Chapter 9 Este
ESTE
So.
Not my best attempt at seduction. But not my worst.
Have I ever made a guy storm off, looking like the weight of the world was on his shoulders? No. But have I ever undone someone with a simple five-letter word? Also no.
Daddy. Of all the kinks I’ve been drawn to, this one hasn’t been on my radar.
I have one more dad than your average person, and a great relationship with both Pops and Dad.
It’s never even occurred to me to call a man “Daddy” in a sexy way.
But something about Nico… It just felt like the right thing to say. And I liked it. A lot.
And Nico liked it, too. A lot. Which would be a good thing, if he didn’t clearly hate himself for it.
I lean back against the cabin wall and close my eyes, letting out a long sigh.
He wants me. But that doesn’t mean much if he won’t let himself have me. And I would very much like to be had.
I pull my phone out of my boot because this ridiculous outfit doesn’t have pockets, and pull up Sloane’s contact before stopping myself. What am I doing? I do not need to call my twenty-three-year-old sister for sex advice.
Sloane was right that I need to have more fun, but Nico does, too. I push off the wall and square my shoulders. I can do this.
My legs are freezing as I scuttle back up the stairs, checking on the dogs to make sure they’re not ready to come in, and push through the front door. I don’t expect to find Nico sitting on the edge of the sofa bed, his head in his hands.
Shit. Maybe I can’t do—no, I can.
“I thought you’d have run away to your room,” I say, closing the door behind me, setting my phone on the key table beside the door, and kicking off my boots.
“Hadn’t made it that far yet.” His voice is gruff, skating over my skin and leaving goosebumps in its wake.
I hum and crouch down to straighten my boots. He could’ve easily made it upstairs, but he didn’t. And he had to know I would be coming in here.
When I stand back up, he’s watching me. Even from the door, I can see his eyes are hungry.
It’s the sign I need to cross the room and step between his legs.
He looks up at me, his jaw tight, and a lock of hair falls across his forehead.
I brush it away, and he swallows when my finger grazes his skin.
“Este.”
“What?” I run my finger down his cheek, his jaw, until my hand is on his shoulder.
“What are you doing?”
He doesn’t shrug my hand off, and I take that as a good sign. My hand isn’t enough, though. I straddle his lap, my legs on either side of his, looping my arms around his neck.
“You’re a smart man. You know what I’m doing.”
Nico sucks in a breath as I shift on his lap. My shorts are thin, and his jeans feel so fucking good pressed against me.
And I can feel exactly how hard Nico wants this. How hard he wants me.
“Angel. We can’t,” he rasps.
“You don’t want to?” I challenge him.
“You know I do.”
I run my thumb over the nape of his neck, and his eyes flutter closed. “Then give me one good reason we can’t.”
“You’re twenty-six.”
“I said a good reason. Not something you can find on my driver’s license.”
“Your dad is my best friend.”
“Better. But I don’t typically talk to my dad about my sex life. Do you?”
He’s quiet for a moment, like he’s searching for an argument. “No.”
“Well, then. He doesn’t have to know. No one has to know.”
Nico’s gaze bores into me, searching every inch of my face. “Why? Why do you want this?”
What he means is “why do you want me?” I hate that he’s even questioning it.
“I dream about you. Since the first night I got here. Pretty much every night,” I tell him, and his eyes widen.
“Good dreams?”
I lean closer to him, my lips hovering just above his, but not quite close enough to touch.
“Very good dreams. But I’m pretty sure the real thing would be better.
” I shift in his lap, and a curse I wish I could taste spills from his mouth.
“Come on. It doesn’t count if it’s just once,” I say, fully aware that I don’t want “just once.”
He shakes his head, his expression tortured. “I promised I’d take care of you.”
I should’ve known my dad wouldn’t only ask that of me. Unfortunately for Nico, I’m twisted enough to use it to my advantage. But I promise to make it very fortunate.
“So, take care of me,” I say, brushing my lips across his jaw until I can whisper in his ear. “Make me feel better. It hurts, Daddy.”
One word shouldn’t hold so much power, but the effect is instant.
Nico sucks in a breath, and then he’s standing up, gripping me tight.
I barely have time to blink before he turns and sets me down, not entirely gently, on the bed.
He stands to full height, and I look up at him, towering over me. My mouth waters.
His gaze is intense, burning me up. Truthfully, I think I could come just from him looking at me like this. But that wouldn’t be as fun.
