Mafia Daddies Between My Thighs

Chapter 80: Chapter EIGHTY

ANGEL

The mornings though, I faced all the mornings head-on.

In those foggy minutes before Vincenzo woke up, his body ran on instinct, and his instincts had nothing to do with fatherhood.

He’d drag me backwards. One arm locked around my waist, hauling me flush against his chest.

His face buried in my hair and his mouth pressing against the back of my neck—lips parted, breath hot and slow.

Every. Single. Morning.

Hard.

Thick.

His cock always strained against his pyjama pants and pressed into the curve of my ass with an insistence that left nothing to imagination.

He throbbed in slow, heavy pulses that matched his heartbeat.

The first morning it happened, I stopped breathing. I just lay there with his cock against me and his arm locked around my waist and my heart hammering so loud I was certain it would wake him.

He shifted in his sleep and his hips rocked forward—one slow, unconscious grind—and a sound left his throat. Low. The ghost of a groan.

My entire body flooded with heat.

By the third morning, I pressed back. Barely. A fraction that could pass as a sleeping movement. His arm tightened. His hips pushed forward, making his cock settle heavier against me.

On the fifth night, I tried something new.

I waited until his breathing had gone deep and even. When his arm was heavy and slack around my waist and his body was warm and loose with sleep.

Then I shifted, rolling slowly in his arms until I was facing him. Chest to chest. My face inches from his.

I could feel his breath on my lips. I could almost count his eyelashes in the dark. His arm was still draped around me, his hand now resting on the small of my back, fingers curled against my spine.

I inched closer, letting my hips press forward until I felt him—hard, even in sleep—against my lower stomach. The contact sent a sick thrill through me that pooled hot and liquid between my thighs.

Then I did something Damien taught me.

I tucked my face into the crook of his neck.

This allowed me to press my lips against the warm skin beneath his jaw. And I breathed. Hot, slow, open-mouthed breaths against his throat while I rocked my hips forward in a rhythm so subtle it was barely movement at all.

Just pressure. Heat. His daughter’s body grinding against his cock in the dark while she breathed against his neck like she was dreaming.

Vincenzo made a sound in his sleep. It wasn’t a groan. But something deeper.

A low rumble in his chest that vibrated through his ribs and into mine. His hand on my back slid lower—past my waist, past the hem of my pyjama shirt, until his fingers rested on the bare skin just above the waistband of my pyjama shorts.

His palm was burning. I could feel every ridge of his fingerprints against my skin.

I rocked again, letting my lips part against his neck. The tip of my tongue darted out to touch his skin—barely, a whisper of wet—and tasted salt. Warmth.

His hips responded. A slow, involuntary thrust against my stomach. His cock dragged upward through the fabric and the friction made us both shift and his fingers on my lower back curled, bunching the fabric of my shorts, pulling them tighter against my skin.

I was so wet I could feel it soaking through my underwear. The thin cotton was useless—drenched, clinging to me, every movement making me aware of how swollen and sensitive I was. If he moved his hand two inches lower he’d feel it. He’d feel the damp heat seeping through my shorts and he’d know exactly what his daughter’s body was doing while she lay in his arms.

I rocked my hips one more time. Pressed my open mouth against his throat. And whispered: ”Daddy.”

It was barely audible. A breath. A dream. The word of a sleeping girl lost in a nightmare who reached for the only safety she knew.

Vincenzo’s hand clenched on my lower back. His whole body stiffened. And then—

His fingers slid lower.

One inch. Two. Slipping beneath the waistband of my shorts, his palm cupped the bare curve of my ass, his fingers spreading against skin that had never been touched by anyone except Damien.

My heart stopped.

He held me like that for five seconds. His large hand was gripping my bare ass, his cock pressed hard against my stomach, his breath coming in short, ragged pulls against the top of my head.

Then he woke up. I felt it like a switch being thrown. The hand on my ass went rigid. His breathing seized. The body that had been warm and pliant turned to stone in one violent instant.

He didn’t rip his hand away. That’s what told me how bad it was. He didn’t yank himself free the way he had other mornings. Instead, he removed his hand slowly, carefully, like he was disarming a bomb.

Finger by finger. His palm lifted from my skin with an agonizing slowness that told me he was memorizing the feel of it even as he forced himself to stop.

I kept my eyes closed and my breathing even.

Sleeping Angel. Innocent Angel. A girl who had no idea her father’s hand had been gripping her bare ass while he ground against her in the dark.

Vincenzo lay motionless for a full minute. I could hear his heart—fast, wild, slamming against his ribs so hard I felt the vibration in my own chest.

Then he slid out of bed. I heard the bathroom door open. It closed. And the lock turned. The shower started.

I opened my eyes slowly, peeking at where his warmth had just been.

My hand was trembling. My underwear was soaked through—not damp, soaked, the cotton plastered to my skin. I could still feel the ghost of his hand on my ass, every finger, the exact width of his palm, the rough texture of his skin against mine.

I slid my hand into my shorts and found myself swollen and slick and throbbing. Two fingers sank in with no resistance and I bit into his pillow to muffle the moan that tore from my throat.

I fucked myself on his sheets, face down, breathing his scent from the pillowcase, my hand working between my thighs while the shower ran behind the bathroom door. I came fast and hard, my body clenching around my own fingers, Vincenzo’s name trapped behind my teeth.

When the shower stopped I was lying on my side. The pillow showed no evidence. My shorts were pulled up. Only the flush on my chest and the dampness between my thighs told the truth.