought a body could do that, and my hips are jerking and my hands are fisted in her hair and I hear myself say her name twice.
When it's done, she stays on me a moment.
Then she pulls off slowly, and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and sits back on her heels between my boots and looks up at me with her lips still wet and her chin still shining and her chest heaving under that thin nightshirt, both nipples dark through the cotton, and there's a fresh wet patch spreading on the front of it where the milk's come back up.
"You're leaking again," I say.
She looks down at herself. Then back up at me.
“Ray, could you help me out again?” she asks.