AUTHOR: T. A. BEAU

TITLE: Master's Bridge: A Slow-Burn Dad/Daughter Novella

Copyright © 2025 T. A. BEAU

All rights reserved.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the writer and the publisher.

WORD COUNT: 25000 words

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1: Claire’s POV

Chapter 2: Reid’s POV

Chapter 3: Claire’s POV

Chapter 4: Reid’s POV

Chapter 5: Claire’s POV

Chapter 6: Reid's POV

Chapter 7: Claire's POV

Chapter 8: Reid's POV

Chapter 9: Claire's POV

Chapter 10: Reid’s POV

Chapter 11: Claire's POV

Epilogue: Reid's POV

{1

Chapter 1: Claire’s POV

The wheels of my suitcase rattle lightly against the uneven cobblestones of my father’s driveway, the sound echoing in the stillness of the evening. The flight had been uneventful, but exhaustion weighs heavily on my shoulders. It isn’t just physical fatigue; it comes from weeks of relentless travel, performances, and applause.

I'm grateful to be back, even if the sight of the familiar, weathered two-story house felt a little surreal after months away.

The house stands in its usual quiet elegance, the beige paint faintly chipped near the edges, the white shutters slightly askew from years of wear. It hasn’t changed much over the years, and that stability is comforting.

I reach the front door, fumbling with my carry-on bag while my free hand keys in the familiar passcode. The soft beep is a welcome sound, and with a gentle push, the door creaks open.

Stepping inside, I’m immediately greeted by the distinct scent of varnished wood and resin-a blend of my father’s craft and the old charm of the house. The air is cool, untouched, as though no one has moved through it in hours. I shut the door quietly behind me, the click of the lock unusually loud in the silence.

I debate calling out for my father but decide against it. It’s late, and knowing him, he’s either deeply engrossed in a repair project or fast asleep. Either way, I don’t want to disturb him. A faint smile tugs at my lips as I glance around the living room. The familiar layout-the worn beige sofa, the sturdy oak coffee table littered with wood shavings and stray strings-makes my chest tighten with a bittersweet warmth.

Dragging my suitcase behind me, I head toward the staircase. The family photographs lining the walls catch my attention, as they always do. My younger self smiles back at me from every other frame. There I am at my first recital, my hair in two neat braids, clutching a child-sized violin. Another shows me standing beside my father, both of us grinning ear to ear as I hold up my first award. The largest photo-a candid shot of me playing on stage at sixteen-is prominently displayed at eye level.

My footsteps soften as I ascend the stairs, careful not to let the suitcase thud against each step. The second floor feels just as untouched as the rest of the house. The faint hum of the refrigerator downstairs is the only sound accompanying me.

As I make my way down the hallway, the suitcase rolling quietly behind me, the door to my old bedroom catches my eye. It’s ajar, revealing a glimpse of the soft lilac walls I remember painting with my father one summer. The sight brings a small, genuine smile to my face. I don’t enter, though. My priority is to settle in quickly and get some rest.

Approaching my father’s room at the end of the hall, I slow. A strange sensation prickles at the back of my neck. The house is too quiet. Normally, even in his sleep, I can hear his occasional snores or the creak of his bedframe even in his sleep. Tonight, there’s nothing.

Then, I hear it-a muffled sound that makes me freeze in my tracks. At first, I think it's my imagination, my overtired brain playing tricks on me. But then it comes again, clearer this time. A soft, drawn-out moan.

My breath hitches.

My mind races to rationalize the noise. Maybe he has the television on in his room. Maybe he’s awake, watching some late-night show with the volume low. But deep down, I know the sound isn’t coming from a TV.

Curiosity-and a growing sense of unease-propels me forward. I grip the handle of my suitcase tightly as I creep closer to the slightly ajar door. The moaning grows louder, accompanied by other noises that send a flush of heat rushing to my cheeks. The rhythmic creak of the bed. A hushed murmur of voices, one unmistakably male and the other distinctly female.

My heart pounds in my chest. I stop just short of the doorway, my breath shallow as I try to process what I’m hearing. My father’s room. Those sounds.

The reality of the situation hits me like a wave. Someone’s in there with my father, and they’re fucking.

