The Final Taboo

The warmth of him filled my mouth, and I looked up.

My father's face hovered above me—jaw slack, eyes half-lidded, one hand tangled in my hair while the other braced against the wall. The city lights painted him in silver and shadow. A muscle flickered at the corner of his eye. His lips parted, and my name escaped him in a whisper that sounded like a prayer.

"Emma. Sweetheart."

I answered with my tongue. Traced the ridge beneath the head, circled, pressed flat against the vein that pulsed with his heartbeat. His fingers tightened in my hair—not pulling, not pushing, just holding on as if I were the only solid thing in a world gone liquid.

"That's my girl." His voice cracked on the last word. "Look at me. Keep looking at me."

I did.

My eyes never left his as I took him deeper. The angle of my throat opened, and I breathed through my nose, letting him fill every space inside me. He tasted like salt and skin, like the man who'd taught me to ride a bike and tie my shoes. The man who'd carried me to bed when I was small. The man who'd walked me down the aisle hours ago and given me away to another man.

That other man snored behind me. A low, rhythmic rumble that measured the seconds like a metronome.

Erik's hips began to move. Slow, shallow thrusts that matched the rhythm I set. His free hand cupped my cheek, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth where I stretched around him. "So beautiful," he murmured. "My beautiful girl. You have no idea how long—"

He didn't finish. Couldn't. I hollowed my cheeks, and the words died in his throat.

A shudder ran through him. His hand left my cheek and found my shoulder, urging me upward. "Come here. Come to me."

He lifted me as if I weighed nothing. My wedding dress bunched around my hips, the layers of tulle and silk rustling against the bedding as he laid me across the mattress. My head came to rest on something warm. Something breathing.

Mark.

The rise and fall of my husband's chest became my pillow. His heartbeat, slow and steady with sleep, drummed against the back of my skull. I turned my head and saw the curve of his jaw, the faint stubble along his chin, the way his lips parted slightly with each exhale. He smelled like whiskey and wedding cake.

My father's hands found my knees. Pushed them apart. The dress slid higher, bunching at my waist, exposing the white lace garter still circling my thigh. His breath caught.

"Your mother wore white," he said. "On our wedding night."

Then his mouth descended.

His tongue found me through the lace of my panties—a hot, insistent pressure that made my hips buck. The fabric was damp already, soaked from everything that had come before, and he groaned against me. A low, hungry sound that vibrated through my core. His fingers hooked the waistband, dragged the panties down my thighs, and then there was nothing between his mouth and me but the taste of my arousal.

He licked me from entrance to clit. One stroke. Slow. Deliberate. The rough flat of his tongue dragged across my slick folds, and my back arched off the mattress, my head pressing harder into Mark's stomach. I bit my lip to keep from screaming.

"Daddy," I gasped.

He did it again.

His tongue circled my clit—once, twice, a figure-eight pattern that made my vision swim. His fingers slid inside me, two of them, curling in a come-hither motion that found the spot that made my thighs tremble. He worked me with patient expertise, his mouth and hand moving in tandem, building a pressure that wound tighter and tighter until I couldn't breathe.

Mark shifted beneath me. A murmur escaped his lips, unintelligible, lost to whatever dream he was dreaming. I turned my face into his thigh and muffled my cry as the orgasm broke over me—sudden, violent, a wave that dragged me under and held me there while my father's tongue continued its relentless rhythm.

I came against his mouth, my body shuddering, my fingers fisting the sheets beside Mark's hip.

When I opened my eyes, I was staring at my wedding ring. The diamonds caught the candlelight, scattering tiny rainbows across my knuckles. Something borrowed. Something blue. Something my husband had placed on my finger hours ago while my body still held the seed of other men.

My father rose above me. His trousers were gone—I didn't remember him taking them off—and his cock stood rigid against his stomach. The sight of him made my breath catch. Thick. Proud. The same cock that had created me now slick with my own saliva.

I reached for him. My fingers wrapped around the shaft, guided him between my legs, pressed the head against my entrance.

