Chapter 88 - EIGHTY EIGHT

Chapter 88: Chapter EIGHTY EIGHT

ANGEL

He grabbed my hips and flipped me. I was face down on the couch before I could draw a breath. He yanked my hips up — knees on the cushion, chest pressed flat, ass in the air — and his hand shoved between my shoulder blades and held me down.

"Stay," he said.

I obeyed, like his dog. His property. And the word didn’t sting the way it should have. It settled into me like something clicking into place — a key turning in a lock I’d been waiting for someone to find.

His hands gripped my ass and spread me open.

"Your thighs are dripping. You’re this wet from watching me beat a man unconscious."

"Yes, Daddy."

"From lying to me."

"Yes, Daddy."

His thumb pressed against my clit and I jolted. He held it there — firm, unmoving. Not rubbing. Just pressing. The pressure was maddening, enough to make me aware of every nerve ending I had but not enough to do anything about it.

His other hand cracked across my ass without warning. The slap echoed through the room and I yelped — sharp, surprised — the sting blooming into heat that spread between my thighs and met the maddening pressure of his thumb until the two sensations tangled into something I couldn’t separate.

"Count," he said.

"One—"

Another. Harder. His palm across the same spot, and the burn layered on itself, building on skin that was already hot.

"Two—"

Again. His thumb still pressed against my clit, unmoving, while his other hand punished me. The contrast was unbearable — steady pressure where I needed friction and sharp pain where my skin was burning. My body couldn’t decide which sensation to chase and which to flee from, so it did both at once, trembling between his hands like a wire pulled too tight.

"Three — please—"

"Please what? Please stop? Or please harder?"

"Harder," I sobbed. "Harder, Daddy."

He gave me harder. My ass was on fire, and his thumb was still pressing my clit and the combination was driving me toward an edge I couldn’t reach. I was pushing back against his hand, grinding against his thumb, trying to create friction he refused to give me. My body was begging even when my mouth couldn’t form the words.

"You don’t get to come from this," he said, his voice steady while mine had disintegrated. "You come when I’m inside you. When you feel what you’ve been begging for."

He moved behind me and I heard the rest of his clothes shift. His pants pushed down. The sound of fabric hitting the floor was the loudest thing in the room, louder than my breathing, louder than my heartbeat, because it meant what came next was real and there was no going back from it.

Then I felt him.

Not his fingers. Him. The head of his cock pressed against me from behind. Hot. Wide. Nudging my entrance with a patience that was its own form of cruelty.

He didn’t push in.

Instead, he dragged the tip through my folds, top to bottom, coating himself in me. Pressing against my clit with the swollen head, dragging back to my entrance, pressing in just barely — just the tip, just enough to start the stretch — and then pulling away. Over and over. Learning me with the head of his cock the way his fingers had learned me minutes ago, and every pass made my legs shake harder.

I was losing my mind.

"Daddy — please — put it in — please—"

"You spent weeks making me feel like this." His cock pressed against my entrance again, just the tip stretching me open, and I could feel how big he was. Bigger than what I’d felt through pajamas. Bigger than what I’d wrapped my hand around.

"Lying next to me. Grinding on me. Making me so hard I couldn’t think. And then you’d fall asleep and I’d lie there for hours with my cock aching, wanting to roll you over and slide inside you."

"You should have—"

"I know." He pushed in another inch and the stretch burned. My fingers clawed the cushion, dragging across the fabric. "I should have. That first morning when you pressed your ass against me and I woke up with my cock between your thighs. I should have pulled your underwear aside and pushed inside you while you were still half asleep. Should have fucked you in my bed with the sun coming up and my hand over your mouth."

"Yes—" I was panting, my words coming out between gasps because he was barely inside me and I was already seeing stars. "You should have — I wanted you to—"

Another inch, and I moaned into the cushion. "I could see your tits in those tiny clothes. My daughter’s nipples always there. Pink. Hard. And I went to the bathroom and came so fast it was pathetic. I said your name while I came into my own hand because my daughter showed me her tit."

He pushed in another inch and the stretch made my eyes water. He was thick — so thick I could feel my body fighting to accommodate him, the muscles stretching, the fullness bordering on too much. Every inch was a confession and a conquest at the same time, and I wanted both. I wanted him to tell me every filthy thought he’d ever buried while he buried himself inside me.

"Tell me you want Daddy’s cock."

"Fuck me Daddy, fuck your daughter! Please,"

He slammed the rest of the way in.

One thrust. Brutal. Buried to the root.

The scream that tore from my throat didn’t sound like me.

The stretch was blinding — thick, deep, filling me so completely that I felt him in my stomach, in my chest, in the back of my throat.

He was inside me. Vincenzo was inside me. My Daddy was inside me.

The thought hit me like a drug — immediate, total, dissolving every other reality. My father. The man who raised me. The man who’d bathed me and read to me and tucked me in. His cock was buried inside his daughter on the couch where he read her bedtime stories.

The fullness was so absolute, so overwhelming that tears streamed down my face and I didn’t know if they were from his size or from the bone-deep relief of finally having what I’d been aching for.

Both. It was both. And the pain made the relief sweeter and the relief made the pain meaningless and together they were something I didn’t have a word for.

He didn’t move. Not yet. He held himself there, buried, his hands gripping my hips so hard I could feel each finger individually.

"Feel that?" He grunted roughly. Each word thick with pleasure. "That’s what you’ve been teasing. That’s what those men in bathrooms can’t give you."

"Nobody can give me this—"

"No. Nobody. Because this—" he pulled back slowly, every inch dragging against my walls, and I felt every ridge, every vein, my body gripping him like it refused to let go—my muscles themselves had decided he was never leaving

"—this was made for you. And this—" he slammed back in and I screamed again, grateful and ruined "—was always mine."