My first instinct is to turn around and flee, to retreat to my own room and pretend I haven’t heard a thing. But my feet won’t move. I stand frozen, torn between the mortifying realization of what’s happening and an inexplicable need to confirm it.

Another moan breaks through the air, this one sharper, more urgent. My face burns, and I press a hand over my mouth to stifle the gasp threatening to escape.

I debate retreating to my room again, pretending I never heard a thing. Yet, I still can’t move, my feet rooted in place as something deeper stirs within me. It isn’t just the shock of hearing him with someone-it’s the sudden memory of the shift between us a year ago.

He came to watch my show during my residency in London, and something changed. The way his eyes lingered on me, the warmth of his praise-everything felt different, charged. That night, I touched myself to thoughts of him, vivid and undeniable. The dreams that followed haunt me, forbidden but intoxicating.

I tiptoe even closer, every nerve screaming at me to stop, to retreat, to go to my room and let it all fade away. But I don’t. Something-curiosity, shameful and consuming-propels me forward.

My breath hitches as I peek toward the standing mirror near the door, the reflection slicing through my resolve like a blade.

I see him. My father. His broad back flexes with each powerful thrust, muscles rippling under his skin. His ass tightens with effort, his movements relentless and raw. My stomach clenches as I watch his cock, thick and veined, disappearing into the woman beneath him.

She’s petite, utterly dwarfed by him. Her legs are wrapped around his waist as he drives into her with a fervor that makes my thighs clench involuntarily.

“Oh, God, yes,” she moans, her voice breathless and high-pitched, echoing faintly in the otherwise still house.

“Take it,” he growls, his voice deep and commanding, a tone I’ve never heard from him before. My chest tightens, a mix of embarrassment and something darker-something I refuse to name-rushing through me.

I can’t look away. His hands grip her hips, his fingers digging into her skin with a possessiveness that makes my breath shallow. His movements are calculated, deliberate, each thrust making her cry out louder.

“Daddy,” she whimpers, and my heart stops.

“Shh,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss her neck, his voice softer now but no less dominant. “Be a good girl for me.”

A hot flush spreads over my skin, my cheeks burning as I press a hand over my mouth, trying to contain the gasp threatening to escape. I shouldn’t be here. But I can’t move. I can’t stop watching.

My fingers tremble as they trail over my own skin, heat surging through me despite the warnings in my mind. I shouldn't be watching. I shouldn’t be feeling this way. But I can’t stop.

When they shift, panic sets in. I stumble back, almost falling on my ass, desperate not to be seen. My breath hitches, and I press myself against the wall, praying I’m hidden.

But they don’t stop. The intensity between them continues, and I’m left struggling to hold onto myself, caught between guilt and an undeniable wave of need.

By the time I summon courage and turn to look back again, the woman is now on top, with my father sprawled beneath her. I can see her full, plush ass slamming his thighs every time she bounces on his cock.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, bringing my hand down to begin rubbing on my clothed pussy.

My breath hitches as my father brings his hand around her waist and pulls her flush against his chest.

Saliva pools in my mouth as I watch him display his dominance by slapping her. The woman seems so gone in her head that she's drooling onto his chest, but he doesn't seem to mind.

I rub myself faster, one hand slapping my mouth to stop my moans from slipping out.

When he chokes her, I can't help the full body shudder I give. Right there, I realize how much I love his dominant side. Fuck.

I rub myself so hard, watching them as I feel myself getting closer to cumming. Tears pile up in my eyes, the pleasure intense.

I close my eyes, mouth hanging open, letting my emotions run wild. I imagine myself being there, on top of my dad, riding his big cock.

I want to be that woman so badly, my heart racing in my chest. I feel my orgasm getting even closer.

I bite down on my lower lips as I open my eyes. They grow wide immediately as I make eye contact with my dad. I blink in fear, my vision getting clearer. Luckily, his eyes are closed.

There's no way he saw me. I'm sure of it. If he did, he'd have stopped.

I rub faster on my pussy, feeling my orgasm at the tip of my tongue. I'm so close. I quickly slump out of view on my ass, pushing my hand into my underwear.

I slide two fingers into my dripping pussy and it takes only three thrusts to bring me to a body trembling orgasm, my teeth biting down on my lip to hold in my moans.

