Eric was sweet. Good-looking too — tall, sandy-haired, and safe. Safe was the problem.

At first, dating him had felt like stepping into the dream — weekend getaways, lazy kisses under the covers, promises whispered late at night. But somewhere between the soft kisses and the clumsy groping, something inside me had started to stir. Something darker. Something hungrier.

It didn’t help that his dad, Ray, was around so much.

Ray was… something else entirely.

He wasn’t just handsome. He was dangerous. At forty-five, he had the kind of body you didn’t just get by accident. Hard arms, broad chest, thick hands — and a mouth that looked like it knew things. Things his son never even thought about.

And he looked at me.

Not polite little glances, no. When I wore those tiny bikinis to their pool parties, lounging on the deck pretending not to notice — I could feel his eyes on me. Burning. Hungry. He’d pretend to watch the game, pretend to sip his beer, but I could feel the slow rake of his gaze dragging up my legs, lingering on the swell of my hips, the dip of my waist, the deep curve of my breasts barely contained by my top.

I should’ve felt guilty.

But instead, every time I caught Ray’s eyes on me — hot and possessive, just for a second before he looked away — it left me throbbing.

Eric would splash water at me, laughing, dragging me under the surface to wrestle like a couple of teenagers. I’d play along, giggling and teasing, but all the while, I’d be imagining his dad’s rough hands on me instead. Wondering if he thought about it late at night the way I did. Wondering if he imagined pressing me against the wall, tugging that little bikini aside with one hard pull…

I had no idea how long I could keep pretending.

Because every time I went over to that house, my panties came home soaking wet.

And tonight — tonight after a few too many drinks, with Eric passed out upstairs and Ray sitting alone at the kitchen island nursing a glass of whiskey — I was about to find out just how much he could take.

And just how badly I wanted him to make me take him.

The stairs creaked softly under my bare feet as I padded down into the dim kitchen, wearing nothing but one of Eric’s big T-shirts. It hung low on me, almost innocent if you didn’t know better — but underneath, I was naked. Bare. Wet already and aching in ways I didn’t dare admit out loud.

I paused when I saw him.

Ray sat at the island, a tumbler of dark whiskey in his hand, his thick forearms resting casually against the polished wood. The TV murmured low from the living room, casting flashes of blue light across his hard, handsome face.

I gasped — a little over-the-top, but it worked — and clutched the shirt tighter against my chest, making my breasts bounce under the thin cotton. No bra. Just nipples hard and pressing against the fabric, leaving nothing to the imagination.

“Oh my God — I didn’t know anyone was down here,” I breathed, wide-eyed.

Ray’s gaze dragged down my body, slow and heavy. He didn’t bother to hide it. His jaw flexed as he set the glass down.

“Just me,” he said, voice rough. “Couldn’t sleep.”

I pressed a hand over my racing heart, still pretending to be startled, even as heat bloomed low in my belly. “Sorry, I just came down for some water…”

He nodded, watching me with that steady, unreadable stare. I crossed the kitchen to the fridge, feeling the way his eyes stuck to me, every step, every sway of my hips exaggerated just enough to make him hurt.

When I bent over to pull a bottle from the bottom shelf, the T-shirt lifted. Not much — but enough. Enough to give him a perfect, filthy view of my bare ass, the smooth, wet lips of my pussy just peeking out between my thighs, glistening faintly in the fridge light.

I didn’t rush. I let him look. Let him see.

When I straightened up, water bottle in hand, I turned to find him still staring — his knuckles white around the glass, chest rising and falling harder now.

I popped the cap, took a slow, innocent sip, then licked a drop off my lower lip. “Where’s Rachel?” I asked casually, like my body wasn’t screaming for him to do something.

“Workin’ late,” he said, voice like gravel. His eyes didn’t move from me. “Like always these days.”

I let that hang between us, the unspoken words thickening the air.

Poor Ray. Lonely. Neglected.

