He was in my ass when I told him we had to stop.
Not sweet. Not careful. Roman had me folded over the edge of their bed — her bed, the one with Mom’s silk pillowcases — one hand in my hair, the other spreading me so he could watch himself sink in. Every thrust punched a wet, filthy sound out of me. My p***y was dripping down my own thighs and he had not touched it. He never did.
“Roman—”
A harder slam. The headboard kissed the wall.
“What did you call me.”
“Daddy.” It came out wrecked. “Daddy, we have to stop. I mean it this time.”
He laughed against the back of my neck, the same low laugh he used when I said this last month, and the month before that, and every time I came on his c**k and remembered whose daughter I was. He snapped his hips and buried himself to the root. My vision