It doesn't take long before I hear my dad and the woman's voice from the room as they also orgasm together.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

I have to get out of here. My legs feel like jelly as I move quickly down the hall, the weight of everything pulling me forward. The suitcase wheels squeak, a sound that makes me wince. I can't be making noise right now. I need to be quiet, to escape.

When I reach my old bedroom, I shut the door behind me with a soft click, the sound almost too loud in the silence. I lean against it, closing my eyes for a moment, trying to steady my racing heart.

What the hell was that? The images, the sounds-they won’t leave my mind. I shouldn’t have seen that. I shouldn't have masturbated to that. It feels so filthy, so wrong. Yet, no matter how hard I try to push it away, I can’t get him out of my mind. My father.

I squeeze my eyes shut, gripping the door for support. Why does it feel like my entire world is turning upside down?

With a shaky breath, I pull myself away from the door and glance around the room. It's my childhood room, familiar and comforting, but it feels foreign now. I set my suitcase down by the bed, my movements mechanical, my thoughts scattered. I need to do something to calm myself, something to distract from the storm raging inside me.

I also need to clean up after my humiliating orgasm.

I slip off my shoes and swiftly move to the bathroom. The coolness of the tiles beneath my feet ground me a little, but not enough. After stripping naked, I turn on the shower, letting the warm water rush over me, hoping it will wash away the tension in my body. I stand there for a while, allowing the water to fall over me as if it could cleanse my mind as easily as my skin.

I step out of the shower, my head heavy with thoughts I don’t want to have. I dress quickly, pulling on a loose t-shirt and sweatpants, anything to make me feel comfortable, to make me feel normal again. The clothes don’t help, but they’re a small comfort.

I climb into bed, pulling the comforter tightly around me, trying to shut out the world. But the image of him-the sounds, the way he’d... Fuck. I can’t escape it. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing to sleep. Maybe in my sleep, I can forget.

But I don't want to forget. Deep down, I know I don't.

I sigh, turning onto my side, pulling the comforter closer around me. I can’t get the image out of my head. It’s seared itself into my mind, and no matter how hard I try to escape it, it won’t let me go.

{1

Chapter 2: Reid’s POV

The aroma of fresh coffee fills the kitchen as I stand by the counter, mug in hand, staring into the dark liquid. My thoughts swirl as I try to focus on the actions from earlier, the soft cries and moans of my date still ringing faintly in my ears. But something had felt off-an undercurrent of tension, of awareness.

Lifting my gaze, I'd seen her-Claire. Leaning against the doorway, her eyes locked on me like I was the only thing that mattered. How long had she been standing there? Watching. Waiting. Touching herself. I can't say, but I know it was long before I noticed.

Right before I flipped my date, I had heard her-soft, breathy sounds that should never have come from her.

Claire's muffled squeaks had been unmistakable, even through the slightly closed door. I’d had to distract my date, flipping her to straddle me. I enjoyed the position, but I also needed to protect my daughter from getting caught watching her father fuck someone else.

Claire’s flushed cheeks and parted lips told me everything. Her hair was tousled, and her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths. She didn’t even bother hiding her intentions.

I sip my coffee slowly, savoring the bitter warmth against my tongue. The weight of her gaze on me was palpable, a silent plea she didn’t dare voice.

“Claire,” I say at last, my voice a low rumble. I think about what would have happened if I let her know I saw her. Would she have run off?

My thoughts go wild as I imagine her coming in to join us, my date not caring. A threesome with a stranger and my daughter, who's given me so many wet dreams. Fuck.

I set the mug down with deliberate care, my movements slow, measured. It would have definitely not ended well.

But then, she just looks so fucking corruptible. I find myself smirking. Claire seems like she wouldn't give a fuck if I grabbed her, bent her over the counter and fucked her brains out.

Fuck, I want that too. I want it so much. I imagine having her between my legs, my fingers or cock buried in that perfect mouth of hers, watching her as she sucks. I know she isn't a novice, but there will be no harm in corrupting her more, would there?

I want her so badly. I know I do, but I don't want to give in. Not yet. I need her to prove that she really wants me too. I mean, I know there might be something, but I'm not so sure. My only evidence is catching her watching me have sex last night.

