Actress Ariel Winter shows up at her boyfriend's house to find his rugged father Paul alone, and their flirtation quickly escalates into raw, passionate sex.
Chapter 1: Island Devouring
Ariel pressed the doorbell again. No answer.
The California sun was cooking the back of her neck, that specific late-afternoon heat that makes a sundress feel like the only sane clothing choice. She fished her phone out of her clutch. No new messages. Mark had texted her twenty minutes ago: back door's open, let yourself in, running late babe.
She'd been dating Mark for four months. Nice guy. Safe. The kind of boyfriend who remembered her Starbucks order but couldn't remember to be home when she showed up.
The gate to the backyard was unlocked, just like he'd said. Her sandals clicked against the flagstone path, past the pool, past the outdoor kitchen, toward the French doors that led into the main house. The glass was slightly fogged from the AC battling the August heat, and she couldn't quite see inside.
She pulled the handle. It opened.
"Mark?"
The kitchen was all marble and stainless steel, the kind of kitchen that cost more than most people's houses. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat on the island. Beside it, a single glass.
And then a voice from somewhere deeper in the house: "He's not here."
Low. Gravelly. Not Mark.
A figure emerged from the hallway, and Ariel's breath caught in her throat. Mark's father. Paul. She'd met him twice before, both times briefly, both times she'd found herself staring a little too long. Mid-fifties, salt-and-pepper hair cropped close, a jaw that looked like it had been sculpted rather than grown. He wore dark jeans and a gray Henley pushed up at the sleeves, revealing forearms corded with veins and muscle. He looked nothing like Mark. Mark was soft in the middle. Paul looked like he could bend steel.
"Paul," she said, and her voice came out a little thin. "He told me to meet him here."
"I'm sure he did." Paul picked up the whiskey glass and took a slow sip, his eyes traveling the length of her body without a shred of pretense. The pale yellow sundress. The bare legs. The sandals. "Kid's always running late. You want a drink while you wait?"
Ariel should have said no. She knew that. The look in Paul's eyes was not the look a boyfriend's father should have.
"Sure," she said.
He poured two fingers of whiskey into a fresh glass and slid it across the island toward her. Their fingers didn't touch, but they could have. The air was thick with the possibility of touching.
"You look good, Ariel." He said it flat, like a fact. Like commenting on the weather. "That dress is doing a lot of work."
She took a sip. The whiskey burned on the way down, but she didn't flinch. "And what work is that?"
Paul smiled. It was the smile of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and had spent decades learning how to get it. "Making me think things I shouldn't be thinking about my son's girlfriend."
The glass stopped halfway to her lips. Her pulse was doing something embarrassing in her throat. "What kind of things?"
Instead of answering, he rounded the island. Slowly. Deliberately. The kind of slow that makes a woman's stomach drop and her thighs press together. When he stopped, he was close enough that she could smell him—whiskey and sandalwood and something darker underneath.
"Things like how I'd like to see what's under that dress," he said, his voice dropping. "Things like how I've been jerking off thinking about these tits since the first time Mark brought you home."
Ariel's mouth opened. No sound came out.
"Tell me to stop," Paul said. His hand came up, not touching her, hovering an inch from her collarbone. "Tell me you don't want this, and I'll go back to my whiskey and we'll pretend this never happened."
She didn't tell him to stop.
Her silence was an answer, and Paul took it. His hand closed the distance, fingers brushing the strap of her sundress. The touch was electric, a static shock that traveled from her shoulder straight down to the space between her legs.
"I knew it," he breathed. "I fucking knew you'd be wet for this."
His mouth found her neck. Not kissing—devouring. Tongue and teeth and stubble scraping against skin that hadn't been touched like this in months, maybe ever. Mark kissed like he was asking permission. Paul kissed like he was taking inventory of everything he was about to own.
"Bedroom," Ariel managed. "We should—"
"No." Paul's hands found her hips, gripping hard enough to leave fingerprints. "Right here. I'm gonna fuck you on every surface in this house before the night's over, and I'm starting right here."
He lifted her onto the kitchen island like she weighed nothing. The cold marble against her bare thighs made her gasp, or maybe it was the way he was pushing her dress up, bunching the fabric around her waist. Her panties were white cotton. Simple. She hadn't planned for anyone to see them.
Paul looked down at them and laughed—a dark, hungry sound. "Goddamn. You showed up to my house in these little white panties, looking like that, and you didn't think this was gonna happen?"
"They're just panties," she heard herself say.
"They're a fucking invitation." He hooked his fingers into the waistband and pulled. The fabric gave with a soft tearing sound. "And I'm accepting."
Her panties hit the floor.
Paul dropped to his knees.
What happened next was not eating pussy. Eating was too gentle a word. Paul consumed her like a man who'd been starving for decades and finally found a meal worth dying for. His tongue was everywhere at once—flat against her clit, pointed and probing between her swollen lips, circling the tight bud of her ass before plunging back up to where she was already soaking.
Ariel's hands flew to his hair, tangling in the salt-and-pepper strands. She tried to close her legs—the sensation was too much, too intense—but his shoulders were wedged between her thighs, keeping her spread open and vulnerable.
"Fuck," she gasped. "Fuck, Paul, oh my fucking—"
He sucked her clit into his mouth. Hard. The kind of suction that bordered on pain and then tipped right over into something electric. His tongue flicked against the trapped bundle of nerves, and Ariel's hips bucked against his face. He didn't pull away. He groaned into her pussy like she was the best thing he'd ever tasted, and the vibration traveled up through her clit and into her spine.
His fingers found her opening. Two of them, thick and rough, pushing inside her while his mouth stayed locked on her clit. The stretch was immediate and perfect—she could feel every knuckle as he curled his fingers, searching for that spot, and when he found it her vision went white at the edges.
"Right there," she heard herself moaning. "Right fucking there, don't stop, don't you dare stop—"
Paul had no intention of stopping. He added a third finger, fucking her with his hand while his tongue worked her clit in circles and figure-eights and patterns that felt like he was writing his name on the most sensitive part of her body. Her juices were running down his chin, dripping onto the marble island, making obscene wet sounds every time his fingers plunged back inside her drenched, puffy cunt.
She could feel herself getting close. The pressure was building, coiling low in her belly, spreading outward through her thighs and up into her chest. Her nipples were so hard they ached against the fabric of her dress. Her toes were curling in her sandals.
"I'm gonna—" she started.
And then Paul bit her. Not hard—just a grazing of teeth against her swollen clit, just enough pressure to send a shock through her system that was half pleasure, half panic.
Ariel screamed. She couldn't help it. The orgasm hit her like a freight train, muscles clenching around his fingers, hips grinding against his face, her whole body shaking with the force of it. Wave after wave rolled through her while Paul kept licking, kept sucking, kept fucking her with those three thick fingers until she was whimpering from the overstimulation.
When he finally pulled back, his face was glistening. His beard was wet with her. He looked up at her with eyes that were nearly black, pupils blown wide with want.
"I'm not done with you," he said, and his voice was barely recognizable as human. "That was just getting you ready for my cock."
He stood up, unbuckling his belt with one hand while the other pushed her dress up higher, exposing her tits. No bra. He noticed.
"Fucking perfect," he growled, pinching one nipple between his thumb and forefinger hard enough to make her gasp. "Now I'm gonna bend you over this island and fuck you so deep you'll feel me in your throat."
Reply With Quote