And me… standing here, so close he could reach out and grab me if he wanted. If he was just a little less good. A little less strong.

I took a tiny step closer, pretending not to notice how his gaze dropped again — to where the hem of my shirt brushed just below the curve of my ass. Nothing underneath. Nothing to hide.

“That’s a shame,” I said softly. “You shouldn’t have to be alone so much…”

Ray grunted, low in his throat, and took another sip of his whiskey. His fingers tapped the glass absently, like he was chewing on a thought too bitter to swallow.

“She’s always working,” he muttered, more to himself than to me. “Meetings. Business trips. Conference calls. God forbid she’s home for more than five minutes without the damn phone glued to her ear.”

I moved closer, the coolness of the fridge forgotten, my bare thighs brushing against the warm air of the kitchen. I reached out, lightly resting my hand on his forearm — thick, corded muscle beneath the soft tanned skin — and gave him a gentle, sympathetic squeeze.

“That’s not fair to you,” I said, voice soft and warm. “You deserve better.”

His gaze flicked down to where my fingers curled around his arm. He didn’t pull away.

I bit my lip, pretending to hesitate, then slipped onto the stool next to him, my shirt riding up higher on my thighs. I tucked my legs up loosely, not bothering to close them completely, pretending not to notice the way his eyes dropped again.

I took a breath, like I was confessing something private. “I… I kinda know how you feel.”

Ray looked at me, eyebrow raised, waiting.

I gave a little self-conscious laugh, running my fingers through my hair. “Eric’s sweet. He means well. But… he’s kind of selfish, you know?” I shrugged, giving him a sheepish smile. “In bed, I mean.”

Ray’s jaw tightened, and something darker flickered behind his green eyes.

“I mean,” I went on, twirling the bottle of water between my hands, “he usually… finishes pretty fast. Then he just falls asleep. Leaves me…” I trailed off, letting the implication hang in the thick air between us.

Ray’s breathing deepened, his hand flexing where it rested on the counter.

I leaned in a little closer, lowering my voice like I was sharing a secret. “Sometimes I have to… finish myself. After. Just lying there next to him.” I gave a little embarrassed laugh, even as my thighs shifted, the hem of my shirt sliding even higher.

“I guess… I guess I get lonely too,” I whispered.

There was a long, loaded pause.

His eyes dragged up my bare legs, lingering shamelessly on the creamy, exposed skin. When his gaze met mine again, it was darker. Hotter. Like a man standing at the edge of a cliff and starting to lean forward, just to see what falling would feel like. Ray’s gaze dropped again — he couldn’t help it.

Down to the way my breasts shifted under the thin cotton with every slow, shallow breath.

The way the shirt clung to the soft curves of me, the way my nipples pressed against the fabric, dark and obvious in the low kitchen light.

Then he dragged his eyes back up, locking with mine — those dark, tired green eyes meeting my wide, innocent blue ones.

The muscle in his jaw flexed.

“Lucy…” His voice was rough, torn.

“We shouldn’t talk about this.”

I leaned in a little more, my knees brushing his thigh under the counter. Close enough to feel the heat rolling off his body.

Close enough to want to climb into his lap and never leave.

“Who else can I talk to?” I whispered, almost plaintively. I gave a soft, helpless little laugh, tucking my hair behind my ear.

“My friends think I’m crazy. They think I should be grateful — Eric’s so nice, right?”

Ray didn’t say anything. His knuckles were white around the glass again.

“But…” I shook my head, voice dropping lower. More raw.

“I don’t want nice all the time.”

I paused, letting it hang there — before adding, with a blush and a shy, wicked little smile,

“I want… mean. I want hard.”

I giggled, biting my lip, my cheeks burning — half from the whiskey, half from the reckless rush of confessing things I’d never said out loud before.

Especially not to him.

Ray’s breathing was deeper now, slower. Like he was trying to get control of something that wanted to snap free and wreck both of us.