She wouldn't do that if she didn't want to be corrupted, right? Right?

I know, deep within myself, that I'm done trying to wish my dirty thoughts and feelings away. I wanna fuck her, and I'm damn sure about it.

I won't deny the fact that I have masturbated to thoughts of her. Countless times, even.

The way her dainty fingers handle the violin. Fuck. It makes me think of her hands on my cock. I'm sure she knows how to handle a cock well. There's no way she wouldn't be a pro at giving head.

The little crease that forms when she's doing a solo, feeling the music. The way her facial expression shows each dynamic in the song.

I can't help but imagine how perfect she'd look when I'm fucking her. I want to know how she sounds, how her face shows pleasure or pain.

Fuck, I want to see her trembling when I fuck her. I want to make her cum countless times and see the fatigue on her face. I want to see how she would look when she begs. Whether it's for me to stop, or begging for my cock, or for another orgasm. I want to fucking see it all.

I feel something straining against my boxer brief and I look down, cursing under my breath as I see myself already hard.

I'd fucked my date silly last night. This morning, I'd pressed her against the wall and took her from behind. When she'd complained about her pussy being too sore, I'd fucked her ass, bringing us to orgasm.

Yet, here I am, hard as a brick over my dirty thoughts about Claire. Fucking hell! What the hell is my daughter doing to me?

She's consumed my thoughts every time I fuck someone. I always find myself comparing them, trying to convince myself that Claire's pussy would be better than any I've ever had.

I know it's true, and I'm desperate to prove it. Claire looks so fucking perfect I can picture how good her pussy would feel. She'll probably be so fucking tight, she'd have me cumming after just a thrust.

It's my biggest fear because I know for sure that if I ever get to have Claire, I won't last long. Who would last long if they were in my shoes? No fucking body.

The quietness of the kitchen is broken by the faint shuffling of feet behind me. I don’t turn around. My instincts tell me who it is before she even makes herself known. I smirk to myself, sipping my coffee, letting the rich, earthy aroma ground me in the moment.

Suddenly, Claire bursts into the room, her voice bright and playful. “Surprise!”

I glance up, pretending to be startled. One hand rests on the counter as I give her a mock glare. “Claire! You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Her laughter fills the room, bright and infectious. Her whole face lights up, her grin wide and unrestrained. “Oh, come on, Dad. You’re tougher than that.”

Before I can respond, she closes the distance between us and wraps her arms around me. It’s a tight hug, full of warmth and sincerity. For a moment, I let myself enjoy it, holding her close. It’s a second too long-something I notice when she finally pulls back-but I can’t bring myself to care.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, leaning against the counter and taking in the sight of her. She’s glowing, brimming with excitement, like she’s carrying good news and can barely contain it.

She's wearing a skirt. A fucking skirt.

Claire has a perfect body. Whenever she wears a skirt, she never fails to look so enticing. The skirt is short, hugging her thighs, and there's a comfortable sweatshirt over it, the sleeves so long, giving only half of her fingers a chance to peek out.

I run my eyes over her legs, which are a little curved and her skin spotless. I know Claire takes good care of her skin. Her vanilla scent always makes me want to grab and eat her up.

“I wanted to see you,” she says, hopping onto a barstool at the kitchen island. Her grin widens. “I figured I’d come early before heading to Mom’s later today. And… I missed you.”

Her words land heavier than I think she intends. I glance down and see that her legs are spread a little, probably unintentionally. But I can clearly see her green underwear.

I gulp down saliva, pushing away the desire to dig my hand in and yank off the underwear. I feel something warm tighten in my chest, but I keep my expression neutral.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here. But seriously, shouldn’t you be busy planning your grand takeover of the music world?” I asked her, taking a quick look at her inviting plump lips. They make me want to grab her chin and kiss her silly until those lips are swollen.

She rolls her eyes, laughing as she does. “That’s later. For now, I have a little downtime before the conservatoire starts.”

“Ah, the residency,” I say with a nod. Pride swells in my chest, threatening to burst out. “And you’ll be here in town for that?”

“Yep! Six months, at least,” she says, her voice brimming with excitement.

