Page 7 of Daddy's Sinner

Zia’s breath comes in short, desperate gasps. “Harder,” she demands, her voice barely a whisper, but the urgency in her tone is unmistakable.

I comply, thrusting harder, faster, the sound of our bodies colliding filling the air. Her moans grow louder, her body tightening around me as she nears her climax. I bite down on her shoulder, fighting to hold on as pleasure threatens to overwhelm me. The bathroom door rattles as someone bangs on it from the other side, but I ignore it, focused only on the woman in front of me.

Zia cries out, her body shuddering as she comes, and I follow, burying myself deep as I release, the sensation crashing over me like a tidal wave. I hold her against me, both of us breathing heavily, the world outside the bathroom fading away. We stay like that for a moment, bodies tangled, sweat-slicked, savoring the aftermath.

As I pull out, my mind drifts to Marisol. A brief, fleeting thought of how she'd feel. Would her pussy be this tight, this welcoming? A smirk tugs at my lips. No, Marisol would be better—divine, even. That thought lingers as I slip off the condom, knotting it before tossing it in the trash.

We fix ourselves up in silence, exchanging glances here and there. Her fingers brush against mine as she slips past me to retrieve her jacket,and I catch her hand, pulling her close for one last kiss. It’s soft and lingering, a promise of more to come.

For the next few days, I may have found my escape.

“I’m in town until Sunday,” I say, slipping on my shirt and watching her pull her tank top over her head.

“Good thing I’m here until Sunday too,” she replies, buttoning up her jeans, a playful smile curving her lips.

“Tomorrow, same time?” I ask the words out before I can stop them. Not that I cared to form any kind of connection, but a man has needs and I could use the distraction. She shakes her head, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Come to my motel. We’ll have more time.” She pulls a Sharpie from her jacket and scribbles an address on my hand. Her handwriting is remarkably neat, a stark contrast to the wildness that pulses between us.

I nod, watching her leave, her hips swaying, the scent of her perfume lingering in the air. “It was nice to meet you, Alex,” she says over her shoulder, disappearing into the bar, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the fading echoes of our encounter.

I take a deep breath, trying to compose myself as I head back to my motel room. The cool night air bites at my heated skin, a welcome contrast that helps steady my thoughts. The late hour wraps the town in silence as the streets of Taos remain deserted. My mind drifts to Marisol—wondering what she’s doing. I shake my head, trying to focus, but then the memory of Zia invades my thoughts, the way she clenched around me, pulling me back into that moment. I exhale slowly, forcing my steps to quicken, trying to outpace the lingering sensations. For now, the demons are quiet, content with the pleasure I offered them.

Back in the room, I take a shower and get ready for bed. Tomorrow, I’ll head to the market and stalk my prey. More importantly, I'll get to see the object of my obsession, of my desire. My beautiful little sinner. According to the intel, Victor likes to bring his little dove there for art supplies and flowers. I’ll be waiting for them.

As sleep claims me, the familiar weight of exhaustion drags me under, pulling me into the dark, twisted labyrinth of my memories. They come for me every night, these relentless nightmares—ghosts of a past I can never escape.

It begins like it always does, in that small, suffocating room. The walls close in around me, the air thick with the stench of sweat and stale alcohol. I’m a child again, no more than six or seven, huddled in the corner on a threadbare mattress that smells of urine and fear. My mother’s shadow looms large, distorted by the flickering candlelight. She’s pacing the room, muttering to herself in that slurred, angry voice that sends shivers down my spine.

“Worthless,” she spits, her words like venom. “You’re just like your father—good for nothing.”

I try to make myself smaller, pressing into the corner as if I could disappear into the cracks in the wall. My small hands tremble as I wrap my arms around my knees, pulling them to my chest, trying to create a barrier between us.

But there’s no escape. Not from her.

Suddenly, she turns, her bloodshot eyes locking onto mine. The rage in them is terrifying, and I know what’s coming next. My heart pounds in my chest, the sound deafening in my ears as she stumbles toward me, her movements erratic and jerky.

“Get up,” she snarls, grabbing a fistful of my hair and yanking me to my feet. Pain shoots through my scalp, but I bite down on my lip, refusing to cry out. Tears would only make it worse. I learned that a long time ago.

She drags me across the room, shoving me against the wall so hard that the breath is knocked out of me. The rough plaster scrapes against my skin, and I choke on the sobs that threaten to escape.

“You think you can just sit there, huh?” she hisses, her face inches from mine, reeking of alcohol. “You think you’re better than me?”

I shake my head frantically, my voice a whisper. “No, Mama, please…”

But she’s not listening. She never does. Her hand whips out, and before I can brace myself, the slap lands hard across my face. My head snaps to the side, and the taste of blood fills my mouth as I bite down on my tongue. The sting of the blow radiates through my cheek, but it’s nothing compared to the shame that floods me.

She hits me again and again, her curses blending into a distorted symphony of hate. Each strike drives me deeper into myself, until I’m nothing but a hollow shell, retreating to that dark place in my mind where I can’t feel the pain. Where I can’t feel anything at all.

But the worst part isn’t the blows or the insults. It’s the silence that follows. The way she stares at me afterward, her expression vacant, as if she’s forgotten I’m even there. Then she turns away, collapsing onto the bed, muttering to herself as she drifts into a drunken stupor. The only sound is the ragged breathing that fills the room—mine, trembling and broken.

I slide down the wall, my knees giving out beneath me, and curl into a ball on the cold floor. I can’t cry. Not now. I have to be quiet, or she’ll wake up again. I close my eyes, desperate to escape the nightmare. Fear grips me, suffocating, until warmth seeps in, chasing away the dread. The scent of cocoa butter fills the air, soft hands caress my scarred skin, soothing me.

"Matheo," she whispers, her touch turning the fear into heat. I open my eyes, and she’s there, sinking down onto me, her gaze locking with mine. The nightmare fades. There’s only her, only this moment, her body consuming me.

I lose myself in her, in the way she moves, in the way she feels. All the pain vanishes, replaced by desire.

The sound of my alarm jolts me awake, and I’m immediately aware of the hardness between my legs. Stretching my body, I yawn before rolling out of bed. My muscles ache, and my cock throbs, desperate to taste the little dove. The little sinner. But soon, I will meet her, claim her, and then give her peace.

But before I can step into the world and hunt my prey, I must seek forgiveness. I must punish myself for the sins of last night.

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