Coach's Daughter

I’m still gasping from lack of oxygen when I’m maneuvered into the rear seat, pressed down on my back by an impatient hand.

“Give up the hot-ass pussy, Greta. Give it,” he growls, shoving my knees open and diving into my flesh with an eager tongue, grunting as he tries to get his fill. Though we both know he never will, he still tries, his lower body rubbing against the side of the back seat, his tongue leaving no land unclaimed. “Ahhhh. FUCK,” he shouts into my flesh, eating me with stiff lips, raking his hands up and down my thighs. Panting and lapping at me when I climax, his thumb finding my clit and working it in little circles until I’m mewling his name, fingers tangled in his hair. “Sweetest little thing,” he says gutturally, kissing my sated folds, tracing his mouth up my belly, trailing the tip of his tongue over my erect nipples, before finally finding my mouth, kissing me with the same amount of passion—no, more—than the first time we kissed ten years earlier. “I’ll give you a minute to rest, then I want more, wife.”

My lips form a lazy smile. “Whose birthday is this, anyway?”

“Mine.” He kisses me hard, love reflected in his blue eyes. “You make every day my birthday, angel. I love you so much.”

“I love you, too,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “Here’s to the next decade.”

He strokes the side of my face, his heart on display. “And five more after that.”

THE END