"Say it," Jungkook's voice was a low, ragged growl against her ear. "Say it right now, Tae."

"Daddy," she gasped, the word shuddering out of her as he pushed deeper, stretching her impossibly full. "Oh, fuck... daddy."

He groaned, a sound of pure male satisfaction, and his hips snapped forward, burying himself to the hilt. "Good girl. So much fucking tighter than your mother."

They were in her childhood bedroom, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the lavender walls still decorated with old dance trophies. The door was unlocked. The thin, rhythmic sound of a knife hitting a cutting board floated down the hall from the kitchen. Chop. Chop. Chop. Her mother was making dinner.

It had started two hours ago.

Tae, now twenty-three and home for a visit, had been folding laundry in the living room when Jungkook walked in from work.

The look he gave her wasn't paternal.

It was the same dark, hungry look he'd given her the first time, when she was nineteen and her mother was at a weekend spa retreat.

A look that had made her heart slam against her ribs then, and did so now.

He hadn't said a word.

Just walked past her, his fingers brushing the back of her neck, a silent command. She'd waited, counting to sixty, her skin buzzing, before she'd crept upstairs to her old room.

He was already there, leaning against her dresser, having shed his suit jacket and tie.

"Thought you'd grown out of this," he'd said, his voice casual, but his eyes were anything but.

"I tried," she whispered, her back against the closed door. She hadn't.

The memory of him-the weight, the smell, the illicit thrill -had been the backdrop to every mediocre date she'd had for years.

He'd crossed the room in three strides, his hand cupping her jaw. "Liar." His thumb traced her lower lip.

"You've been thinking about it since you got here. I can see it. You get that same flush."

He kissed her then, not like a father, but like a man starving for the taste of her.

It was consuming, all tongue and teeth and possessive heat.

Her hands fumbled with his belt, then the button of his slacks, her own need a sharp, urgent pulse between her legs.

He'd yanked her leggings and panties down in one rough motion, turned her to face the window overlooking the backyard, and entered her in one brutal, perfect thrust.

That's how they'd started. Hard and fast against the glass, her palms squeaking on the pane, muffling her cries in the curtain.

But now, they were on her narrow childhood bed. The initial frenzy had ebbed into something more deliberate, more torturous. He was on top, moving with a slow, deep rhythm that had her toes curling into the bedsheets with every inward stroke.

"That's it,"

he murmured, his lips brushing her temple. His eyes were locked on hers.

"You take me so well. So much fucking better than she does."

The comparison was a vile, delicious poison.

It shouldn't have made her clench around him, but it did, drawing a guttural sound from his throat.

"See? You love hearing it. You love knowing you feel better than my wife."

She did. God help her, she did. The jealousy she'd harbored for years-of her mother's right to have him, to be the one he came home to-twisted into a dark, triumphant pride in this moment.

She had this. She made him look this wild, this undone.

He shifted, angling his hips, and the next thrust hit a spot that made her vision whiten.

A sharp cry tore from her throat.

"Quiet," he ordered, but he was smiling, a wicked, knowing curve of his lips.

He did it again, and again, zeroing in on that exquisite place with devastating accuracy.

Her nails dug into the muscles of his back as pleasure coiled, tight and hot, deep in her belly.

The sounds from the kitchen were a distant rhythm, a baseline to the pounding of her own blood.

"You gonna come for me, baby?" he breathed, his pace increasing just a fraction.

"Gonna come all over daddy's cock while your mom cooks us dinner?"

The blasphemy of it, the sheer audacity, was the final spark.

The coil snapped.

Pleasure erupted through her, wave after wave of blinding, shuddering release.

Her body clamped around him, milking his length, and she buried her face in his shoulder to stifle the scream.

He fucked her through it, his own control fraying. His breaths became harsh pants in her ear.

"Mine," he grunted, each thrust becoming more ragged, more desperate

"This perfect, tight little cunt is... fuck... mine."

The footsteps in the hall were soft, almost inaudible over the wet, rhythmic slap of their bodies joining and the creak of the bedsprings.

But they both heard them.

Freeze.

Every muscle in Jungkook's body locked.

Tae's eyes, glazed with orgasm, flew wide open. The footsteps-her mother's familiar, light tread-paused right outside the bedroom door.

Time stretched, thin and brittle.

The doorknob didn't turn. The footsteps didn't retreat.

She was just... there.

On the other side of a single, inch-thick piece of wood.

Jungkook's hand shot up from where it had been gripping her hip and clamped over her mouth, hard.

His other arm braced beside her head, his body a tense, immovable cage over hers.

His eyes burned into hers, a silent command screaming louder than any shout. Don't. Move.

Don't. Make. A. Sound.

He was still buried inside her, throbbing, impossibly hard.

And then, with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips that made her eyes roll back in her head, he began to move again.

It was a shallow, infinitesimal motion at first, just the barest retreat and an agonizingly slow, deep resurgence.

The sensation was magnified a thousandfold by the terror, by the illicit thrill screaming through her veins.

She could feel every ridge, every vein of him as he slid back in, filling the aching emptiness her climax had left behind.

The footsteps shifted. A shadow passed under the door.

He thrust again, a little deeper this time, a little less careful.

A whimper tried to escape her throat, trapped behind his palm.

His breath was hot and uneven against her cheek.

He was watching the door, his jaw clenched, even as his hips kept up that slow, sinful rhythm.

"Shhh," he breathed, the sound barely audible.

His thumb stroked her cheekbone, a bizarrely tender gesture amid the madness.

He drove into her again, a deep, claiming stroke that seemed to touch her soul.

"Just be still."