His eyes met mine. The question was there, unspoken, one last chance to stop.

I answered by pulling him inside.

The stretch was exquisite—a slow, inexorable filling that made me gasp and grip his shoulders. He sank into me inch by inch, his breath hissing through his teeth, his hands braced on either side of my head. When he was buried to the hilt, he paused. Let me adjust. Let the weight of what we were doing settle over us like a shroud.

"You feel like heaven," he whispered.

"I love you, Daddy," I whispered back.

He began to move. Long, slow strokes that dragged against every nerve ending, that hit places no one else had ever reached. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper, until there was no space left between us.

The bed creaked. Mark snored. The city glittered outside the window, indifferent to the sin unfolding in the honeymoon suite.

"This is wrong," I breathed, even as my hips rose to meet his thrusts.

"I know." His mouth found my neck. "I know."

"But I don't want to stop."

"Neither do I."

His pace quickened. The slow reverence gave way to something hungrier, more desperate. His hands hooked under my knees, lifting my legs onto his shoulders, changing the angle. Each thrust shoving me against my passed out husband. He drove into me harder, and I felt the pressure build again—deeper this time, a knot tightening in my core.

He pulled out. Turned me over.

I found myself on hands and knees, my face inches from my husband's. Mark's lips were slack, his eyes moving beneath their lids. I leaned forward and kissed him—a soft brush of my mouth against his—just as my father entered me from behind.

I kissed Mark again. "I love you."

Whether to my husband or my father, I couldn't say. Perhaps both. The words meant everything and nothing, suspended in the charged air of the room like the candles that still waited to be lit.

Erik's hips slammed against my ass. His hand snaked around my waist, found my clit, pressed in tight circles that matched the rhythm of his thrusts. I buried my face in Mark's neck, inhaling the scent of him, and came undone.

The second orgasm ripped through me with a force that stole my voice. I screamed into Mark's shoulder, my body clenching around my father's cock, my fingers digging into my husband's shirt. Erik followed a heartbeat later—his rhythm breaking. His hands pulled my hips against him with all his strength, every centemeter of him as deep as it could go, his groan low and guttural as he spilled inside my womb.

Hot. Thick. Pulse after pulse.

The same seed that made me.

He collapsed against my back, his breath ragged in my ear. For a long moment, we stayed there—folded together, Mark beneath us, the three of us a tableau of love and betrayal and something that defied naming.

Then he pulled back. Turned me onto my back. Lifted my legs onto his shoulders and entered me again, still hard, still hungry.

We moved together slowly now. Tenderly. His eyes never left mine as he fucked me with long, languorous strokes that felt less like sex and more like worship. I reached up and touched his face—the jaw I'd inherited, the eyes that had watched me grow.

"I love you, Daddy."

"I've always loved you, Emma. From the moment you were born."

The climax built between us like a shared breath. I felt it coiling in my belly, felt him thickening inside me, felt the world narrow to the point where our bodies joined. He leaned down and kissed me—deep and slow, his tongue tracing the seam of my lips—and we fell over the edge together.

I cried out. He groaned my name. The release flooded through me, through him, through the space where we were no longer father and daughter but something older and more elemental.

We lay there afterward, tangled together, his weight pressing me into the mattress. Mark slept on beside us, untouched, unknowing.

I stared at the ceiling and thought about creation. About the man who'd given me life, now spilling that same essence inside me. About my mother, who'd loved him first. About the circle closing, the taboo broken, the door that could never be unopened.

Dad's hand found mine. Squeezed.

"Emma."

"Daddy."

Nothing else needed to be said.

The candles still waited, unlit. The champagne sweated in its bucket. The city glittered beyond the glass, and somewhere downstairs, the reception continued without us. My mother was probably looking for her husband. The guests were probably looking for the bride.

None of that mattered.

What mattered was the warmth of him still inside me. The weight of his body on mine. The slow, steady rhythm of his breathing as he softened against me.

I turned my head. Kissed my husband's sleeping cheek.

Then I closed my eyes and let the darkness take me, complete in ways I'd never imagined possible.