“That’s great, Claire.” I smile, letting the warmth of my pride show. “It’ll be good to have you close by again. It feels like it’s been forever.”

It will be good to have you close and fuck you as much as I want, anywhere in this house, I want to say, but I don't. As much as I'm tempted to grab her, bend her over the kitchen counter, lift that fucking tempting skirt of hers, tear her underwear off and fuck her, I hold my desire back.

“It has been forever,” she agrees, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve missed being home. I’ve missed… this.”

Her words linger in the air, heavy with meaning I can’t quite place. When she says ‘this,’ what does she mean?

I blink, feeling like I'm overthinking things. Maybe she doesn't mean it in the way I'm thinking. I clear my throat, breaking the silence before it stretches too long. “So, what’s the plan for today?”

“Well, I’m visiting Mom later,” she explains, shifting slightly on the stool, her skirt riding up a little more. “But after that, I’m all yours. I want to help out with whatever you’ve got going on here.”

I raise an eyebrow, crossing my arms over my chest. “Help out? You sure you’re not just here for free coffee and breakfast?”

“Rude!” she exclaims, feigning offense before breaking into a grin. “Okay, maybe the coffee. But I mean it, Dad. I want to help. I’ve got some time before everything starts, and I want to spend it here.”

Her eagerness is contagious, and I find myself nodding. “Well, if you’re offering, I won’t say no. I’ve got a lot of projects that could use some extra hands. And you’ve always been good with details.”

“That’s the spirit,” she says, clapping her hands together. “Put me to work. I’m ready for it.”

The thought of her here, filling my workshop with her energy and sharp mind, thrills me in a way I can’t entirely explain.

“Good. You’ve got a lot to learn about the craft, though. Don’t expect me to go easy on you.”

She laughs, her eyes sparkling. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

I move to the stove, grabbing a skillet to whip up some breakfast. As I cook, she keeps talking about her plans, her recent tour, and little details about her upcoming residency. Her voice is lively, filled with passion and excitement.

“You’re really excited about this residency, huh?” I ask, cracking eggs into the pan and glancing back at her.

“Of course!” she says, leaning forward on the counter. “This is huge for me, Dad. I get to work with some of the best musicians in the world. It’s everything I’ve been working toward.”

I flip the eggs and turn toward her, my tone soft but sincere. “I’m proud of you, you know that?”

Her cheeks flush slightly, and she looks down at her hands. “Thanks,” she says softly. “That means a lot.”

The sizzling of the pan fills the space.

“I’ll help with the sauce,” Claire says, getting up and walking away as she starts humming a tune softly, something classical. I recognize it immediately since it’s one of her favorite pieces to play.

I turn and notice her struggling to reach for something on the high shelf. Without thinking, I move toward her, placing a hand on the small of her back as I stretch up to grab it for her. A bottle of tomato paste.

Our bodies brush-just the faintest contact-but it’s enough. Enough to send a jolt through me, something electric and undeniable. My hand lingers on her back longer than it should, and for a moment, neither of us moves.

She glances up at me, her eyes wide, searching. The air between us feels charged, heavy with something unspoken.

“Got it,” I say, my voice a little rougher than I intended, pulling the bottle from the shelf and handing it to her.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, her cheeks tinged with pink as she turns away quickly, placing the bottle on the counter.

I stand there for a second, watching her as she busies herself with the sauce prep, acting like the moment never happened. But it did. And it leaves me with a decision.

I smirk to myself, taking the pan off the stove. I won’t hold back anymore-not with the teasing, the subtle touches, the words that’ll have her squirming. I’ll make sure she feels every inch of my presence.

Oh, she’ll come to me. Begging. Pleading for my cock. Desperate for it.

And when she does, I’ll give her everything.

{1

Chapter 3: Claire’s POV

The cool morning air brushes against my cheeks as I push open the door to the workshop, coffee cup warming my hand. The familiar scent of wood and varnish greets me, mingling with the earthy aroma of my drink. My father's estate looms behind me.

It’s been a week since I moved back home. A week of trying to avoid my dad while simultaneously being unable to think about anything else. I let out a sigh as I step inside, the door creaking softly on its hinges.

And there he is.