And when he looked down — he saw it.

The way I was sitting on the stool, legs casually open, bare skin gleaming under the shirt.

The way I shifted just slightly, grinding the tender center of me against the smooth wood — not enough to be obvious if you weren’t looking for it.

But Ray was looking.

He caught the tiny roll of my hips.

The almost imperceptible way I chased just a little friction, a little relief — my mouth parting in the softest gasp as I rocked down again, helpless, needy.

The sight of it broke something in him.

He set the glass down hard with a clink and pushed his chair back — not standing yet, but breathing hard, staring at me like a starving man.

Like he knew exactly what I was doing.

And that if I did it again — just once —

he wouldn’t be able to stop himself.

Ray pushed back slightly, his chair groaning under the shift of his weight, but he didn’t leave.

He couldn’t.

His eyes were locked on me — on the slow, shameless way I rocked my hips against the stool, chasing that friction like I was the only girl in the world, like there wasn’t anything wrong with what I was doing.

His voice came low, sharp, almost a growl.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Lucy?”

I blinked at him, all wide-eyed innocence, like I didn’t understand the filthy little show I was putting on right in front of him.

“I’m just… sitting,” I said sweetly, shifting my hips again, this time letting out the faintest little whimper, like I couldn’t help it.

As I moved, I let the hem of the T-shirt ride higher, inch by inch — until he could see everything.

The slick, needy mess between my thighs, the way my bare pussy glistened in the low light.

Teasing him. Tempting him.

Ray’s fists clenched on his thighs, his face tightening with restraint.

He shook his head slightly, like trying to clear it — but his eyes never left me.

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” he said, voice hoarse, accusing — but his eyes, God, the hunger there made my skin prickle with heat.

I gave a helpless little shrug, biting my lip, rolling my hips a little faster now — tiny, desperate circles against the hard, unyielding seat of the stool.

Each movement making my breasts bounce subtly under the shirt, the thin fabric brushing my hard nipples.

“I swear,” I breathed, half laughing, half gasping, “this is just… what happens.”

I caught his eye again, holding it as I bounced a little harder, the wet sounds from between my thighs starting to fill the thick, heavy air.

“This is what my body does,” I whispered, voice breaking into a soft whine,

“when I’m left wanting… after Eric doesn’t finish the job.”

Ray looked like he was in pain.

Real, physical pain.

His jaw was clenched so hard I could see the muscles twitching.

His knuckles were white, his thighs rigid, the bulge in his jeans impossible to ignore now — thick, straining.

Still he stayed frozen, breathing like he’d just run a marathon, staring at me like he was losing a battle he never should’ve fought in the first place.

I gave a tiny, helpless whimper, grinding down harder, chasing the edge — all but begging him with my body, with every obscene roll of my hips, to stop pretending. For a long moment, Ray just watched me.

Silent. Heavy-lidded.

The corner of his mouth tugged up — a slow, dark, knowing smile that made my stomach twist and my thighs clench tighter around the hard edge of the stool.

Then, as if nothing outrageous was happening, he casually lifted his glass and finished his drink in one slow, burning swallow.

The clink of the glass hitting the counter was the only sound between us for a heartbeat.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and smooth — but laced with something rougher underneath. Something dangerous.

“Maybe Eric’s not the problem,” he said, tilting his head slightly, studying me like he could see right through all my innocent little lies.

“Maybe you’re just a dirty little girl.”

My breath caught — heat rushing over my cheeks, down my neck, coiling between my legs — but I didn’t stop moving.

Couldn’t.

Not when his eyes dragged over me so slowly, so hungrily, lingering shamelessly on the way I rocked my soaked, bare pussy against the stool, chasing the friction like I needed it to breathe.

“Think about it,” he went on, voice rough silk. “What kinda girl comes downstairs in nothing but a T-shirt… no panties…”

His eyes flicked pointedly to where the fabric had ridden so high it barely covered me anymore.

