CHAPTER 7: I'M SLEEPING WITH MY BEST FRIEND'S FATHER [VII]

CHAPTER 7 AVA'S POV Lisa’s plane is supposed to be in the air by now. That’s all I can think about while Marcus has me bent over the kitchen counter. My cheek is pressed to the cool surface. My skirt is shoved up around my waist. My panties are stretched around my knees, one side already torn from how roughly he yanked them down. He f***s me slow and deep, the kind of deliberate pace that makes me feel every thick inch of him dragging in and out. One of his hands is wrapped around the back of my neck, pinning me in place. The other grips my hip hard enough that I know I’ll bruise. The house is completely empty. No footsteps upstairs. No television. No risk of the front door opening. Just the wet, filthy sound of his c**k driving into me and the broken moans I don’t have to swallow anymore. “Ten whole days,” he mutters behind me, voice rough with satisfaction. “I’m going to fill this cunt every morning before you leave for class. Every night when you get home. Maybe in between if I feel like it.” I moan in answer, high and shameless. My fingers are slippery on the counter. I’m already close. He knows it. He always knows it — the way my breath changes, the way I start pushing back to meet his thrusts, the way my p***y starts fluttering around him. He reaches around and finds my c**t with rough, practiced fingers, rubbing in tight circles that make my knees weak. “Come,” he orders. “Now. Let me feel it.” I do. Hard. My legs shake as I clench around him, moaning loudly for once because there’s no one home to hear it. The orgasm rolls through me in deep, pulsing waves. Marcus curses under his breath and keeps f*****g me through it, chasing his own release with harder snaps of his hips. A few thrusts later he buries himself to the hilt and comes with a low, guttural sound, flooding me in thick pulses. I feel every one. Feel the heat of it. Feel it start to leak out around his c**k and down my thighs when he finally stills, breathing hard against my back. He smacks my ass once, sharp and possessive, then pulls out. The sudden emptiness makes me whimper. His c*m immediately drips down my leg in a warm, messy line. “Clean up,” he says, already tucking himself away. “Then get upstairs. I’m not done with you.” I stay bent over the counter for a few extra seconds, catching my breath, cheek still against the surface, his c*m sliding down my inner thigh. A slow, private smile pulls at my mouth. She’s gone. We have time. I push myself up on unsteady arms, pull my ruined panties back into place, and smooth my skirt down with trembling hands. My body feels used and open and perfect. I can already feel him leaking out of me with every step as I head for the stairs. --- Across the city, Lisa stands at Gate 23 with her carry-on suitcase and a dead phone. The departure board above the desk has already changed. **CANCELLED** stares back at her in bold red letters. Weather. A storm system that moved in faster than predicted. Rain lashes against the terminal windows hard enough to sound like static. All around her people are complaining, arguing with exhausted gate agents, refreshing airline apps that have nothing new to offer. Lisa just stands there for a long moment, the handle of her suitcase gripped too tightly in her hand, feeling the slow drain of adrenaline leave her body. She digs her phone out of her jacket pocket and presses the power button. Nothing. She tries again, holding it down longer. Still black. She forgot to charge it last night after packing — she had been too busy deciding between two nearly identical sweaters and texting her mom her flight details. The battery had been on three percent when she arrived at the airport. She had told herself she would charge it on the plane. No way to call her dad. No way to text Ava. No way to tell Ryan the trip is off. A gate agent with a tired voice and a plastic smile informs her that the next possible flight isn’t until tomorrow afternoon, and even that one is tentative depending on the storm. Hotel vouchers are limited. Rebooking lines are already long. Lisa looks at the rain hammering the glass and feels something in her simply give up. She’s just going home. The decision settles over her with a kind of exhausted calm. She hauls her suitcase back through the terminal, weaving through clusters of stranded passengers, and steps out into the wet pickup zone. Rain immediately soaks into her hair and the shoulders of her jacket. She has to ask a stranger — a woman with a kind face and a portable charger — if she can plug in for five minutes just to order an Uber. The woman lets her. Lisa thanks her too many times. The ride home feels longer than it should. City lights smear across the wet windows. The driver doesn’t try to make conversation. Lisa sits in the back seat with her dead phone in her lap and watches the familiar streets begin to appear. By the time the car turns onto her road, the sky is fully dark and the rain has settled into a steady, heavy curtain. The house looks quiet from the outside. The living room light is on, warm against the storm. Her dad’s car is parked in the driveway, water beading across the hood. Everything looks exactly the same as when she left this morning. She pays the driver, drags her suitcase up the short path, and fumbles for her keys with cold fingers. She never thinks to knock. This is her house. She has always just walked in. She slides the key into the lock, turns it, and pushes the door open, already calling out as she steps into the hallway with rain still dripping from her hair. “Dad? I’m back—”