He was the kind of man who didn't need to raise his voice to command a room.
Or a girl like me.
Everything about Mr. Wolfe was sharp and clean his jaw, his suits, the way he never looked at me for too long, as if staring too hard would make something snap.
But I noticed everything.
The way he came home and loosened his tie with one hand. The way he watched his daughter like she was all that kept him grounded. And the way he never let his gaze linger on my bare legs when I wore shorts around the house.
He was trying to be good.
I wasn't.
Not anymore.
The Shirt
That night, I wore his white shirt on purpose.
The one he left folded on the laundry table, freshly pressed but forgotten.
I should've just hung it back up.
Instead, I wore it buttons halfway undone, sleeves rolled, hem just covering the lace of the pink panties I hoped he'd never seen me wear.
Except, I wanted him to see them.
I told myself I was just relaxing after Ellie fell asleep.
But when I sat on the couch, legs parted, shirt open just enough for the cool air to kiss my nipples, I knew exactly what I was doing.
And exactly who I was thinking about.
The First Touch
I imagined him walking in.
Seeing me like this.
Watching.
And I let my hand slip lower.
Two fingers, slow and teasing, just over the damp cotton between my thighs.
I pictured him kneeling between my legs and tearing those panties aside, holding my hips down while his mouth
"Don't stop."
I gasped. Froze.
He was there.
In the hallway. Tie loose. Shirt unbuttoned. Jacket off.
Watching me.
No anger.
No shame.
Just hunger.
Pure, unspoken, untamed, feral hunger.
The Shift
He didn't walk to me at first.
He let the moment stretch.
Like a predator letting his prey run first just to taste the chase.
"I asked you a question."
His voice was deeper. Rougher. He took a slow step forward.
"I said, don't stop."
I should've run. Or pulled the shirt closed. Or pretended I'd fallen asleep.
But I couldn't move.
He sat on the arm of the couch, eyes locked to my thighs.
"You've been tempting me since you walked into this house, and you knew it."
I swallowed.
"You're wrong."
"No," he said softly. "I'm just the first one willing to say it out loud."
The Fall
He reached forward, parting the shirt completely.
My breasts were bare underneath, nipples hard and flushed.
His thumb grazed one, and I whimpered.
"I've seen this in my head," he muttered. "You. In my shirt. Moaning my name into the dark."
He leaned closer.
"But not like this."
He pulled the panties aside, revealing how soaked they were.
"Touch yourself."
I did.
One finger. Then two.
While he watched.
Close enough to taste. But not yet.
He waited until I was on the edge panting, trembling, thighs quaking.
And only then did he replace my hand with his mouth.
The Mouth of a Man Starved
He devoured me like he'd waited weeks for this. Like he'd memorized my scent from laundry day and carved my taste into his bloodstream.
His tongue was slow at first lazy licks that dragged across me like fire.
Then he focused.
Sucked. Groaned. Held me open and buried his face like he wanted to drown.
I tried to close my legs.
He slapped my thigh.
"Don't hide from me now."
And then release.
Screaming. Shaking. Spasming so hard I nearly slipped off the couch.
He caught me.
And kissed my thigh.
Like I was something holy.
The Warning
He stood.
Hard beneath his pants. Jaw tight. Eyes darker than I'd ever seen them.
"If I fuck you now, I won't stop."
My breath hitched.
"I don't want you to."
He growled under his breath and stepped back. Pacing.
"This isn't a game. You don't get to be my daughter's nanny and my late night escape."
I walked toward him.
Unbuttoned one more button on the shirt.
Then whispered: "So fire me."
His eyes dropped to the wet stain on my panties.
Then to the couch.
Then back to my mouth.
"No," he said, barely breathing. "You're already mine."