Because downstairs wasn’t empty.
Downstairs was Tasha.
And her voice was still echoing up the stairs, cheerful, f*****g oblivious.
“Come on, Dad! You’re taking forever!”
I limped toward the stairs, clutching the banister with one hand, the sheet with the other, and every inch of me was sore. My back ached from the way he bent me over. My hips ached from how wide he stretched me. My inner thighs were raw from how fast I’d run and how hard he’d f****d me. I was still clenching. Still fluttering. Still so goddamn full I felt like I needed to lie down and cry into a pillow for twenty-five hours.
Instead, I took another step.
And another.
Each one slow. Careful. Like if I moved too fast, his c*m would actually hit the floor behind me.
I followed him.
Slowly.
Painfully.
One step at a
