The sleepover Dezarae and Winter

15 year old Dezarae has had the hots for Winter's Dad and she plans on seducing him during their sleepover until Winter catches them.

Dezarae's bare feet stuck to the kitchen tile. The dishwasher hummed through its rinse cycle. She stood at the counter pouring water, her sleep shirt riding high on her thighs, and listened to Winter's father move behind her. He'd come down for the same reason. Midnight kitchen. Both of them awake.

"You can't sleep either," he said. Not a question.

She turned with the glass. He leaned against the refrigerator in boxers and a gray t-shirt, arms crossed. The light over the stove turned his jaw soft. She'd planned this. The shirt with no bra. The timing. The way she'd waited until Winter's breathing went even upstairs.

"I keep thinking about something." She set the glass down. The water trembled.

He didn't move. "What's that."

She crossed the kitchen. Three steps. He didn't step back. She put her palm flat on his chest, felt his heartbeat pick up under the cotton. His breath caught.

"You know what."

His hand came up and covered hers. Not pushing it away. Holding it there. She could feel the heat of him through the fabric, the solid wall of his sternum. He looked at her hand on his chest, then at her mouth, then at the doorway behind her.

"She's asleep," Dezarae said.

He pulled her hand down and stepped forward, and his mouth found hers. She opened for him immediately. His tongue slid against hers and his hands grabbed her hips, fingers digging into the bare skin below her shirt hem. She walked backward until her spine hit the counter. He lifted her onto it. The granite was cold through the thin cotton. She spread her knees and he stepped between them.

He pushed the shirt up. She raised her arms and it was gone. His palms covered her breasts, thumbs dragging across her nipples until they hardened. She grabbed the edge of the counter and arched into his hands. He bent and took one nipple in his mouth, tongue circling, teeth grazing. She moaned, too loud for the quiet house, and didn't care.

His hand slid down her stomach, under her waistband, fingers pressing through the wetness between her legs. He groaned against her breast. Two fingers slid inside her. She clenched around them, hips rocking forward.

"Fuck," he said, muffled against her skin. "Fuck, Dezarae."

"Inside me. I want you inside me."

He pulled his fingers out and shoved his boxers down. His cock pressed against her thigh, hot and hard. She wrapped her hand around it once, feeling the thickness, the slick at the tip. He pulled her pajama shorts off one leg, left them dangling on the other ankle, and guided himself to her entrance.

He pushed in slowly. She gasped at the stretch, the fullness. He held her thighs open and watched himself sink into her, inch by inch, until his hips pressed against her ass. Then he pulled back and thrust hard.

The counter rattled. A glass tipped in the drying rack. He fucked her with deep, steady strokes that made her grip the edge until her knuckles went white. She bit his shoulder to keep quiet. He grabbed her jaw and turned her face up to his.

"Let me hear you."

She stopped holding back. Each thrust punched a sound out of her. He was so deep it ached, and she wanted more, wanted him to ruin her. His thumb found her clit and rubbed in tight circles. She came fast, clenching around him, fingernails digging into his shoulders.

He kept fucking her through it, chasing his own finish. His rhythm went ragged. His hands tightened on her hips.

"Dad?"

They both froze. Winter stood in the doorway in an oversized t-shirt, hair tangled from sleep, one hand still on the frame. Her eyes moved from her father's face to where his body joined Dezarae's, to the flush across Dezarae's chest.

Dezarae's pulse hammered in her throat. "Winter, I—"

Winter walked into the kitchen. She stopped in front of them, close enough that Dezarae could smell the lavender lotion she always wore. Her father hadn't pulled out. His cock twitched inside her.

"Does it feel good?" Winter asked. Her voice was flat. Curious.

"Winter." Her father's voice was strained.

Winter pulled her shirt over her head. Her breasts were small, nipples dark. She stepped out of her underwear. "I want to try."

He pulled out of Dezarae. His cock glistened. Dezarae watched Winter wrap her hand around him, watched her father's face contort. Winter stroked him twice, then turned and bent over the kitchen table, bracing her weight on her forearms.

He moved behind his daughter. Pressed into her slowly. Winter's mouth fell open. Her fingers curled against the wood.

"Fuck," Winter breathed. "Oh fuck."

He started moving. Dezarae climbed off the counter and went to her, kissed the back of her neck, reached around and touched Winter's clit. Winter jerked and moaned. The table shuddered with each thrust.

"I'm close," he said through his teeth.

"In me," Winter said. "Dad, come in me."

He slammed forward and held. His hips jerked three times. Winter whimpered, her thighs shaking. Dezarae felt the orgasm roll through her friend's body under her fingertips.

He stepped back. His cum dripped down Winter's inner thigh. The kitchen smelled like sex and the lingering ghost of rosemary from dinner.

Winter straightened slowly. Her legs trembled. She pressed her forehead against Dezarae's shoulder and breathed.

Nobody spoke. The dishwasher clicked to its drying cycle. Dezarae's pajama shorts still hung from her left ankle. She reached down and pulled them back on.