4. Chapter 4
Iget a dish towel from the drawer and run it under the warm tap, then I clean her up.
Slow. Between her legs first, where it's all running together, my come and hers, and she flinches when the cloth touches her, oversensitive, her hand coming down to catch my wrist and then letting go.
I wipe her thighs, the inside of her knees.
I fold the towel to a clean corner and do her belly, her cunt, and she watches me the whole time with her chin tipped down against her chest.
"You should go up," I say.
"Yeah." She doesn't move. Then she does, sliding off the counter onto her feet, and I hand her the nightshirt.
It's cold and stiff with dried milk. She pulls it over her head anyway, and I walk her to the stairs, both of us barefoot, the linoleum cold under us.
At the bottom step she turns and looks at me, and I think she's going to say something, but she just goes up, one hand on the rail, and I watch her feet disappear one at a time into the dark.
I can't sleep.
So I work the dough. It's been rising on the counter the whole time, doubled and soft, and I punch it down and turn it out on the floured board.
Kneading is good. It's a thing my hands know how to do without me.
I fold it, press it with the heel of my palm, turn it, fold it again, and I don't think about anything.
The oven ticks on behind me. Flour gets up past my wrists.
I shape two loaves, put them in the pans, and stand at the window over the sink while they proof, and the sky does nothing at all.
The bread goes in around four. It comes out at half past, and I know it's done by the sound when I knock on the bottom of the loaf — hollow, like a door you're not supposed to open.
I set them on the rack. The house smells like a bakery, and there's still no light outside, and I sit down at the table in the same chair and put my head back.
I hear her on the stairs before I see her.
She comes down in the nightshirt, and it's wet again already, two dark circles spreading.
Her hair's loose. She stands in the doorway with her arms crossed under her chest like she's holding them up, and she doesn't say anything, and I don't either, because we both know what she came down for and neither of us wants to be the one who says it first.
"It's worse," she says finally. "It's worse than before."
I stand up. "Not here."
She looks at me.
"Your mom's got the fan on, but that door's cracked. She comes down for water, and that's it. That's the whole thing." I nod at the living room. "The couch is further."
She thinks about it for a second, and then she walks past me into the other room, and I follow her, and I know exactly how stupid this is.
The couch faces the stairs. If Mom comes down, she's looking straight at us.
But it's further from the hallway than the kitchen is, and the kitchen has a light I'd have to turn on, and the living room doesn't.
I sit down first, and she sits down next to me, close, and then I pull her in against my side, her head into my shoulder, my arm around her back.
She fits there. She's warm through the nightshirt, and she smells like milk and like the bread and like herself underneath it, and she lets her weight go against me like she's been holding it up all night.
I get the nightshirt up. She lifts her arms, and I take it off her and drop it on the floor, and then she's leaning back against my chest with her tits out in the dark of the living room, and the only light in the house is the little green clock on the stove through the doorway.
I put my mouth on her. She's so full it comes before I even get a seal on her — the first pull and it's there, hot and thin and sweet, and she makes a sound low in her throat and puts her hand on the back of my head, fingers curling into my hair, pulling me in closer, like she's afraid I'll stop.
I drink. Slow, long pulls, and I feel it let go inside her, one knot at a time, the whole breast going soft against my tongue.
But it's not enough. I want more of her.
My free hand finds her other breast, heavy and warm, and I press my palm against it, feeling the weight, the heat, the pulse under the skin.
She gasps, and her hips shift under me, and I know she feels it too — this ache that won't quit, this need that's been building since I walked in the door.
I pull harder, deeper, and she whispers my name like it's a prayer and a curse all at once, and I don't stop.
I can't stop. I want to drink her dry, want to feel her come apart under my hands, want to hear her say it again — that word, that name, that thing she almost says and then swallows back down.
I keep my mouth on her, and I take everything she gives me, and I want more.
While I'm on her, my hand goes down. Down over her belly, which is tight and round and warm, and then lower, into the hair, and she opens her legs for me without me asking.
She's still wet. My come is still in her, and she's still slick with it, and I push two fingers into her, and she arches up off the cushion and bites down on nothing, air, her teeth together.
"Daddy —" she whispers, and then catches herself and doesn't say the rest, and I know what the rest was.
I work my fingers in her slowly and curl them up the way that makes her knee come up, and she turns her face into my neck and breathes hot and fast against my throat while I drink the other side.
Her hips start moving. Little rolls, riding my hand, and every time I pull on her tit, she clenches down on my fingers like the two are wired together.
"I want to be on you," she says. Not asking.
"Then get on."
She turns and swings a leg over me and settles down on my lap, and I'm already so hard it aches, and she takes me in her hand and puts me at her cunt and just sits down on it.
All the way, one slow slide, and she's so wet it's nothing, it's everything, and then she's full of me, and she stops and just breathes, her hands on my shoulders, her tits right there in my face, leaking.
I can smell her, milk and salt and want, and I want to drink her dry.
I want to pull her down and bury myself so deep she forgets her own name.
Her thighs are shaking, just barely, and she's looking at me with that open mouth, that desperate quiet, and I know she's holding herself still because she's afraid if she moves she'll come apart.
But I'm not afraid. I put my hands on her hips, and I hold her there, and I feel every inch of her, the heat of her, the way she clenches around me already, like she's trying to keep me.
And I want her to. I want to be kept. I want to be swallowed whole.
