Chapter 135: Daddy Fucks Me during the World Cup Match (2)

~JOYCE~

Three days had passed since I’d caught Marcus in the bathroom with his hand wrapped around his thick cock, groaning my name like a prayer.

I’d avoided him ever since.

Not because I was disgusted.

God, no.

That was the problem.

The moment I saw him stroking him cock and heard my name spill from his lips like a desperate, broken confession, something inside me snapped.

My hand had drifted under my own waistband before I even realized what I was doing.

Sticking to the shadows of the hallway, peering through the crack in the door, I fingered my pussy until I came so hard my knees nearly buckled, biting down on my lip to keep from moaning his name right back.

That was why I couldn't face him. Not because I hated what I saw, but because I loved it. Because now I knew the truth—Marcus wanted me just as badly as I wanted him.

That knowledge was a lit match hovering over gasoline. If I got too close, we would ignite, and I would do something I could never take back.

So I made excuses. Headaches. Exhaustion. Homework I needed to finish. Anything to avoid sitting beside him on that couch in the dim glow of the television, our bodies inches apart while the World Cup played.

Every evening, he asked if I was joining him. Every evening, I said no, my voice tight and my heart splintering a little more each time.

But today was different.

France was playing in the quarterfinals, and Marcus had been talking about the match for weeks.

He'd even bought us matching jerseys, leaving mine neatly folded on my bed with a note. ‘For my favorite watching partner. Hope you'll join me tonight. Miss you, kiddo.’

I stood beside my bed, staring at the jersey for a long time.

My chest ached, and somehow, my stupid head couldn't stop repeating the same thoughts.

He missed me. He wanted me there.

And the truth was, I missed him too.

I missed the sound of his laugh whenever a goal went in, the way he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees when the game got tense. I missed the warmth radiating from him and the way his presence made the whole room feel smaller, safer, and more alive all at once.

I picked up my phone and stared at the screen for a moment before typing to Marcus: I saw your note. I promise I'll be there.

I hit send before I could change my mind.

I quickly headed into the bathroom, took a quick shower, and came back out in my bathrobe.

With an exasperated sigh, I sat on the edge of my bed, my thoughts spiraling in a dozen directions at once.

What if I couldn't control myself?

What if he looked at me a certain way and I shattered?

What if I said or did something that changed everything between us and destroyed my mom's happiness in the process?

I glanced at the jersey again, my stomach twisting.

I'd already promised him I'd be there.

Now I just had to find the courage to actually go.

A knock on my door yanked me out of my thoughts.

"Hey, kiddo. You up?" Marcus’s voice was deep and warm through the wood, sending a shiver down my spine.

"Yeah," I called back, my voice cracking slightly. "I’m up."

"Hurry up and come downstairs. The match is about to start."

"I’ll be down in a bit."

"Okay." There was a brief pause. "And don’t forget to put on the jersey I got for you."

"I won’t."

I listened as his footsteps retreated down the hallway and disappeared down the stairs.

My heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my temples.

Pressing my palms against my thighs, I drew in a slow, shaky breath.

"You can do this," I whispered to myself. "Just watch the match. Sit there, watch the match, and nothing has to happen."

I pushed myself off the bed and slipped out of my robe, letting it fall into a heap on the floor. The cool air brushed against my bare skin, raising goosebumps along my arms and legs.

I walked over to my dressing mirror and spent a few minutes going through my skincare routine. Once I was done, I ran a brush through my hair and walked back to my bed.

The jersey was still waiting for me on the bed. I picked it up and pulled it over my head, the soft fabric settling comfortably against my body and falling just below my hips.

Since it was nighttime and the house was already dark, I decided there was no point in wearing a bra. The jersey was thick enough to hide everything anyway.

I crossed to my wardrobe and pulled open the top drawer, expecting to find a pair of shorts or panties to wear underneath. My fingers rummaged through the contents.

Nothing.

I pushed the clothes aside and checked the corners before opening the drawer beneath it.

Still nothing.

"Damn," I muttered, my stomach sinking.

I dropped to my knees and checked beneath the bed. Nothing but dust and a stray sock.

Then I checked the laundry basket in the corner, already knowing what I would find.

Empty.

I hadn't done laundry in days.

"Shit," I hissed under my breath. "Nice one, Joyce."

No shorts. No panties. Nothing to wear underneath the jersey.

Of all days for this to happen, it had to be today.

"Joyce!" Marcus called from downstairs. "Are you coming? The match has already started!"

I ran a hand through my hair, my heart hammering.

"Fuck," I muttered. "What the hell am I supposed to do now?"

I couldn't go downstairs like this.

I couldn't sit beside him on the couch with nothing separating my body from his but a thin layer of fabric.

What if I shifted the wrong way?

What if the jersey rode up?

What if he noticed?

"Joyce!" he called again, louder this time.

"I’m coming!" I yelled back, frustration and panic tangling in my throat.

I turned to look at myself in the mirror.

The jersey fell to my upper thighs, long enough to cover everything essential as long as I was careful.

If I sat properly and didn't move around too much, he would never know.

It was just a football match.

I would sit still, watch the game, and go straight back upstairs afterward.

Absolutely nothing would go wrong.

"Just keep your legs together and your mouth shut," I told my reflection.

I opened my bedroom door and hurried down the stairs before I could talk myself out of it.

My bare feet slapped against the wooden steps, and my heart pounded in time with each footfall.

The living room came into view, bathed in the flickering blue light of the television. The match was already underway, the roar of the crowd filling the room.

And there was Marcus.

He was sitting on the couch with a bowl of popcorn in his hand, his eyes glued to the screen. He was wearing the exact same jersey as me.

The sight of him made my breath catch in my throat.

The blue fabric stretched across his broad shoulders and hugged his chest in a way that made my mouth go dry.

He looked good.

So fucking good.

With both of us wearing the same jersey, we looked like a couple. Matching jerseys and everything.

If someone walked in here right now, they'd think we were together.

Was I seriously thinking this?

God, what the fuck was wrong with me?

I shouldn't even be having thoughts like these. They were stupid.

"Come off it, Joyce," I muttered under my breath, shaking my head at my own idiocy.

I crossed the room quietly and lowered myself onto the couch beside him, leaving a careful distance between us. The leather felt cool against my bare thighs, and I quickly tugged the hem of my jersey down as far as it would go.

For a moment, Marcus didn't notice me. His attention remained fixed on the screen, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Then I shifted slightly on the cushion.

He turned.

"You're finally here, kiddo," he said, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"Yeah," I said, forcing my own smile. "I'm here."

His gaze briefly swept over me, taking in the jersey and the way it fit.

Something flickered in his expression before he blinked, and it was gone so quickly I almost thought I'd imagined it.

Then he tapped his lap. "Come sit on my lap."