Held Tight – The Good Girls Read Online Dani Wyatt

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Insta-Love Tags Authors: Dani Wyatt Advertisement

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“Karaoke night!” She bounces up and down, and I nearly pass the fuck out watching her tits bounce nearly to her chin in my personal wet t-shirt fantasy.

I push back from the table, my dick catching in the hem of my boxers, making me wince and grunt as her hands move to my cheeks, and before I can stop it, her lips are on mine.

My whole world explodes into technicolor. It’s innocent, a kiss she’s given me hundreds of times when I’d tell her how proud I was of her, celebrate some achievement she’d made, or tell her a story at bedtime before tucking her in like a good stand-in father should.

But this?

This is not that kiss. This is warmth turning to sin. I let her linger there, my hand instinctively roaming up to take a handful of her throat, just under her jaw, with a soft squeeze.

My guts rearrange themselves. Blood moves hot through my veins, my erection so painfully swollen, white sparks dot my vision as her own pulse moves under my palm.

I catch myself before I can take it too far, releasing her and stepping back. Her body softens, lips rubbing together as though she’s trying to figure out if an innocent kiss with her father’s best friend, and her stand-in Daddy, wasn’t so innocent tonight.

“Go,” I order, needing a moment.

“I’ll get the machine set up,” she chirps, pinning me with a long glance before she turns away, and I watch her plump ass cheeks wiggle in those yoga shorts as she starts to walk away.

I avert my eyes, but not before I see the flicker of a question in hers. She knows. She may not be ready to admit it, but she knows something has shifted, and sometimes, you can’t put that toothpaste back in the tube.

Or put that cum back in the balls, as it’s likely going to be.

Fuck, it’s going to be a long fucking night.

Chapter Three

Reuben

My dick aches like a motherfucker as I finish putting the leftovers away and stacking the silverware and dishes in the kitchen sink.

I roll the crystal glass with a sip of my scotch left between my palms as I hear the high-pitched feedback pierce the space from down the hall where Winona is getting set up in the mini auditorium.

I designed the auditorium into the house when I built it for us. Winona has been a performer since she could hum Wheels on the Bus as a toddler, and somewhere around age six or seven, we all realized her voice was fucking magic.

It only gotten better from there, and her singing has danced in my dreams for years. Now, though, it’s more. The way she moves when she gets on the stage, the sultriness of her womanly voice, and curves… Fuck me, it hits me straight in the fucking balls, bouncing around inside me like a pinball hitting all the bells and whistles, until I damn near lose my fucking mind.

I throw back the last bit of the alcohol, savoring the burn, hoping the bit of a buzz will help loosen up the grip she has on my boner and let me regain a modicum of control.

“Testing, testing.” The amplification of her voice sends a new wave of possessive heat rushing through me as I work my way out of the kitchen and down the hall towards her.

“Fuck,” I whisper as I look through the curtains, watching as she moves on the stage, tip-toeing like she does most of the time.

Probably started out as a self-defense mechanism around her mom, but it’s more of a habit now than actually trying to be quiet. She does this happy little hop when she hits the center of the stage, securing the microphone into the tall chrome stand.

I stay at the doorway where the velvet curtains hang open enough for me to watch. The stage is lit, but the small auditorium is dark, so she can’t see me hanging back, stalking, perving.

I force steel into my spine. I’m so hard I could crack granite.

I reach down and lower my zipper, twisting my long fingers through the opening, then battling the other opening in my boxers until I can grab the pole of my shaft and force it out into the open air.

If she only knew the number of times I’ve done exactly this, thinking about her, looking at the depraved sea of photos I’ve taken of her since she turned eighteen that I keep in a private, ‘Finally fucking legal’ folder on my phone.

My tongue rakes along my bottom lip as she wiggles into her favorite standing position behind the microphone, and I start to stroke myself in the darkness.

When I built this house, I filtered every decision through the lens of her. Would she like it? Would it be good for her? Make her smile? Help her achieve her goals? Be safe for her?


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