She rides me. Slow at first, grinding down on me, her mouth open and wet, and I get my hands under her ass and help her, dig my fingers in, feel her working me, and the couch creaks and we both freeze and listen and then she moves again, faster, desperate, and I take a tit back in my mouth and drink while she fucks me and it's too much, all of it at once, her milk in my mouth and her cunt squeezing me and her breath in my ear going please Daddy, please, please Daddy, quiet as she can, and I feel that please in my teeth, in my gut, in the way I buck up into her, and I want to swallow that word whole.
I want to give her everything she's begging for. I hold her ass and pull her down harder, let her take what she needs, and I'm already so close, already burning from the inside out, and she knows it, she feels it, and she rides me like she's starving, like I'm the only thing keeping her alive.
She comes first, and I feel all of it — that clamp, that flutter, that grip pulling me deeper, her nails biting into my shoulders, her forehead dropping onto mine, sweat and breath mixing, and she grinds, slow and filthy, riding it out on me until she can't, until she shudders and goes still, and I'm not done,
I'm aching, I'm burning, and I take her hips and pull her down hard, harder, bury myself to the root and come inside her again, and she takes it, takes all of it, and I hold her down on it while it goes, while I empty into her, my hands shaking on her skin, her pulse hammering against mine, and I don't let go, I can't let go, not yet.
We don't move after. She stays on my lap with me still inside her, breathing against my face, milk drying on my chin.
Then the floor creaks at the top of the stairs.
And then it's a footstep, and then another one, slow and heavy, the way somebody walks when they're not awake yet.
Ginny freezes on my lap with me still inside her.
Her eyes go wide, and she looks at me, and I look at her, and neither of us breathes.
The stairs creak again. Mom's slippers, the soft shuffle of them on the wood, and then she's at the bottom and turning toward the kitchen, and she hasn't looked this way yet.
"Ray?" Her voice is thick with sleep. "You down here?"
"Yeah," I say. My voice comes out normal. I don't know how. "Couldn't sleep. Made bread."
"Mm." She's in the kitchen now, the light from the stove clock catching her robe. I can see her through the doorway, her hair flat on one side, her hand out feeling for the counter. "I smelled it. Thought I dreamed it."
Ginny moves. Just a little at first, a shift of her hips, and I grab her waist and dig my fingers in to stop her, but she doesn't stop.
She rolls down on me, slow, and my cock drags through how wet she is, and she bites her lip hard enough to go white.
Her eyes are on the doorway. Her hands are flat on my chest. And she does it again.
"I'll get you a cup," I say, and my voice cracks on the last word, and I cover it with a cough.
"Don't need a cup. Just want to sit a minute." The tap runs. She's filling the kettle; I can hear it, that hollow rising sound. "You want tea?"
"Sure."
Ginny rides me. Slow and quiet, no sound, her knees spread wide on the cushion and her hands braced on my shoulders, and every time she comes down I feel her clench, and it takes everything I have not to make a noise.
Her tits are in my face, still leaking, a thin line of milk running down her belly, and I want to put my mouth on her so bad it hurts, but I can't. I can't move.
I can't do anything but sit here and take it and keep my face pointed at the doorway like a man watching his wife make tea.
"Ginny up?" Mom says. The kettle's on the burner. She's opening a cabinet now, the little click of the latch.
"Haven't seen her," I say.
Ginny's mouth twitches. She looks at me when I say it, right in the eyes, and she grinds down hard and slow and holds it there, and I feel her cunt squeeze me like a fist. My hands are shaking on her hips.
I put them flat on the couch on either side of me so I don't grab her, so I don't pull her down and fuck up into her the way I want to, and she sees me do it and she smiles.
Small. Mean. She knows exactly what she's doing.
"She looked tired at dinner," Mom says. "Poor thing. That far along, she shouldn't be traveling."
"She's fine."
"I know she's fine. I'm just saying." A drawer opens. Silverware. "You want anything in yours?"
"No."
Ginny leans down and puts her mouth against my ear. "She can't see us," she whispers, so low I feel it more than hear it. "She'd have to come into the room."
"Ginny."
"Shh." She sits back up and starts moving faster, and the couch creaks- one short creak- and we both go still, and in the kitchen the kettle starts to rattle, and Mom doesn't hear a thing.
Ginny's thighs are shaking. She's close, I can feel it, the fluttering, the way she's getting tighter and tighter around me, and she's biting her lip and her eyes are wet and she's looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world that exists.
"Daddy," she breathes. Nothing after it. Just that.
I come. I don't mean to, I can't hold it, she's squeezing me and saying that and my wife is nine feet away with her back turned and I come inside her, hard, my hands coming up off the couch to grip her ass and pull her down onto it, and I feel it go, pulse after pulse, filling her up again while she works herself on me and takes it.
She keeps riding. Soft now, slow, milking it out of me, and I'm so sensitive it's almost pain, and I let her have it anyway.
Her forehead drops to mine. Her breath is hot and fast on my mouth.
She doesn't stop until I'm soft inside her and then she just sits there, full of me, both of us, her come and mine and the first load still in her from before, and she's so wet I can feel it starting to slip out around my cock and run down onto my balls.
"Here," Mom says. Cupboard. The clink of a mug on the counter. "I'll leave yours on the table. Come get it before it goes cold."
"Thanks."
The stairs creak. She's going back up, slow, one hand on the rail, and she yawns once, loud, and then the bedroom door closes, and the fan is the only sound in the house again.
"Milk me one more time, Daddy,” she asks me.