This is a work of fiction, and all the characters in it are over 18.
If you haven't read Part 1, we recommend you do, in order to get the full story of Nick and Jessica's relationship.
The next day after work, Nick sits in his car with the engine off, staring at the front of his house. He grips the steering wheel, the leather creaking under his fingers.
She's in there.
The thought brings him a bewildering mix of feelings: a contented happiness, a jittery sexual charge, and a kind of looming dread.
Over the last week, his daughter has continued to. . . improve. . .
if you could call it that,
he thinks.
Definitely no longer moping around in baggy clothes as she first had after her mother and step-father were killed in a car crash, she has instead become a near whirlwind of energy--cooking, cleaning, doing laundry and endless laps in the backyard pool, going for increasingly long runs and even been sunning herself in the afternoons. All of that is healthy and wonderful, he thinks, even if she isn't getting out to see anyone else. That will come in time, he is sure.
What troubles him now is a new flirtatious behavior toward him. She has become aggressive: long touches, smouldering glances that linger too long and last night, lewd comments while actually grinding on his lap.
He loves his daughter and would do anything in the world for her. He has tried just riding the wave of her new energy, telling himself that it's a phase and it will pass. He says that to himself repeatedly but it's getting harder and harder to believe. With every new advance, he has figured out a new way to dodge, change the subject, or--as a last ditch effort--go to bed early. He even left for work this morning earlier than usual, feeling like a coward but not really seeing any alternative.
His job, which he has loved, and which has provided a comfortable life also takes a lot out of him. He has not had a relationship in quite some time, and the sex he's had in the last couple years have mostly been one night stands on business trips or the occasional meaningless tryst with Elizabeth.
But Jessica is wearing him down. He feels out of breath, stretched thin, rudderless, kicked around by angry waves, wet, huddling in a storm.
He loves sex, and in his younger days had an appetite that was both voracious and even a little. . . dark. But that was lifetimes ago, and his recent years have been an inexorable corporate climb that has taken all his energy. But now. . . Jessica. Her gentle touches are both confusing and energizing, awakening in him something that hasn't seen the light of day for a long time. Her flirtatious attentions are stoking a fire in him--goddamn if it doesn't feel good.
He did the right thing last night, going to bed early, leaving her by the pool. But as he lay in bed after, stroking his cock, he couldn't get her out of his mind. The tiny red bikini. The naked desire in her eyes. Her firm ass on his lap, slick with sweat. Flicking his thumb over the head of his erection, he had imagined it was her tongue. He had gripped himself tighter, fucking into his fist with an accelerating rhythm, beginning to imagine what would have happened, if: If he hadn't gotten up to leave, if he had allowed himself to openly watch the sensual rise-and-fall of her breasts as she inhaled and exhaled, if he had touched her back as he would have touched a woman.
Lying in the dark, the phrase "She IS a woman" had shot through him, and moved him to some new place. She is a woman that wants him. And, crossing some near-final threshold, he faces the fact that, goddamn it, he wants her back. He wants her so bad. The things he wants to do to her. The hard things. The sweaty things.
His orgasm had washed over him in that moment like a tsunami. Muscles tensing, chest heaving, back bowed, he had erupted over the top of his fist in waves. It had taken several long minutes, suspended in a fuzzy dream-like state, before he was able to come back to the moment. He laughed at himself as he observed the scene: swim trunks pushed halfway down his thighs, body hanging partially off the unmade bed in the dark room. He hadn't even turned on a light before he had begun to stroke the hot column of his erection.
Later, he had awaken from a fiery sexual dream involving either Kitty the porn star or his daughter—they were blurring together in his mind lately. A porn star and his little girl. He couldn't deny how painfully hard his cock had been when he awoke from that dream, how he stroked himself to release quickly and efficiently in the shower, and the thoughts that have haunted him all day: Jessica's body moving around the house in her now always-skimpy outfits, giving him those long looks and touches. And how, lately, when she would turn to the stove and attend to dinner, he would sip his cocktail and drink in the view of her tight ass. Occasionally, he'd catch himself, and turn away. More often than not lately, he wouldn't.
He runs his hands through his hair, looking through the windshield as his own front door.
I never thought I'd end up here. Hiding in my fucking car.
He tries to relax a bit before heading inside, a deep inhale and a long, slow exhale. Then again. He is afraid of where things are going, true. He is afraid of the chemistry that is happening in his house, and the feeling that somehow things are breaking loose in him, changing him, irreparably.
"GODDAMN IT!" He shouts in the empty car. He is so frustrated, keyed up, and concerned all at the same time. He is afraid. Is he angry? Yeah, he is a little angry. He really wants this chance to be the good guy, the one she can depend on, to redeem himself for being gone for all those years. But now, like this. . . that ass, that tight body, all the soft skin and the lingering, stroking touches, even grinding on his lap. The unmasked desire. She is making it so hard on him.
But, he tells himself, he would take this maybe-inappropriate but definitely energized sexuality over her previous despondent and worrisome depression, for sure. He would rather worry about himself doing something that might hurt her, instead of worrying about her doing something to hurt herself.
Because he knows--even in a million years--he would never ever do anything to hurt his little girl. And he can't sit out in the car all night. He sighs, let's go of the steering wheel, and opens the door.