“…and ‘accidentally’ ends up sitting there, practically cumming all over my kitchen?”

His words were filthy. Raw.

But the way he said them — almost lazy, almost amused — made my heart hammer harder against my ribs.

He leaned in slightly, elbows braced wide on the counter, the muscles in his arms bulging under his skin.

“Hell,” he murmured, voice dropping even lower, like he was talking to himself now,

“what kinda good girl talks about how her boyfriend can’t satisfy her… while showing off her pretty little pussy to his father?”

The humiliation, the heat, the sheer wrongness of it made me moan softly under my breath — just a tiny, helpless sound that I couldn’t stop.

My thighs trembled, grinding harder now, openly, shamelessly — my body betraying me in the filthiest way possible.

Ray’s dark smile widened just a little — but there was a tightness around his eyes now, a crack in the cool veneer.

He was close to snapping.

And I wanted him to.

I bit down hard on my bottom lip, trying to hold it in —

but my thighs were trembling, my whole body shaking as the grinding became desperate, frantic, needy.

Ray just sat there. Watching.

His arms folded across his broad chest, dark smile curling his mouth, green eyes burning into me like a brand.

“That’s it,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“Go on, dirty girl. Show me how bad you really are.”

It was too much.

With a broken little gasp, I tipped my head back, my body locking up tight as the orgasm tore through me — hot and violent, making my hips buck against the stool, making my toes curl and my fingers clutch the edge of the counter to keep from falling.

I whimpered. Moaned.

Couldn’t stop it — didn’t want to stop it.

And Ray —

Ray just leaned back slightly, a slow, wicked look spreading over his face as he watched every second of my filthy little meltdown.

When it passed, I sat there panting, dazed, feeling the wet heat slick between my thighs — feeling the humiliating, messy evidence of what I’d just done all over the seat beneath me.

Reality came crashing in. My heart hammered.

I scrambled up off the stool, cheeks burning, tugging the hem of my T-shirt down instinctively even though it was far, far too late for modesty.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, backing up, trying to bolt before I embarrassed myself even more.

“I — I should go upstairs—”

I didn’t make it two steps.

Ray moved like a striking animal — fast, rough, deadly.

One big hand wrapped around my wrist, the other gripping my waist hard enough to leave fingerprints.

With a grunt, he slammed me face-down over the counter, bending me at the waist so my ass was thrust out behind me, my cheek scraping the cool surface of the island.

One knee jammed between my thighs, forcing them wide again.

My face pressed against the stool seat — still wet, still sticky from my mess — and I whimpered helplessly at the overwhelming wrongness of it, the sheer dirty humiliation making my cunt clench all over again.

Ray’s mouth came low against my ear, his voice nothing but a brutal growl.

“Where the fuck you think you’re going?” he hissed.

“You made a mess, girl.”

I whimpered again, trying to move — but he just pressed me down harder, forcing me to feel it — the slick heat smeared across the stool, the aching throb between my legs.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said roughly.

“Not ‘til you clean it up.”

My cheeks burned hotter than ever — but at the same time, a reckless, filthy thrill shot through me, making me shiver against him.

I laughed — a soft, breathless, naughty little sound — and obeyed.

Sliding off the counter a little, I brought my mouth down to the seat.

Licked.

Slow, wide strokes of my tongue over the mess I’d made, my own slick heat, cleaning it up while Ray’s big hand stayed locked around my wrist, holding me there, making me own it.

He groaned — a low, broken sound — as he watched me.

“This what you wanted?” he muttered, voice wrecked.

“Showing off your pretty pussy… making a mess like a little whore…?”

I moaned softly against the stool — not words this time, just pure, needy sound — my body arching, begging for him without even meaning to.

Ray didn’t give me any more warning.

One second he was towering over me — the next, I felt the heavy scrape of his belt, the harsh yank of his zipper.

