BULKY

“Incredible. Just incredible.” He clears his throat hard, a sign that he’s lying—I know it well. “I took a meeting down the street and I thought, hey, why not stop by and set up a round of golf with my old buddy? Want to hit the green tomorrow morning?”

“Tomorrow morning.” Now it’s Gunner’s turn to clear his throat, but unlike my father, he’s not lying. I can see it in his eyes when he glances down at me briefly. The regret and apology lurking there. “I, uh…I can’t. I’m going out of town tonight. Through the weekend.”

My heart stutters in my chest, suffering.

When he called me this morning, I thought he was on the verge of professing his affection for me. Instead, I’m hiding under a desk and finding out that he has plans to leave town. Plans he told me nothing about. Am I so insignificant to him?

Maybe this relationship really is all about sex.

Maybe I’m expected to shut my mouth and take what he gives me. Be happy with it.

Screw that.

Coming forward on my knees, I reach between Gunner’s thighs and unzip his pants. He didn’t have time to pull up his briefs, so his swollen manhood bobs free immediately, still rock hard from my mouth’s treatment. He gives me a warning look from above and I pass him a tart one in return, wrapping my lips around his stiffness and deep throating him.

Gunner chokes a sound, his hand pressing my head down into his lap for one, two, three seconds, before he releases me, breathing raggedly.

“Are you all right over there, man?” asks my father.

“I’m fine,” Gunner responds unevenly. “Just some heartburn from lunch.”

“Ah, right.” My father laughs. “I know all about that affliction. So, about golf…would Monday afternoon work better for you?”

Gunner can’t formulate a response, because I’m riding my eager mouth up and down his pulsing length, scraping my teeth over his sensitized tip, before letting him invade my throat. He once again holds me there, in place, longer this time, his big belly shuddering, his balls hauling up tight to my chin. “Fuck. Schedule,” he heaves, swallowing. “Let me uh…”

His hand fumbles with the mouse and buys him some time as he looks at the screen without really seeing it, his manhood disappearing in and out of my mouth, faster and faster, his free hand tugging me, tugging me, my hands twisting up and down the thick pole, the color of it deepening with every suck.

“Monday works.” Gunner abandons the mouse, reaches across the desk and shakes his hand. “I’ll see you then. Got some work to finish up here—”

“Say no more. I won’t keep you.”

Determined to make Gunner come before my father leaves, wanting to be acknowledged in some way, any way, I hold my breath and take him past my gag reflex, waiting, waiting, longer than my usual few seconds. Ten seconds, eleven. I swallow, squeezing him with the walls of my throat. And Gunner spews. He rifles his hips forward and fucks my mouth once, ferociously, his guttural growl filling the office. Warm, salty liquid travels down, my inner thighs moist from my own need, my infatuation with this man forcing me to consume every single drop. Needing all of it. All of him.

“Ooh boy. Better take care of that heartburn. Sounds like a nasty case,” my father says, getting up from the chair, his footsteps carrying him across the room. “See you Monday.”

As soon as the door closes, Gunner yanks me to my feet. Picks me up and drops me down on the desk, getting right in my face. I think he’s going to lecture me, get angry with me, maybe even end our relationship for being so indiscreet—and I brace myself.

Instead, he growls, “You beautiful little brat,” and seals his mouth over mine, kissing me like tomorrow morning will never come. “Jesus Christ. I ought to spank you silly.”

I moan and tip my head back, allowing him to lick and suck my neck, welcoming his bulk into the V of my thighs. “Why aren’t you?”

His hand grips my throat unexpectedly. “God help me, I…” His eyes glitter wildly. “I wanted to look him in the eye while claiming you. I’m your Papa. Not him. You’re my little girl. Not his. I don’t care if that makes me fucking sick. That’s the way it is.”

“I don’t care either,” I whisper, shaken, slipping past infatuation, straight into obsession. Despite my hurt. Despite my wishes for us to be more. I force myself to accept this as enough for now. Knowing Gunner is mine. That I’m his. That at least we know that as fact.

My heart twists in my chest, yearning for more, though.

And I ignore it for now, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to much longer.

Maybe not even one more day.