Page 46 of Daddies' Holiday Toy

My hand’s already at my belt like it’s got a mind of its own, tugging it apart and shoving my waistband down over my hips.

She’d looked at me with those dark, wide eyes, still glassy from the wine and vodka.

Like she couldn’t decide whether to let me take the lead or pull me down and straddle me for taking too long.

All I could think about was how easy it would be to lean in and taste her.

To give in to what she’d clearly been offering me and take it without hesitation.

She looked like she’d taste amazing. Sweet and warm and just a little wild.

That thought alone is enough to make me throb, the ache pulsing low and insistent while I wrap my hand around my cock.

I can feel her on my tongue even though I never got the chance to in real life.

Hell, Ishouldn’tget the chance, but that doesn’t stop my brain from throwing me every filthy, vivid detail it can conjure right to the forefront.

In my mind, I see myself hooking my thumbs under the straps of her bra, peeling it down slow while watching her breasts spill free into my waiting palms.

Her skin would be hot and smooth against my calloused fingertips, her lips parting with a soft, breathy sound as I drag my mouth lower.

Over the flat of her stomach, past the dip of her navel until I’m tasting her like a man who’s been crawling through the desert for days on end.

Hungry.

Starved.

Fuckingdesperate.

The fantasy twists into something darker now, my fist wrapping tighter around my cock as my strokes get faster.

I can almost hear her voice breaking on my name as it spills past those cherry-colored lips, feel her legs tightening around my head as I bury it between her thighs to taste her.

Her fingers would curl into my hair as my mouth worked her over until she’s shaking apart in my hands.

“Fuck…” The word rasps out of me as heat builds fast, curling my spine forward.

It’s over too soon.

My orgasm rips through me in hot, blinding pulses, spilling over my fist as every muscle in my body tightens then goes slack.

For a moment, all I can do is stand there, breathing hard with my head bowed and my free hand braced on the door behind me.

That’s when the guilt starts to hit.

Hard.

It’s not just that she’s tipsy, though we all are after the wine and the bourbon we passed around before we went outside together.

It’s that she’s Carson’sdaughter.

We’re supposed to be looking after her while she’s here, snowed in with us. Protect her, not…

Christ,this.

Images flash unbidden even though none of them are from my own memory, just made-up little anecdotes that have no business plaguing me.

Holly at nine years old, wearing one of Carson’s old baseball caps, running through the backyard with a Popsicle in one hand and our dog chasing after her.