Chapter 9: Daytime Addiction

Sunlight poured through the tall kitchen windows like liquid gold, catching every speck of dust in the air and turning the ordinary suburban house into something dangerously alive. I pulled into the driveway just after ten, my sundress already clinging to the small of my back from the heat and the low, constant throb between my legs. Katie’s internship would keep her gone until at least six—twelve full hours of empty rooms, unlocked doors, and David’s hands on me whenever he wanted. The thought alone made my nipples tighten against the thin cotton.

He opened the front door before I could knock, filling the frame in a faded black T-shirt stretched across his chest and gray sweatpants that did nothing to hide the thick ridge already pressing against the fabric. No boxers. His salt-flecked hair was still damp from a shower, and the clean cedar scent of him rolled over me like a wave. He didn’t speak. He simply hooked two fingers into the neckline of my dress, yanked me inside, and crushed his mouth to mine.

The kiss was starving. His tongue swept deep, tasting of coffee and raw want, while one big hand palmed my ass and hauled me up against the wall. My legs wrapped around his waist instinctively. I felt him—hot, heavy, already leaking—grinding against the soaked lace of my panties.

“Been hard since you texted you were on your way,” he growled against my lips, voice gravel-rough. “Whole damn morning thinking about this tight little pussy stretching around me in broad daylight.”

I whimpered into his mouth, rolling my hips, chasing the friction. Guilt flickered somewhere far away—Katie’s house, Katie’s dad, Katie’s kitchen where she ate cereal every morning—but it burned up in the heat pooling low in my belly. He carried me straight to the kitchen island without breaking the kiss, set me on the edge, and spun me around so fast my palms slapped the cool granite.

“Hands flat,” he ordered, already shoving my dress up over my hips. The fabric bunched at my waist. He hooked my panties aside with one thick finger and dragged the blunt head of his cock through my folds, coating himself in the slick mess I’d been making since I left my apartment.

“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he muttered, sounding almost reverent. Then he pushed in—slow enough that I felt every inch, fast enough that my breath punched out of me in a broken gasp. The stretch was perfect, bordering on too much. My walls fluttered around him, greedy after days of only stolen moments and my own fingers.