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An act that, from the rapid tenting of fabric, appeared to be much appreciated. Turning her head back she felt Amanda's, definitely Amanda, fingers on her cheeks, her lips poised before her own wine wetted lips, her eyes questioning as her mouth descended. She gave herself into the kiss. Mouth parting. Tongue flicking forth as Amanda pulled her head up to taste her. A hand placed firmly on her rump, commanding their bodies together, breasts pressing determinedly into each other. And then she was sandwiched. Something hard, insistent, male, pressing up against her back, hands placed on her shoulders, a mouth descending to shower kisses along the nape of her neck as she felt Amanda's fingers dancing expertly down the line of her blouse buttons. Hands turning her, blouse flapping, nipples tight and visible in their sheer containment as she was pushed down to her knees. Pushed down so that her eyes, her nose, her mouth were level with his groin. She struggled with his belt, hindered as. He felt no small amount of guilt about that, though Marcia largely shrugged it off. That sort of difference was a prime example of why they were divorced, he supposed. He wasn’t about to fail her anymore. He might be seventy-seven years of age, but he was still her father. He was still Daddy. His daughter might be forty-six, but she would always be his little girl.“Yes, I’m home, Daddy ... and I’m ... a bit buzzed,” Monica confessed, “I’m just ... lonely. So lonely.”Bernard had a glass or two of red wine in his system, but nothing compared to what Monica drank. He simply ordered an Uber and headed to his daughter’s place posthaste, deciding to stay over if she wished it. If not, he could always order another Uber. He had the wealth for it and money was no object where his daughter’s happiness was concerned. He didn’t know how many years he had left of fatherhood before the Grim Reaper claimed his soul.Bernard took a few personal items with him in a small bag, not sure if he would.
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