The steering wheel was slick under my palms, a faint sheen of sweat and worn leather. I eased the sedan into the empty parking lot behind the old strip mall, tires humming against cracked asphalt that still held the day’s trapped heat. The sky was bruised purple, late afternoon bleeding into early evening. I was alone. Finally, completely alone. The backseat was stripped of crumpled receipts, stray lip balm, my gym bag. Just me and the quiet idle of the engine. I should’ve been concentrating on parallel parking, on the curb, on the distance markers. My hands moved slowly, turning the wheel a quarter turn, then a half, feeling the weight of the car shift, the front tires kissing the painted line. But my mind wasn’t on the parking lines. It was somewhere else. It was back in his bed. Back in his mouth. Back on my knees.
I straightened out, then turned again, over and over, letting the mechanical rhythm ground me while my thoughts dragged me backward. His hands. God, his hands. Broad, calloused, so sure. I remembered the weight of them on my hips, pressing me down into the mattress, the way his thumbs dug into the soft flesh of my thighs as he pushed my jeans down, one knee at a time. I remembered the heat of his palm sliding up my spine, tracing the dip of my waist, never rushing, never rushing, like he was memorizing every contour. And his mouth. That mouth. So hungry. So devastating. He’d kissed me like he was starving, like he’d been waiting years just to taste me. His tongue had swept over my lower lip, then down, past my collarbone, past the thin cotton of my bra, until I was trembling, arching into him, gasping his name like a prayer. But it was his cock in my ass that kept replaying in my head, looped and unspooling. The stretch. The burn. The way I’d gasped when he pushed inside, slow and thick, filling me completely, stretching me to my limit. I remembered his groan, low and rough, vibrating against my back as he held himself there for a long moment, letting me adjust, letting me feel every inch of him claiming me. Then the thrust. Deep. Unrelenting. I’d clung to the headboard, nails scraping wood, while he pounded into me, his hands gripping my hips, pulling me back onto him, matching my breath, matching my heartbeat. I’d been so full of him. So stretched. So his.
I shifted into park, the engine ticking as it cooled. The car was perfectly aligned between the faded yellow lines. I didn’t move. I just sat there, fingers still resting on the wheel, and let the memory wash over me. I shifted into the driver’s seat, kicked off my flats, and let my skirt ride up my thighs. My fingers found the hem of my cotton panties, already damp, and slipped underneath. I didn’t rush. I never rushed with him. I pressed two fingers against my clit, then slid them inside, remembering the way he’d watched me, his eyes dark, unblinking, as if he could see right through my skin, right into my ribs. I curled them, stroked upward, and let my head fall back against the headrest. The windows were up. The lock was down. No one was around. Just the hum of the city fading in and out, the distant wail of a siren, the rustle of wind through dead leaves. I closed my eyes. I imagined it was his mouth on my neck, his breath hot, his hands gripping my thighs. I pressed deeper, slower, feeling the slick heat build between my legs. I thought about his cock stretching me, his hips slamming into mine, the rough slap of skin against skin echoing in the quiet room. I thought about the way he’d growled my name, not like a question, but like a fact. Like gravity. My breath hitched. I pushed my fingers harder, circling, rubbing, until the pleasure coiled tight in my belly, a live wire snapping. I came hard, body arching off the seat, a silent cry tearing from my throat, fingers trembling, soaked through, heartbeat pounding in my ears.
I stayed there, chest heaving, sweat cooling on my skin, the taste of my own arousal sharp in the back of my throat. Guilt flickered, quick and familiar. We were supposed to be discreet. We were supposed to keep it hidden. Father and daughter. Blood. Biology. The world would look at us and call it wrong, would point and whisper. But as I pulled my fingers out, wiping them on my thigh, the guilt didn’t crush me. It just sat there, light, almost sweet. Because beneath it, pulsing brighter, was aliveness. I felt so fucking alive. Like I’d been holding my breath for years and only now was I finally drawing air. Every touch, every thrust, every quiet word he’d murmured against my skin had pulled me out of numbness. I was real. I was his. And I didn’t care about the rules.
My phone buzzed in the cup holder. I wiped my fingers on a tissue, dialed his number before I could second-guess it. It rang once. Twice. His voice answered, low, familiar, instantly cutting through the quiet. “Daddy?” I said, voice barely above a whisper. “What’s wrong?” he asked, immediate, attentive. “Nothing,” I breathed, pressing the phone to my ear, feeling the heat still radiating from my core. “I just wanted to hear your voice.” I didn’t say more. Didn’t need to. He was quiet for a moment, just breathing, and then I heard it—the soft, rumbling smile in his tone. “I was thinking about you too, baby girl.” The words hit me like a second wave. I closed my eyes, letting his voice wrap around me, filling the empty space where the guilt had been. I wasn’t alone in this. Not anymore.
I stayed in the car, listening to his breathing, feeling the weight of his words settle into my bones. I thought about last night again, about how he’d held me after, his chest rising and falling against my back, his fingers tracing idle patterns on my bare shoulder. I thought about how he’d whispered in my ear, “You’re mine,” like it was a law, like the sky was blue. I wasn’t guilty anymore. Just full. Full of him, full of memory, full of something that felt dangerously close to forever. I finally opened the door, stepped out into the cooling air, and locked it behind me. The lot was empty, but I didn’t feel it. I walked to my car, looked back once, and smiled.