Lika's Plan

Lika owns every dirty little thing Tory tries to hide. One slip of that pretty tongue and daddy finds out everything. The threat stays sweet on her lips while she sprawls back on the couch and stretches her bare feet across Tory’s lap. “Rub them right,” she murmurs, half threat, half promise, and Tory’s thumbs sink in, slow circles on the arch that make Lika sigh and part her thighs wider. When the toes start to tingle, she catches Tory’s chin and drags the girl lower, until the couch cushions dip and Tory’s breath curls hot against soaked cotton. The order comes soft. “Lick.” Tory hesitates; Lika flicks her phone open, thumb hovering over their father’s number. Tory’s mouth seals over the thin fabric, tasting the heat, tasting surrender, and Lika presses harder, rolling her hips until the lace grows slick and Tory’s tongue has to slide underneath. Kisses come next—greedy, open-mouthed, shared back and forth until Tory is gasping and Lika’s nails rake through her hair. Every whimper is insurance. Every flick of that careful tongue buys another day of silence. Lika smiles against Tory’s mouth, already thinking how she’ll use the next secret, the next wet command.