Page 62 of My Big Fat Daddy Issues

It only took a few months before the marriage hit the skids like I knew deep down it would. It was a weird time in my life. Just out of the Navy, drifting. My parents had both passed within six months of each other while I was deployed.

They left me their house and it felt so fucking empty. No matter how much I renovated it, hung out with my friends, told myself I didn't need someone, I couldn't help but want what they had.

Love. And passion although the latter I tried to pretend I didn't notice, but it was always there. They met at a school dance when my dad was eighteen and mom was sixteen. Back then, sixteen wasn't considered illegal and they were married by the end of that summer and spent the next fifty-six years as happy as any couple I ever knew.

So, in my idiocy, I figured, if they could carve out a happy life after knowing each other for a couple months, why couldn't I? Turns out, there's a huge fucking 'X' factor involved in love andmarriage and Wren's mother and I did not have that going for us.

The faded anchor on my left forearm catches the light. My tattoos fascinated Wren from the moment we met. I still remember how she used to trace them with her index finger when we'd sit and watch Lilo & Stitch over and fucking over.

When I bring her the glass, she wraps both hands around it with a fake smile, sips and winces.

"What happened?" I ask on my own stinging swallow of the alcohol, trying not to focus on my daughter's nipples that are clearly hard under the fabric of the sweatshirt.

She's just cold asshole, don't flatter yourself.

She looks up at me from the couch. Those brown eyes draped by those horribly cut bangs. "Dylan cheated."

Dylan.

Hatred boiled inside me at the first sight of him on her Instagram. I told myself it was protective fatherly instinct. It took every ounce of my control not to wait for him outside that shitty off campus apartment of his and take him for a ride to the train station so to speak.

"I should have called Mom but I can't — " She presses her lips together. "He cheated because I wouldn't — " She stares into the bourbon as my cock pulses and I hate myself for salivating thinking how sweet her pussy will taste. How, if I get my mouth on her, I'll take my fucking time.

Fuck, I take a deep breath and try to stay on track.

"Wouldn't what?"

Her jaw tightens. "He'd grab my hair and try to shove my face into the pillow. Tell me to be good." She says it with a curl of her lip. "And when I didn't go along with it, he told me I was frigid." The flush starts at her cheeks, crawls down her throat, disappears under the neckline. "And it's not that I didn't — like, the idea wasn't — I mean, with the right — Never mind." She flutters a hand in the air, then presses her fingers to the bridge of her nose.

Everything in my world turns red and I back away until the edge of the granite kitchen bites into my ass. I barely heard anything after "shove my face into the pillow" but the rest of it seeped through my rage and murder is back on the table for this fuck.

"Did you fuck him?" The question blasts out of me like a torpedo.

"No." She shakes her head so hard her hair sticks between her lips. "He almost made me…once. But, I didn't let him."

Fuck. Letting her go away to school was her mother's idea and I went along with it because I had no legal power.

Madness heats my core and like she always does, she says the one thing that will keep my head from flying off.

"I never let anybody do…I never went all the way. With anyone. I've barely done anything."

Relief lifts the ten tons of bricks from my shoulders and I force myself to re-center the conversation to what she needs from me.

"It's not that you didn't want that rough, dominance from a man, baby." I start, knowing where this is going and unable to stop. "It's that you didn't want it with a boy. With him."

She gives me a look like I've reached into her chest and pulled out the thing she's been choking on for months.

"There's nothing wrong with you." I grip the counter edge hard enough to whiten my knuckles. "A kid who calls you frigid because you won't perform on his schedule isn't dominant. He's a brat with a porn habit."

"You know the difference it seems." There's a shift in her hips. Did she just clench her thighs together?

Fuck yes, I tell myself whether it's the truth or not. I think of the times I stood outside her bedroom. She'd turned eighteen and any restraint I had inside of me took off like a rocket.

I'd play it out inside my head in the middle of the night. Sneaking into her room, pushing her sheet down, laying on top of her and just humping myself to relief while she slept.

There was one night, it wasn't just something I played out inside my head. That's the night I knew I had to leave. I came right on the crotch of her panties, whispering for her to be still, Daddy's almost done, while she slept under my assaulting body.

How she slept through it I'm not sure, but it's likely the only reason I'm standing here with her trust still intact.