Then the hot, blunt head of his cock nudging against my slick, aching entrance —

so much thicker than Eric, so much more than I was ready for —

and then he just drove into me, raw and ruthless, forcing a broken scream out of my throat as my walls stretched painfully wide around him.

“Fuck,” Ray growled, deep and vicious, his hands bruising my hips as he slammed into me.

“Bad enough my goddamn wife doesn’t put out anymore…”

He thrust harder, making the counter jolt under me, making my toes curl against the tile.

“But then you gotta come down here…”

Another brutal thrust, and I sobbed, my body caught somewhere between pain and blinding pleasure.

“…in that tiny little shirt, no fuckin’ panties, rubbing your messy little pussy all over my kitchen.”

He was too big. Too thick.

The stretch was almost unbearable, my body fighting to adjust — but at the same time, my cunt clenched around him desperately, greedily, loving the brutal fullness.

This.

This was what I needed.

Not sweet kisses. Not soft hands.

I needed to be taken.

Ray didn’t slow down — he just fucked me harder, rough and punishing, bending me lower over the counter until my cheek was mashed against the still-warm seat of the stool.

The filthy heat of it made me moan, made me grind back against him like a desperate little slut.

“Look at you,” he muttered, voice breaking with lust.

“Taking it so fuckin’ good… You love this, don’t you?”

I whimpered something — not words — just a raw, wrecked sound of pure agreement.

He gave a harsh laugh, almost disbelieving, and suddenly one of his big hands cracked across my ass.

Hard.

Sharp.

The sting made me yelp — but it only made my pussy clench tighter around him, milking him deeper.

“You need it rough, huh?” he growled, spanking me again, his palm heavy and punishing against my skin.

“You need to be fucked like a little whore ‘cause my idiot son’s too soft to handle you?”

“Yes,” I gasped — finally admitting it out loud, shameless, shaking with it.

“Yes, please—”

Another sharp smack. Another bruising thrust.

I could barely breathe, barely think — my whole world narrowing down to the brutal drive of his cock, the hot sting of his palm, the filthy words pouring into my ear.

Ray reached down and yanked the hem of my T-shirt higher, baring me completely to him, letting the cool kitchen air lick over my sweat-slicked skin.

“You’re mine now,” he muttered against my neck, voice pure gravel.

“You hear me, girl? You come down here begging to get used — you’re fuckin’ mine.”

I nodded frantically, tears spilling from the corners of my eyes from the overwhelming stretch, the savage pleasure, the sheer filthy rightness of it.

This was exactly what I needed.

Exactly what I had wanted all along. Ray didn’t even slow down.

With a grunt, he hauled me up by my waist —

flipping me over effortlessly, my back slamming against the edge of the counter, my legs falling open, wide and sloppy.

“Look,” he growled, his hand tangling roughly in my hair, yanking my head to the side so I could see my own reflection in the stainless steel door of the fridge.

“Look what you fuckin’ look like.”

I did.

I saw the messy fall of my hair, the flushed, ruined state of my face, my breasts heaving under the crumpled T-shirt, nipples dark and hard through the thin fabric.

I saw the wild, desperate glint in my own blue eyes —

and I saw Ray behind me, towering, brutal, thick and glistening between my legs as he lined himself up again.

Before I could even catch my breath, he grabbed my jaw, forcing my mouth open wide — and then he spat into it.

Hot. Disgusting.

Perfect.

I swallowed it without even thinking — smiling up at him, grateful, needy —

“Thank you,” I whispered, so sweet it made something inside him snapcompletely.

Ray’s face twisted into something darker than I’d ever seen —

and then he slammed into me again, brutally, making the counter screech against the floor, making me cry out loud.

“Fuckin’ little slut,” he panted, driving into me harder, deeper, brutal now.

“Begging for it… taking it like you were made for this.”

