NOVA POV
"Where are you coming from?"
Grant’s voice greeted the mont I cracked open the door to my room. The lights flicked on, searing my eyes. I winced, half-blinded.
"I stepped out," I muttered.
"To where?"
"To wherever I like. You’re not my daddy."
The words slipped before I could choke them back. Instant regret lanced through .
Grant’s chuckle was low, slow and mocking.
"Now, now. What do we have here? Sassy Nova?"
He lay sprawled across my bed, flipping lazily through one of my sensual comics like he had eternity to waste. His eyes flicked up, raking over as if I’d sprouted horns.
"I need my privacy." My voice sounded small. "Please."
He didn’t rush. He never rushed. He unfolded himself from the bed with that infuriating, athletic grace; predatory and unhurried. My eyes trailed him against my will, tracing the fit lines of a man who clearly didn’t get this body by sitting behind a desk.
"You know," he said at last, strolling toward , "next ti you decide to slink in at so ungodly hour, you might try leaving a note. It’s not safe out there lately. We wouldn’t want you to get killed."
"Like you killed Tyler?"
The words burst out before my brain signed off on them. It was like a live grenade, lobbed into the silence.
Grant didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. "Good night," he murmured softly, his tone unreadable, before closing the door behind him.
I collapsed on the bed, limbs spread like a dead angel. The day’s chaos hit all at once. From the flowers, bags, texts, Luca’s trap, and now my mouth detonating truths it had no business uttering.
Talk about passing aggression.
Sleep was Impossible.
I showered. Tossed around. Tried reading one of my alien eroticas, hoping the absurdity would knock out.
Nothing.
By 2 a.m., I surrendered, padded toward the kitchen in my oversized faded polo with no panties, of course, because why would I make my life less dangerous? My fluffy slippers muffled my steps through the graveyard-quiet house.
The kitchen was empty, vast, and gleaming. With the Staff gone, the silence hung heavy.
I found a tub of blueberry ice cream in the freezer, my childhood fantasy in solid, frosty form. After my parents died, ice cream beca a luxury too costly to even dream about. I clutched it like treasure.
The island in the center of the kitchen was a food magazine co alive with pyramids of fruit, glistening under the lights.
I set the ice cream in the sink to soften and darted back to my room for a light read. Returned with a thin magazine tucked under my arm, plopped onto the island stool, and dug in. Ice cream in one hand, pages in the other.
It started innocently. A spoonful of cold cream. A flip of glossy paper. But soon the erotic art pulled under.
One page showed a woman on her back, legs spread, a banana poised at her center. Her breasts dripped with whipped cream and cherries, tongues from faceless n devouring every inch.
Heat flushed through . I pressed my thighs together, biting back a moan. I knew how this would end if I wasn’t careful, which is with my hand between my legs, whispering Grant’s na like a prayer.
The next page was worse. The girl on all fours, ass high, a colorful dildo in each hole, her body decorated with toys and punishnts. A leash at her throat. A whip poised mid-air.
I let out a shaky whimper and reached blindly for the fruit bowl. My hand closed around a banana. Firm and smooth enough to replicate the fantasy.
For one delirious second, I rested back against the counter, spread my legs, and considered it. My pulse thudded. My skin tingled.
Then reality smacked . I peeled it instead and shoved a bite into my mouth. It tasted sweet, nothing like the bitter ache between my thighs.
That’s when I felt another presence.
I spun.
Grant.
Leaning in the doorway, watching .
My stomach plumted. My heart clawed up my throat. Thank God I wasn’t mid-act, banana shoved sowhere bananas should not be.
"Can’t sleep, either?"
His voice was soft. Too soft and dangerous in its gentleness.
"Yes. Ice cream?"
My voice cracked as I gestured laly to the tub.
He strolled over, plucked the spoon from my hand, and scooped himself a bite like he owned both the ice cream and . My back hit the counter, nowhere to run, my gaze pinned on his mouth as he licked the cream.
Then, flip.
The sound of a magazine opening sliced the air.
My blood ran cold.
The magazine was still open in its obscene glory. Its glossy pages sprawled indecently across the counter, whispering my filth aloud.
Heat rushed into my cheeks, mortification painting scarlet
My stomach dropped straight to my slippers, and for a mont I forgot how to breathe. My erotic magazine; wide open, legs spread, dildos drawn and whip raised, was on display behind , and Grant’s shadow fell over it like judgnt day.
His fingers brushed the glossy page before I could snatch it away. I heard the low chuckle first, that slow, condescending rumble that made my spine crawl. Then his voice, velvet and sharp all at once:
"Well, well, well. My sweet little Nymph."