He stands by the workbench, his broad back to me, focused on whatever project has him so engrossed. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing strong forearms dusted with a faint tan. He moves with precision, his hands steady and confident as they guide a chisel over the edge of a wooden panel. I stop mid-step, my eyes trailing over his shoulders, his neck, and the way his shirt clings just slightly to his back.

I take a sip of my coffee to distract myself, the bitter liquid doing nothing to suppress the heat rising in my chest. Being this close to him every day is unraveling me. I don’t know what’s worse-working alongside him or pretending that I don’t notice the way his presence affects me.

I bite my lip, letting my gaze linger for a moment longer. It’s not just his looks, though those alone could be enough to keep me awake at night. It’s the way he works, the way he seems to pour every ounce of himself into his craft. There’s a quiet intensity about my father that draws me in, even when I know better than to let it.

He shifts slightly, leaning closer to inspect his work, and I force myself to look away before he catches me staring. My heart pounds in my chest as I move to my side of the workshop, setting my coffee down on a small table by the window.

“Morning, Claire,” he says, his deep voice breaking the silence.

I glance over my shoulder to find him looking at me now, his expression unreadable.

“Morning,” I reply, hoping my voice doesn’t betray the way my pulse quickens under his gaze.

I turn back to my workstation, pulling out my tools and supplies for the day. Focus, Claire. You’re here to work, not to ogle your father.

“You’re in early,” he comments, his tone casual as he wipes his hands on a rag.

I shrug, keeping my eyes on the wooden piece in front of me. “Figured I’d get a head start. There’s a lot to catch up on.”

He chuckles softly, the sound warm and rich. "Still getting used to being back home?"

"Something like that," I say, forcing a smile.

In truth, being back home has been… complicated. This workshop used to be my escape, a place where I could lose myself in creating and forget about everything else. Now, it’s a minefield, every glance at my father threatening to blow my carefully constructed composure to pieces.

I focus on the task at hand, measuring and marking the wood for my next project. My hands move automatically, muscle memory taking over as my thoughts wander.

It’s been too long since I’ve been with someone. It's been only one man, the one who took my virginity. And the proximity to my ‘walking sex toy’ of a father isn’t helping. The way he moves and the way he looks at me sometimes stirs something in me that I haven’t felt in years. Ever.

I glance over at him again, unable to help myself. He’s back at work, his attention fully on the piece in front of him. The sunlight streaming through the windows catches on the strands of his dark hair, and I feel a pang of longing so sharp it takes my breath away.

“Everything okay?” he asks, his voice pulling me out of my thoughts.

I blink, realizing I’ve been standing still for too long. “Yeah, fine. Just... thinking about how to tackle this next piece.”

He nods, his gaze lingering on me for a moment before he turns back to his work.

I exhale slowly, my grip tightening on the pencil in my hand. If this is how every day is going to be, I’m going to need more than coffee and my vibrator to survive.

I turn my attention back to my workstation, determined to focus. The familiar rhythm of measuring, cutting, and sanding grounds me, the repetitive motions soothing my frayed nerves. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t shake the awareness of my father’s hot presence just a few feet away.

Ever so often, I steal a glance at him, my heart skipping a beat each time. He’s beautiful in a rugged, unpolished way, like the pieces of wood he transforms into art. And as much as I hate to admit it, I’m drawn to him in a way that feels almost out of my control.

I shake my head, trying to clear the thoughts from my mind.

An hour passes and I’ve managed to keep some focus on my project. My father left a few minutes ago and is yet to return.

I’m leaning over a panel, smoothing its edges, when I hear his footsteps approaching. My breath hitches slightly, and I straighten, turning to face him.

“Got something special for us,” he says, holding up a rectangular case.

His eyes meet mine, and I quickly glance down at the case, trying to steady myself. “What is it?”

He sets the case on the workbench and opens it with deliberate care, revealing a violin that seems to radiate history. Even from a glance, I can tell it’s old-beautifully crafted but showing signs of wear.

“A Stradivarius,” he says, his voice carrying a mix of reverence and excitement. “1742 model. Needs some restoration work.”

My heart skips a beat. A Stradivarius? The name alone commands respect in the world of music and craftsmanship.

“What’s wrong with it?” I ask, stepping closer, though I’m careful to keep a slight distance between us.