His hands were everywhere — gripping my hips, squeezing my breasts through the thin cotton, pinching, bruising —

using me, owning me.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ fill you up,” he growled against my mouth, thrusting so deep it felt like he was punching the air from my lungs.

I giggled — giggled through the rawness — and whispered up at him,

“Like father, like son, huh?”

Ray snarled low in his throat — pure animal — and rammed into me harder, almost violently now.

“Better,” I gasped between thrusts, grinding my hips up to meet his brutal rhythm.

“Am I better than your wife, Ray? Huh?”

I saw it in his face — that flicker of pure rage and lust combined —

and then he completely lost it.

He pounded into me mercilessly, rough, brutal, possessive, the wet slap of our bodies crashing through the kitchen louder than anything.

Saying filthy, vicious things under his breath:

“Fuckin’ better than her,”

“Made for this cock,”

“My filthy little whore,”

“Bet you dreamed of this, didn’t you?”

Each filthy word pushed me closer to the edge —

until suddenly, without warning, he shoved his big hand over my mouth, muffling my cries.

“Shut the fuck up,” he growled against my ear, voice cracked and desperate.

“Take it — fuckin’ take it, Lucy.”

I screamed into his hand, my body snapping — white-hot pleasure detonating through me, making my legs shake, making me clamp down around him hard.

Ray groaned, thrust deep —

and then I felt it —

the hot, filthy rush of him emptying inside me, so much, so thick, filling me to overflowing.

He stayed there, locked deep, hand still clamped over my mouth, chest heaving against mine —

owning me, claiming me, wrecking me completely.

Neither of us moved for a long, long time.

Only the sound of our breathing and the low, satisfied growl he gave against my sweat-slicked neck. Ray stayed there, buried deep inside me, his heavy body pressing me into the counter, our skin slick with sweat and heat and the mess we’d made.

He didn’t move.

Just breathed hard against my neck, his hand still cradling the back of my head like he couldn’t bear to let me go yet.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and rough, a filthy rasp against my ear.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he muttered, still grinding his hips slow and deep, as if he couldn’t stand to pull out yet.

“Takin’ it like you were born for it.”

He pressed a kiss to the side of my throat — more a rough scrape of his mouth than anything soft — and chuckled darkly.

“Bet you never even knew how bad you needed this,” he growled, still moving just enough to make me whimper, overly sensitive and wrecked.

I whimpered again under him, pressing back helplessly, my body trembling with the aftershocks.

He finally pulled out with a wet, obscene sound that made me shudder.

The mess of us spilled down my thighs immediately — hot and humiliating — but Ray didn’t seem in any hurry to let me move.

Instead, he grabbed a dishtowel off the counter, ran it under the tap until it was warm, and then — with surprising care, but still rough hands — began wiping between my legs.

Slow. Thorough.

His big hand sliding up the insides of my thighs, cleaning me like he owned me now.

I squirmed, biting back a soft moan — feeling every drag of the warm rag like a brand against my raw, ruined skin.

When he finished, he tossed the towel in the sink carelessly and bent down close to my ear again.

“You need to go upstairs now,” he murmured, voice still hoarse with possession.

“Before Eric wakes up and realizes what a dirty little slut his girl really is.”

I nodded, dazed, still trembling, still glowing with the afterglow of everything he’d just done to me.

But before I could move, Ray grabbed my chin roughly, forcing me to look up at him —

into those dark green eyes that pinned me like a knife to the counter.

“And Lucy…” His voice dropped lower, dead serious.

“You better be ready the next time I need you.”

He let go with a final, possessive squeeze of my chin, a wicked glint in his eyes.

“You started this,” he added, voice a filthy growl.

“Now you’re mine.”

I swallowed hard, heat pooling between my thighs all over again —

and without another word, I pulled the crumpled T-shirt down, my legs still shaking, and slipped away toward the stairs…

Ray’s filthy scent still all over my skin.

And God help me —

I hoped he needed me again soon