He dragged the words like honey over a knife.
"Look at you... sneaking into my kitchen, stuffing your greedy mouth with ice cream and porn at two in the morning."
I swallowed hard, clutching the banana peel in my hand like it was evidence of my cri.
"I—it’s not—"
His gaze snapped up from the page to , pinning in place.
"Don’t bother lying. I can sll it on you."
His nose flared slightly, the corner of his mouth curling.
"The heat between your thighs. The way you can’t stand still. You were about to fuck yourself with this banana, weren’t you?"
My face caught fire. "No! I was— I was hungry—"
"Hungry?" He leaned in, his breath hot on my ear. "Not for food. Not for fruit. Hungry for cock."
My knees nearly buckled. The ice cream tub behind started to lt, a cold sweet drip sliding down my fingers as he crowded against the counter.
"You want to play with fruits and cream, little slut?"
His hand closed around my wrist, prying the banana peel from my grip and tossing it aside.
"Then you play with ."
He reached past , scooped a fat handful of the blueberry ice cream with his bare hand, and sared it across my chest, right under the thin polo shirt. The cold hit my nipples like an electric shock. I gasped, arching into him on instinct.
"Fuck—Grant— Daddy!!"
"That’s right. Say Daddy when I ruin you."
He yanked my polo up, baring my breasts, sticky with lting cream. His mouth latched onto one nipple, tongue hot and greedy against the frozen sweetness, while his other hand pinched the other so hard I cried out.
"You taste better than any dessert in this house."
He sucked, hard, until I could hear the obscene wet slurp of cream and spit.
"You were going to finger yourself to cartoon dicks? No. You take ."
My hands fumbled against the counter for balance, catching the edge of the fruit bowl. Apples rolled, a peach thudded onto the floor.
He grabbed a strawberry, crushed it against my lips until juice ran down my chin, then shoved his tongue in after it, licking open with bruising force.
"ssy little whore," he murmured against my mouth. "Do you like the taste? Sweet and dirty. Just like you."
Before I could answer, he spun , bending forward over the cold marble island. My magazine slid to the floor, landing face-up on the dog-collared girl. My pulse thundered in my ears.
"Look."
He shoved my cheek down to the page, forcing to stare.
"This is what you wanted, isn’t it? On all fours, holes stuffed, whipped raw. Begging. I can give you that."
I whimpered, my body betraying as slick dripped down my inner thighs.
"Pathetic," he hissed, shoving my thighs apart. "Already wet, and I haven’t even fucked you yet."
His belt hit the counter with a tallic clang. He didn’t bother with my shirt, he just shoved it up to my shoulders. My ass was bare, polo hem riding high, and his cock pressed hot and heavy against .
"You wanted a banana?" he taunted, grinding between my cheeks. "You’ll choke on mine instead."
He slid in without warning, raw and hard, stretching until I cried out into the marble. The sound echoed through the cavernous kitchen, obscene and needy.
"Grant! Oh my—"
He slamd deeper, hand fisting in my hair, yanking my head back.
"You’ll scream my na so loud the staff will wake and know you’re nothing but a cock-hungry slut."
The slap of skin on skin filled the kitchen, mingling with my cries. My breasts dragged sticky trails of ice cream across the counter as he fucked harder, rough, punishing. Each thrust drove the air from my lungs, left trembling and gasping.
"Say it," he growled into my ear. "Say what you were going to do with that banana."
"I—I was—" I could barely speak through the rhythm pounding into .
"Say it!"
"I was going to fuck myself with it!" I cried, tears springing to my eyes.
"And now?" His thrusts got harder, brutal. "What’s inside you now?"
"Y-you!" I scread, nails scraping the marble. "It’s you, Daddy! It’s only you!"
He grabbed a handful of whipped cream from the counter, sared it over my ass, then spanked so hard the sound cracked like a whip. The cream splattered, sticky and obscene, as he growled low:
"Good girl. My filthy little kitchen slut."
My climax hit sharp and sudden, ripping through in waves so violent my knees buckled. He held up, fucking through it, until his own release spilled hot and ssy inside .
The world blurred, fruit scattered across the floor, cream sared on my skin, the ice cream tub knocked sideways and lted down the sink.
He pulled out, slapped my ass one last ti, and forced my trembling body upright against the counter. His thumb dragged the sticky trail of cream and co from my thigh, then pressed it against my lips.
"Lick it."
I obeyed. Sweet, salty, humiliating. His satisfied smirk burned hotter than the orgasm still echoing through .
"You’ll never look at fruits and cream the sa way again."
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