Page 82 of Castaway Whirlwind
Catching up to me, Trace continues his bizarre rambling with, “Escargot, you’re my dad. Or would you prefer ‘Pops’ or ‘Papa’?” Trace screws up his face and scratches his head over hisfancy occasionbucket hat. “I’m not calling you ‘Daddy’ unless you really, really want me to, but only so I don’t get fired.”
“Jesus effing—one, that’s still not how it works. Two, the word you’re looking for is ‘ergo’, not ‘escargot’. And three, if you ever, ever call me ‘Daddy’, I’ll take you out to Elliott’s property and—”
Trace holds his hands up between us. “Chill, chill. Your face is getting scary red. Have you been to the doc recently? Might want to get checked out, Papa.”
Fearing for my heart health when my blood pressure rises, I begrudgingly give up. “‘Dad’ is fine.”
“Awesome.” I’m about to roll my eyes and walk away when Trace says with a watery smile, “I always wanted a dad.”
“Christ, kid. Come here.” I yank Trace into a hug, uncomfortable but trying not to show it when he wraps his skinny arms around my back and drops his forehead on my shoulder. After a minute or so, when Trace sniffles, I let my shoulders relax and even start humming with the band. I’d hope someone would be this kind to Paul if Francisco and I weren’t around.
Trace thumbs his nose when he finally pulls away, ducking his head so I can’t see his eyes beneath the brim of his hat. “Thanks for that. I’m, uh…” He hikes his thumb over his shoulder toward Cora. “Gonna go dance with Princess. See you at home after your honeymoon, Dad.” He flashes me a quick smile, this one a touch stronger. “‘Sup, Uncle Elliott,” he says, passing by my brother leaning against a post, talking to Jared.
“The hell?” Elliott raises a brow at me, pointing to the kid.
“That was really sweet, Daddy,” Layla says, sliding her arms around me from behind.
I turn and gather her in my arms. “I think he might’ve ruined the whole ‘Daddy’ thing for me, darlin’.” I get a little sour in the gut just thinking about it.
“Oh, really?” Layla pulls out of my hold and slides her hand down to mine, lacing our fingers together. “Hmmm, maybe I can fix that for you.”
She practically skips past the bar, leading me to the end of the dance hall and through a side door to the room backstage. It’s dark and stuffy, the bass rattling our bones through the floor, louder in here than it is out front, and wholly perfect for what I’m about to do to my new wife.
I push Layla’s back against the door, drop to my knees, and flip the bottom of her wedding dress over my head. I behaved myself in the limousine on the way to the hall after the ceremony, only getting her off with my fingers over her silky thong since the drive was shorter than I’d liked, but now I can take my time. Nipping the waistband of Layla’s thong with my teeth, I tug it down and help her step one foot out, then drape her leg over my shoulder.
Layla presses on my head when I bury my nose in her, swiping my tongue through the seam of her pussy lips to find her clit, already slipping a finger inside her. “Two fingers, more tongue, Daddy,” she begs, voice raised to be heard over the music, precariously balanced on one sexy heel.
I oblige, scooting closer on my knees while I palm an innerthigh to spread her wider so I can push my middle and index finger into her as deep as I can go, then surprise her with a third.
“Oh god, Daddy, yes,” she moans, rocking her hips into me and almost losing her footing.
“This isn’t going to work,” I say, gasping for air after ducking out from beneath her dress since I couldn’t get enough beneath it.
“What?”
Raising my voice, I repeat, “I said this isn’t going to work.”
“It was working just fine,” she insists with a pout.
I chuckle, then lie flat on the floor, motioning for her to step over me. “Lift your dress so it doesn’t get dirty and sit on Daddy’s face.”
“Oh.” Layla’s heels tap along the floor as she takes position. We shuffle until we’ve got it just right, with Layla’s knees on either side of my head, holding her dress up with one hand while bracing the other flat against the door.
“Sit,” I demand when she hovers, andlordy, does she listen, spreading her knees so her pussy sits directly on top of my waiting mouth.
“Oh, oh god, yes.” Layla rolls her hips, angling her body so she can grind her clit against my tongue while I thrust two fingers inside her pussy already dripping wet with arousal. “It’s even better now. Don’t stop, Daddy. Don’t stop until I cum.”
As if I was ever planning to stop.
I’m so turned on by the way my darlin’ rides my face that I rush to unbuckle my belt with one hand, then lift my hips to shove my pants down far enough to pull my cock out, jacking it so hard and fast that I’m in danger of cumming all overmy suit. I moan into Layla’s pussy, breathing hard, wanting desperately for her to cum quickly so I can lift and drop her onto my dick.
“No, no, wait!” Layla tumbles sideways, crawling on her hands and knees to switch positions. She knocks the breath out of my lungs when she straddles and sits on my face again with her heels against the door, then swallows my cock, hollowing her cheeks while tugging on my balls.
“Oh f—that’s it, darlin’. Suck Daddy nice and deep.” I pump up into her mouth in time with my fingers in her pussy, making the most obscene, sloppy wet noises. My hand and beard are soaked when I make her cry out with her orgasm, the head of my cock strangled by her constricting throat muscles, the same way her pussy strangles my fingers.
It’s anawesomeexperience all on its own to cum directly down her throat instead of on her tongue, my darlin’ coughing when she abruptly sits up, dang near breaking my fingers in half at the unexpected repositioning. I give her a little lick between her cheeks to remind her she’s suffocating me, and Layla makes a high-pitched yelp of surprise at the contact before crawling off of me.
“Sorry,” she shouts, panting as she tucks my cock inside my pants, then lays flat atop me so her dress won’t get dirty.
