Claiming Daddy, Part 2

I stood beside the bed, hands trembling with anticipation as I watched Dad hover in the doorway. The afternoon light filtered through Mom's lace curtains, casting delicate patterns across the comforter she'd chosen. How fitting that her precious décor would witness what she'd driven us to.

"Come here," I said, my voice steady despite the hammering of my heart.

Dad stepped forward slowly, like a man walking to his execution or his salvation – I wasn't sure which. His eyes never left mine as I reached for the hem of my top and pulled it over my head. The fabric whispered to the floor.

His sharp intake of breath told me everything. I'd worn my best bra today, black lace that made my skin look porcelain. But even that barrier felt like too much between us.

"Touch me," I commanded, guiding his hands to my waist. His palms were warm, calloused from years of weekend projects Mom had stopped caring about. "I'm not going to break."