——
A knife slides through the plump tomato and it falls in half, juices running out onto the cutting board. Jessica soaks in the details of the moment: the red of the tomato, it's fresh scent wafting into her nostrils, the juices on her fingertips. She pushes the juices around with the fingers of her right hand for a minute, an abstract design appearing in the moist areas of the wooden surface. She hums quietly to herself as she prepares the salad, a tiny smile floating across her face.
She feels different, stronger than she has in a long time. Without being fully able to articulate all her changes, she knows that she is different, that her father knows she is different. She feels calm, breathing steady. She feels ready to ask for what she wants, and finally ready to receive it.
Daddy,
she thinks with delight, noticing the tightening of her nipples and warm wetness in her pussy. She feels awake. It feels good to be alive again. She slices another tomato and reaches for the mushrooms. She lets her strength pulse through her in waves, and settles into it.
She has noticed that when she is near her father, her heart and her skin and her pussy all speak to her in assertive voices. They sing in unison like a chorus ..
Him...Him...Him.
The blood in her veins pumps to a rhythm of
Need...Need...Need.
He is strong and gentle and undeniably masculine, and when he embraces her she feels the thrum of it at her core. It makes her want more of him, all of him. It makes her want to open her legs and scream "I am nothing if I'm not yours." She understands that her advances are troubling to him but her body is selfish, and she feels his body respond in kind. He wants her too. She is at peace.
"Jess, I'm home!" She hears his call as the front door shuts. The sound of his voice warms her and she wiggles her hips a little, unconsciously.
"Your drink's ready!" she calls back.
"Great, thanks, I--Oh, god." Nick stops in his tracks when he sees her.
She turns, eyes wide as if surprised. "What?" But she has of course expected this. She is wearing her most brazenly revealing outfit yet: a micro-minimus bikini from Wicked Weasel. It is a bikini one must not only be extremely fit to wear, but also have a completely shaved pussy, as the bottom is so small that it barely covers her pussy lips. Likewise, the top consists only of ribbons wide enough to stretch across her nipples.
"Jesus, Jessica," he blurts, gesturing at her. "That bikini!"
"What?" she says, looking down at herself, wanting to sound innocent but knowing she doesn't. "Everyone's wearing these now." She tries a little pout, as if to ward off his disapproval.
"No, they most definitely are not," he states flatly, crossing the room to pick up his gin and tonic. He takes a deep drink and is relieved to find it extra strong. He definitely needs to calm down.
"Well, there's no one here but us--it's not like I'm going out in public or anything."
"But you're nearly naked!" he bellows, the power in his voice surprising them both. She drops her eyes to focus on the cutting board, the tomatoes, the knife.
Stunned briefly by his resolve, she lowers her voice. She doesn't want to change, but she wants to make him happy, almost more than anything. "I got it brand new today, and went swimming and laid out for a bit. Before I knew it, it was time to make you dinner, but I can change if you really want me to..." she slips that last line in, hoping a little guilt might soften things up.
Glancing up discreetly, she watches his reflection in the glass of the microwave. He is taking a long pull of his cocktail, and drinking in the view of her ass, which is on full display with only a string settled between her firm little cheeks. She watches him adjust his cock with one hand, feels a flood of new moisture between her own legs. Nick takes a slow, deep breath and Jessica wonders if he can smell her heat, if his body is pulled to the magnet of hers. She continues chopping.
"Jessica. . . " he stammers, frustration leaking into his voice. But he takes another breath, a calming breath, remembering how despondent she had been just a month ago. How concerned he'd been about her possibly hurting herself. He doesn't want either of them to have to go back to that. He doesn't know what to do next.
"I'm going to change my clothes," he blurts, leaving the room.
-----
"Oh, you need another drink."
They sit at the table, dinner mostly-finished. She has not changed from her nearly non-existent bikini, sitting in front of her father as close to naked as she has been in her adult life while they chatted and ate. He has struggled to avert his gaze from the silky skin of her breasts, or to diligently make eye contact as they spoke.
But when she gets up to mix him a third drink, her body drifts very close to his. The currents of air surrounding them feel electric. She makes gentle but deliberate contact, dragging her fingers lightly up his arm and across his shoulder as she passes. Tension crashes over him like a tidal wave, and he
wants
. As he shifts in his chair he can see that she catches the hungry look in his eyes before he shifts them down, away, anywhere. By the time she returns, he notices her nipples straining blatantly against the gauzy fabric and the thin string of her bikini bottom doing very little to contain the hot wetness that seems to be leaking down onto her thighs. The storm brewing crackles in the air between them. He feels terrified. He feels alive.
She sets a drink before him and lays her hand on his shoulder, leaving it there. "Here you go," she says, voice just above a whisper.
"Thanks, I—" Nick stops, noticing her touch. He sighs and leans back, taking her hand off his shoulder, and holding it slightly away—holding it in both hands, in a fatherly way. He looks up, past the rise and fall of her breasts and hardened nipples, locking her gaze.
"Jessica, this has to stop," he declares, more resolve in his voice than he feels, he notices.
"What?" She asks, her voice sounding so innocent.
So young
, he thinks.
He gestures at her outfit. "This. The outfits, the flirting. The ... teasing..."
"Teasing, Dad?" she asks. She sounds unsure, like she really doesn't see what he has been seeing.
He is not wanting to sound accusatory, but he feels flustered and needs to exert some control. He takes a breath, summons up the part of himself that feels no doubt, that makes the decisions, the part of him that doles out
