There’s a pause, and I sense she wants to say something, but instead she turns away, busying herself with the bottle and the towel, making sure everything is neat and ordered. I watch her, the slope of her back, the flex of her shoulder blades under the t-shirt, and feel a hunger that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the need for connection.
After a minute, she looks back, eyes softer now. “Is there anything else?”
I shake my head, but the truth is I want everything else, every possible thing, but I say nothing.
She hesitates at the door, hand on the knob. “I can come back tomorrow, if you want.”
I nod. “Same time?”
She smiles, small and sly. “Same time.”
She slips out, closing the door behind her, and I hear her bare feet patter down the hallway. I lie back on the table, stare at the ceiling, and let the oil cool on my skin.
It’s only after the room goes silent again that I realize I’m still hard, my cock leaking against my stomach, and the ache is so intense I have to close my eyes and breathe.
Tomorrow, I think. Tomorrow she’ll do it again.
And the day after that, and the day after that, until one of us breaks.
I hope it’s me.
I hearMary Kate’s footsteps padding down the hallway, then silence—she’s gone. I’m alone again, except for the pounding in my chest and the raw, electric memory of her. I picture her: the way her jeans hugged her hips, the shadow of her breasts under that thin t-shirt, the look in her eyes when she realized how hard she could make me, how much control she had. I squeeze my eyes shut and will myself to breathe, to relax, but the ache doesn’t leave. It won’t. Not now.
Fuck, what the hell have I gotten myself into? I stare at the ceiling, contemplating my life choices, the taste of her still in the air, heavy as sandalwood, as heat. My cock is still hard, glistening against the oil and the shine of my own need. The aftershocks of her touch radiate from my balls up through my ribs, as if every nerve ending in my body has been mapped by her hands.
But I can’t stay in my office like a love-sick cow forever. I clean up, shower off the oil, and pretend for a while that I can function like a normal human being. I putter about my bedroom, reply to a handful of messages from the hospital, but nothing sticks. All I can think about is the heat of Mary Kate’s hands, the oil between her fingers, the way she let her knuckle drag along the base of my shaft and then pretended it was an accident. She’s a terrible liar.
I pour myself a bourbon and sit by the window, watching the city lights flicker in the distance. The glass is cold against my palm,but the bourbon burns all the way down. I think of Mary Kate, her hands slick and shining, the tiny smile that crept onto her lips when she realized I wasn’t going to stop her.
I know it’s wrong. I know I should put a stop to it, draw a line in the sand and never cross it again. But the image of her lingers, and the line gets blurrier every time I try to find it.
The next night,my gorgeous stepdaughter shows up at my office at exactly 8:30, just as she said she would. She’s wearing different clothes this time—black leggings, an oversized sweatshirt that swallows her frame, sleeves bunched at the wrists. Her hair is braided to the side, a golden rope that falls over one shoulder, and she’s wearing lip gloss, the kind that makes her mouth look soft and swollen. Her eyes flick up to mine, then away, as if she’s embarrassed to be here. But she doesn’t hesitate. She steps into the office and closes the door behind her, locking it without being asked.
She doesn’t wait for me to say anything. She walks to the table, pours the oil into her palm, rubs her hands together, and starts working it between her fingers as she approaches. Her eyes are fixed on the floor, but she glances up at me through her lashes, just once, before she kneels beside the table.
I take off my sweatpants and t-shirt, lay back, and fold my hands across my chest, like a patient preparing for surgery. My cock is already half-hard, straining against my thigh, and I make no move to hide it.
Her first touch is more confident than before. She cups my balls in both hands, the oil warm and slick, and starts to rollthem in her palms, applying gentle but insistent pressure. The sensation is instant, a surge of pleasure that makes my hips jerk involuntarily. I stifle a moan, but it comes out anyway, low and guttural.
“Did I hurt you?” Mary Kate asks innocently.
“No, not at all, sweetheart. Keep going,” I reply in a rough voice.
She smiles, just a flicker at the corners of her mouth, and continues. Her thumbs knead the space between my balls and the base of my cock, working slow, tight circles. I feel the tension building, a pressure that has nothing to do with stones or blood flow, and everything to do with the way she’s looking at me, the way her cheeks flush when she realizes I’m watching her.
She lets her knuckle graze the shaft again, and this time she doesn’t pretend it’s an accident. Her fingers curl around the base, just for a second, and then let go, moving back to the balls, but slower this time, more deliberate. She’s testing me, seeing how far she can push.
I meet her eyes, and this time I let the hunger show. “You’re good at this,” I say, voice thick.
Her cheeks go pink, but she doesn’t look away. “You told me how.”
“That’s not what I mean,” I say, and my hand finds her wrist, just for a second. Her pulse is a hummingbird’s wing under my fingers.
She hesitates, then says, “What do you mean?”
I release her wrist, let my hand drop to the table. “You know.”
She’s quiet for a long time, her hands still working, gentle and rhythmic, oil warming with each pass. “Is it weird?” she asks. “What we’re doing, I mean?”