Nico leans down. Thank fuck he’s finally going to touch—oh. He picks up Amelia Bearhart from the sofa bed and sits her on the armchair, facing away from us, muttering something that sounds a lot like, “She doesn’t need to see this.”
Then he looks up at the ceiling. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was praying or asking for forgiveness for what he wants to do to me.
He doesn’t say it, but I see the moment he decides “fuck it.” He stands up straighter and takes a deep breath before focusing his blinding attention back on me.
“Show me.”
“Show you?”
Nico nods, stripping me bare with his gaze. “Show Daddy where it hurts, angel.”
Holy shit.
I’m no stranger to dirty talk, but not everyone can pull it off. Nico’s mouth was made for this.
I can’t wait to see what else it was made for.
The room is a million degrees, or maybe it’s me, but I’m panting as I lift my hips and push my shorts down my thighs.
Nico doesn’t bother with that thing so many men do, where they force themselves not to look and stare into your eyes instead.
He watches every second of me taking my shorts off with a look of utmost concentration.
I take a deep breath and part my legs, tugging my sweater up ever so slightly, exposing my underwear to him.
And Nico quite literally falls to his knees at the sight.
I’m going to be riding that high for a while.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, his eyes glassy. “Look at you. You’re so messy, baby. Is this for me?”
“Yes, Daddy.” It slips out so easily, it’s a wonder I’ve made it this far without saying it. “All for you.”
Nico runs his fingers up my legs, like he’s tracing lines between my freckles.
His touch is tender, but his hands are rough.
I can feel every callus, evidence of years of chopping and sanding and carving wood into beautiful things.
This cabin, his furniture, hell, even flour and water, everything Nico touches, he makes better.
And already, I feel more beautiful than I ever have under his touch.
But that might have something to do with the way he’s staring at me like I’m the second coming.
His hands stop mid-thigh, and I’m considering begging when he finally takes pity on me and drags a single finger over my underwear. My head falls back, a whimper crawling up my throat. He strokes me lightly, sitting close enough that I can feel his breath against me. It’s the best kind of torture.
“Take off your sweater.”
At this point, I think my body is just automatically doing what he tells me to. It’s not easy, though, to sit up and concentrate enough to take off my sweater over my head while he’s drawing circles over my underwear.
I’m wearing a baby blue cami, because this sweater has been washed so many times that the inside is no longer soft, and no one wants scratchy fabric against their nipples. As I pull the sweater off, the straps slip down my shoulders, and Nico looks up at me, licking his lips.
I toy with the edge of the fabric. “Do you want me to take this off t—oh.” Nico tugs the cami, and it slips down my body, pooling around my waist.
“Jesus Christ,” he practically growls, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.
I reach for him, cupping his jaw until he opens his eyes and looks at me. His hands are shaking.
“Okay?”
“This is… I’m… Fuck.”
I can’t pretend I don’t like watching him come completely undone for me.
But I take pity on him, reaching for the buttons of his flannel and slowly undoing what I can.
I have to sit up more to reach, but he helps me out with the last few, and I push it off his shoulders.
He doesn’t bother asking if I want him to take his T-shirt off; he just pulls it over his head, and it’s my turn to be speechless.
The first thing I notice is his scars. Two curved lines across his chest, about two inches apart. A seatbelt’s width apart. There’s a bigger, more jagged scar on his upper arm, and a tattoo—some kind of blue flowers.
Nico must notice my gaze, because he tenses. Shit. When I look up, his face is a little closed off again.
“Yours are a lot more badass than mine,” I tell him, and he blinks before laughing. I’m used to people going out of their way to avoid bringing scars up, and all it does is make things more awkward. I bet he’s used to it, too.
“Mine are much older,” he replies, tracing the curve of my scar with his pinky. The skin is still more sensitive, and I don’t hate it.
“They’re pretty hot.”
He shakes his head, but he’s smiling, and I really don’t hate that. “God, Este.”
“What? Are you saying you don’t think my scar makes me hot?” I tease.
“You’re beautiful. Scar or not,” he says, more seriously. It makes my stomach dip, and that’s not what we’re supposed to be doing here.
I graze his zipper with my foot, and Nico sucks in a breath.
“Doesn’t feel fair that you’re wearing pants and I’m not.”
Nico raises a brow, but he stands and flicks open the button on his jeans. “Surely you should be used to it, considering your apparent aversion to wearing pants. Or do you just like making me lose my goddamn mind?”