Daddy’s Favorite Sin

“Harder, Peter—fuck—don’t stop,” I gasped, nails raking shallow crescents into his damp shoulders. Not because he deserved it, but because I knew the sound of pain turned him on more than my moans ever could. His hips slammed forward, messy, graceless thrusts that jarred me more than they pleased me, slick heat spreading without rhythm, without finesse.

His mouth found my neck—sloppy, desperate, teeth scraping skin like a boy pretending to be a man. He wanted to mark me, I could tell, but he didn’t quite dare. Coward.

“God, Alicia,” he groaned, voice already fraying. “You feel too good—fuck—you’re gonna make me—”

I tilted my head, letting his sweat-soaked curls brush my cheek, but my eyes slid to the clock on the nightstand. 6:13 p.m. The glowing red digits were sharper than his thrusts. Forty-seven minutes to be dressed, painted, polished—interview-ready.

“Peter,” I coaxed, voice low, deliberately husky though my thighs trembled more from strain than pleasure. “Don’t you dare pull out yet. Finish it.”

He choked on a moan, pushed harder, deeper, but it was all friction and no finesse, a frantic rhythm that bruised without hitting anywhere worth bruising. His body bucked, shuddered, and then it was over—too fast, too clumsy. The sound he made when he came was raw, guttural, but so out of tune with my body it almost made me laugh.

Almost.

His weight collapsed onto me, damp and heavy, breath stuttering hot against my collarbone. Relief, not bliss, rolled off him in waves.

“Three minutes,” I whispered to myself, dragging my nails lazily down his spine. I knew him too well—three minutes of this and he’d purr, half-asleep, convinced he’d ruined me for any other man.

Peter hummed like clockwork, eyes closed, body sagging on top of me. “Holy shit,” he muttered into my skin, kissing my jaw as if he’d earned it, like he’d just rewritten my definition of pleasure.

I flicked my eyes back to the clock. Two minutes left before his body slid off mine. My hips ached, not from satisfaction but from carrying his weight. My stomach already tightened with rehearsed answers instead of afterglow.

“See?” he mumbled smugly, lifting his head just enough to brush a kiss against the corner of my mouth. “Told you I could make you forget all about that interview.”

I forced a smile, kissed him back because honesty would wound him more than rejection letters ever could. “Mhm. You’re very distracting.”

If only he knew. While his hands had been pawing at my breasts like a teenager fumbling in the dark, I’d been silently rehearsing: What kind of school culture are you seeking? Answer: collaborative, student-centered. Why Truman Academy? Answer: strong arts program, holistic growth, the kind of place where books breathe instead of gathering dust.

I’d faked the orgasm halfway through, perfectly timed moans to get him there faster, freeing my mind to lace itself into interview armor while his body still chased release.

Peter finally rolled off me with a groan, fumbling for the condom, muttering, “Damn, babe,” like he’d conquered me.

I sat up quickly, pressing fingers into the dull ache in my hips, lips set in a line. Under the bed, yellow eyes glowed—Fitzgerald’s, my cat, crouched like a demon in the shadows. He swiped sharp claws at my bare calf, a hiss curling the air, almost drawing blood.

And somehow, it felt more real than anything Peter had done to me.

“Fuck off,” I hissed, hopping back. He slithered deeper into shadow, tail lashing like a whip. I should’ve returned him to the shelter weeks ago, but this was his last chance before they gave up on him. And no matter how often he sank teeth into my ankle, I couldn’t let him end up discarded again.

Peter came back, towel around his waist, still damp and smug. “You’re glowing,” he said, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind.

“Am I?” I deadpanned, tugging on my black jeans. They were safe. Reliable. Interview armor. I slid into the white blouse, crisp enough to say professional, loose enough to hide sweat stains. The blue blazer waited for later. If I wore it on the subway, I’d suffocate.

“You look perfect,” he murmured into my hair.

I fastened my lucky lipstick in the mirror—Ruby Woo, crimson sharp enough to slice nerves—and sighed. “It’ll have to do.”

“You’ll crush it, Alicia. And when you do, I’m buying us pizza. Celebration pizza. Or…” He kissed the back of my neck. “Commiseration pizza, if it goes bad.”

My laugh came out too sharp. “So basically pizza either way.”

“Exactly.”

I checked my bag for the fourth time. Blue pouch for pens, pink pouch for meds, orange polka-dot pouch for cereal bars. Resume copies tucked neatly in a folder, notebook slipped beside them. Bags within bags. Order in chaos.

“Good luck, babe,” Peter said as I finally pulled free from his hug. “You’ll be amazing.”

“Thanks.” My voice cracked, betraying the acid of dread burning up my throat.

The subway reeked of sweat and frustration, bodies packed too close, strangers pressing into me until the notebook dug painfully against my ribs. By the time I arrived, I’d chewed through half a stick of gum and rehearsed my answers twenty-two times.

Principal Benito greeted me in an office that smelled of old books and lemon polish. His desk was oak, his shelves lined with leather spines. He was large, soft-faced, smiling, immediately disarming.

“Ms. Hadley, thank you for coming in during your summer,” he said warmly, shaking my hand.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” I replied, sitting straighter than my spine wanted.

The questions flowed easily at first—teaching philosophy, classroom management, literature’s cultural impact. I spoke with fire, with passion I’d buried for months. My nerves receded when he nodded along, eyes lit with genuine interest.

But then—

“Why the switch from public to private school now?” His voice was gentle, but my chest seized.

I smiled, teeth too tight. “I loved the energy of public schools. I went through them myself, and I’m deeply grateful. But as a teacher… sometimes the energy isn’t reciprocated. At private schools, there’s more of a shared identity, a stronger community. That’s what I want to be part of.”

He nodded. “That’s what Truman strives for. Our alumni stay connected for years. We believe in fostering lifelong ties.” His glance flicked to the clock. “We’ve gone longer than expected, and I must attend an alumni event tonight.”

“Of course. Thank you for your time.” I rose quickly, pulse hammering so hard my throat tightened.

“We still need to hear back from all your references,” he added, “but once we do, we’ll contact you about next steps.”

“Wonderful,” I breathed, shaking his hand again. Squeeze firm, don’t look weak, don’t look desperate. Smile, Alicia. Smile.

I walked out with my head high, but the second the door closed behind me, my knees buckled. I bolted down the hallway, shouldering past a man in a suit, bursting into the women’s restroom.

The stall door slammed, lock clicking, and I fell to my knees just in time for my lunch wrap to come up, sour and humiliating. I clutched cold metal, gagging, shaking, bile scalding my throat until there was nothing left.

Of course. Of course this would happen.

Of course my references hadn’t answered; it was summer. Of course the best interview of my life ended with a polite rejection disguised as we’ll be in touch. Of course my body betrayed me, retching my failure into a porcelain bowl.

When the sounds of my misery finally ebbed, another sound replaced them. Not footsteps. Not the flush of another toilet.

Sobbing.

Not mine.

My head jerked up, heart still racing, throat raw. Someone else was crying in the bathroom.

For once, it wasn’t me.