He picks up the violin with practiced ease, cradling it in his hands as if it’s the most delicate thing in the world. “There’s a crack in the neck that needs repairing. Hide glue should do the job.”

I nod, my eyes following his fingers as they trace the fine line of the crack. The movement is precise, almost hypnotic.

“The bridge is about two millimeters too high,” he continues, pointing to the small wooden piece. “We’ll need to adjust it. It’s affecting the playability.”

“Two millimeters?” I repeat, impressed by his attention to detail. Hot.

He glances at me, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Even the smallest adjustments make a difference in an instrument like this.”

I look away quickly, pretending to focus on the violin. The way his smile lights up his face is far too distracting.

“And the soundpost?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral.

“It’s out of position,” he says, turning the violin slightly to show me. “The placement affects the voice of the instrument. We’ll need to adjust it carefully.”

I nod again, forcing myself to look at where he’s pointing. But as his hands move, explaining the work needed, I find myself drawn to them-the way his fingers glide over the instrument, strong yet gentle.

“And the varnish?” I manage to ask, my voice softer now.

He leans in closer, and I catch the faint scent of sawdust and soap. “The original varnish shows some crazing. See these fine cracks in the finish?”

I peer at the area he’s pointing to, but my eyes betray me, flickering back to his hand. There’s something captivating about the way he handles the violin, like he could handle me even better. Fuck.

“You okay, sweetie?” he asks, and I feel my cheeks growing hot. The way he said it, making it airy, didn't make it sound like a normal pet name.

I clear my throat, embarrassed. “Yeah. Just... taking it all in. It’s not every day you get to work on a Stradivarius.”

My father chuckles. “True. It’s a rare opportunity. Want to help me get started?”

What I hear for a split second is, ‘Want to help me get it hard?’

I quickly shake my head. Get behind me, evil thoughts!

Or…

Get behind me, dad.

“Of course,” I say, smiling despite my troubled mind about what I want to get behind me.

“You’ll handle the varnish repair,” he says, handing me a small brush and a jar of varnish. “It needs a steady hand and a light touch.”

“I can do that,” I reply as I take the tools from him.

I can also handle your cock using my steady hands and a light touch, if you want.

Our fingers brush briefly, and I feel a jolt of electricity shoot through me.

I quickly pull back, pretending to examine the violin. “And you’ll handle the crack in the neck?”

“Yeah,” he says, already reaching for the hide glue. “It’s a delicate fix, but it should hold once it’s set.”

As he works, I steal glances at him, my heart pounding every time our eyes meet. There’s an intensity to my father when he’s focused. One that I'd like to see if we ever fuck.

I dip the brush into the varnish and start working on the crazing, careful to follow the original pattern of the finish. My hands tremble slightly at first, but I force myself to concentrate.

A few minutes later, I’m still engrossed in the delicate task of retouching the crazing on the varnish when my father steps closer to me, pointing toward the workbench.

“We’ll need the bridge clamp next,” he says, his voice steady and calm, but his proximity sets my pulse racing.

“Got it,” I reply, though my voice wavers slightly.

I glance toward the bench where the clamp lies, just within arm’s reach. My father moves at the same time, and before I realize it, our hands brush as we both reach for it.

The contact is brief but electric, and I freeze. The bridge clamp slips from my fingers, clattering to the floor.

“S… Sorry, Dad,” I mumble, crouching to retrieve it.

Before I can, his hand is on my shoulder, gently steadying me. The warmth of his touch anchors me in place, and when I look up, his eyes meet mine.

For a moment, time seems to stop. His dark eyes are searching, intense, and I feel like he’s looking straight through me, peeling back the layers I’ve worked so hard to keep intact.

My breath catches, and I look away, unable to hold his gaze. The air between us crackles with tension, and I swear I can feel the weight of his hand even after he pulls back.

He steps back, his movements quite smooth, as though he’s just closed a door on whatever just happened. “Careful next time, baby,” he says lightly, his lips quirking ever so slightly.

I blink, watching him retreat to his side of the workshop. Did he just… smirk?

No. I must be imagining things. My father doesn’t smirk. Right? He’s steady, composed, always professional when we're in his work space. And yet, the ghost of that expression lingers in my mind, teasing me.