Page 96 of My Big Fat Daddy Issues

My jaw loosens and he pushes his fingers between my lips. I taste salt and shame and the edge of my own arousal and I suck without being told to. He watches me with those winter-sky eyes, unblinking, and my face burns so hot it could dry the rain still clinging to both of us.

He pulls his fingers from my mouth and reaches behind him for the knife.

He holds the blade to my throat. Tip resting in the hollow, cold steel warming fast from the heat rolling off me. His bare face makes it worse — or better, I don't know which anymore. The skull mask was horror-movie terror. His actual face is something else entirely. Familiar terror. The kind that comes from knowing exactly who's holding the knife and wanting him to press harder.

"Pawpaw, please." My voice cracks, I'm begging for what I'm not sure.

"Please what?" He tilts his head. One corner of his mouth lifts, that familiar twinkle in his eyes. "Please stop? Or please don't?"

I don't answer because the truth is both and neither and something in between that I don't know who I am.

He flicks the blade downward. One smooth long motion and my nightshirt splits from collar to hem, the wet fabric parting exposing my chilled skin. He doesn't stop at the bottom — he traces the tip back up, and the ruined shirt falls open and hangs from my shoulders.

"Take it off."

My fingers shake as I push the slit shirt off my shoulders and let it drop. The fabric hits the floor with a sloppy, sodden smack.

I'm naked. Mud-streaked, goosebumps racing over my skin.

Rhett's eyes travel down my body with the slow patience of a man who's been waiting a very long time for something. His eyes linger on my tits before continuing downward, touching my stomach, hips, the dark strip of hair above my mound.

"Look at my big girl." His voice drops to that low rumble and my nipples literally ache. "All grown up and smelling like a slut for your ole Pawpaw."

My eyes sting. Shame and pain and lust stab at my softest parts and I can't stop the fluttering down below my belly button.

"That's sick," I whisper. "We're sick."

"Maybe." He traces the flat of the blade across my left breast, circling my nipple with the cold steel. "But your cunt doesn't think so." He presses the tip in just above my nipple — one bright point of pain, one bead of blood rolling down the curve. "Your cunt thinks this is exactly right."

He's not wrong. I can feel myself dripping down my inner thighs.

"Touch yourself."

I shake my head.

He presses the blade harder against my breast. "I watched you hump a pillow in your sleep, little girl. You think I don't know what you need?" He leans close enough that his breath ghosts over my mouth. "I've read every filthy word you've written. I know what your characters do in the dark. Now show me what the author does. Get your fingers in that fucking cunt or Pawpaw is going to show you a different side of him."

My hand slides down my belly. It doesn't feel like a choice.

When my fingers meet my clit, my thigh muscles shake. I'm so sensitive the slightest pressure sends a convulsion through my pelvis.

"Inside," he orders. "I want to see you shove them deep."

One finger. Then two.

I push them in and my mouth falls open. God, why am I so wet?

Pawpaw watches, jaw working in the low light. This man taught me to saddle a horse and kissed my forehead thousands of times and is now watching me fuck my own pussy with my fingers against my bedroom door.

"Deeper."

I shudder and push. My palm grinds against my clit and I bite my lip until there's a metallic sting that spreads over my tongue.

"More. All of them. Show Pawpaw what a dirty girl you are."

I add a third finger. A fourth.

"I can't."