Trapped with My Best Friend’s Dad by Flora Ferrari

Chapter Twelve

Roman

Tanker has calmed down a little, padding softly across the bed and sniffing around, his tail perked and wagging. He sometimes cringes when the thunder sounds and the lightning cracks, but he doesn’t whine or whimper. He looks at me every so often with his ears perked, as though asking me a question.

I nod. “You’re doing well, boy. Keeping us safe.”

I’m convinced that’s what he’s doing as he sniffs around the bedroom, hopping off the bed and patrolling the room. He thinks he’s warding away the storm, setting boundaries across which it cannot venture… boundaries that will keep out the chaos, lightning, and the pain.

Boundaries like I should’ve had with Rayla, with that brown-haired angel, those curves, and that tight young virgin slit…

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I howl in my mind as lightning burst iron-blue into the room, casting long shadows on the walls, tall and impressive. Tanker looks at his shadow, head cocked like he’s wondering where this giant black dog came from. But then it passes and he whines, hopping up into my lap.

Catching him, I hold him to my chest, looking into his face. His eyes have got that trying-to-be-brave look.

“Do you think I’ve made a mess, boy?” I scratch the back of his neck. “What the fuck am I doing? I came here to write, not to…”

I can’t say the words aloud. It’s like there’s a block in my throat, the revelation too messy and big.

I kissed my daughter best friend’s. I made her cream.

And I want to do it again.

I’m not sure how long we’ve been in here, sitting in the dark, but it must be a while because when I look up I see Rayla in the doorway. She stands there framed in semidarkness, with just enough light for me to see her. She’s changed into a hoodie and jeans, but it does nothing to hide her gorgeous shape.

Her breasts make the hoodie tight across her chest like the luscious round tits are begging to be caressed and used hard. And the jeans cling tightly onto her hips, outlining that gorgeous voluptuousness. She’s got a spank-me look about her, like any second I could bend that fine ass over and make it work.

Luckily Tanker’s in my arms, stopping me from acting on my carnal desires. He wriggles and springs down, padding over to Rayla. I watch him go, trying to focus on him rather than Rayla.

Looking at her too long is like taking a bet I know I’m going to lose. I tell myself not to eye-fuck her ruthlessly, savagely appraise every inch of her when just a glance makes me so hard. I tell myself I’m not going to imagine bending her over and forcing my cock right into her pink hole, grabbing her shoulders and pushing tighter as she gasps at how fierce and sudden it is.

Creaming, shivering, gushing wetness down my length until I’m slipping in and out of her at animal speed.

I take a breath, forcing away the image. I lost the bet. Again. I can’t stop my possessive mind.

She kneels and runs her hands over Tanker’s fur.

“That was Millie,” she says.

“I know.”

She nods, smiling softly as she plays and cuddles with the dog. “She said hello.”

“Okay.”

There’s a field of explosives in the room, sensitive to touch, and it’s like we’re trying to step around them as we navigate the conversation. We don’t want to venture too close to the betrayal, to what we did, or there will be an explosion. Of what? Pain? Regret?

“It’s good that Tanker’s doing better,” she says, as she strokes him.

I know what she’s doing. Changing the subject.

But I can’t blame her.

Sitting forward, I nod. “Yeah, he’s calmed down a little now. He needs the crate so he can get used to the sound. If it’s a short storm he’ll stay in there until it’s over. But with one like this, the little man knows he has to get stronger, he has to toughen up. And he does, every time. But he always needs that hour or so in the crate, to get his confidence up.”

Her smile widens, radiant, eyes glimmering like miniature suns. “You sound like you love him.”

My chest tightens at the word.

Love.

I thought I understood how hopeless it was this morning. I thought I knew how pointless it was to try to love, to try to care when there’s a black hole in my chest sucking all the light out or trying to. Trying to empty me and make me dead inside.

But then my angel, my Rayla, crashed into my life and rearranges my insides. Suddenly there’s potential there, more than there ever was, flaring and surging and roaring into me. Every second I’m not with her is like I’m being pulled apart at the seams. That’s the pain of holding myself back from her.

I clear my throat and my thoughts. “Yes, I love the little bastard.”

“Millie said to ask how you got him.”

Her voice falters when she says my daughter’s name.

It’s like she’s calling some spirit into existence, like she thinks she’s going to bring the weight of the betrayal crushing down on us, killing us for what we did. And what we still might do.

“That old story.” I laugh gruffly. “It’s nothing.”

She raises an eyebrow, sassy. “Now I have to know.”

“It’s not a big deal. Anybody would have done it.”

“Would have done what?”

The rain pommels and pounds against the cabin, every second, until it’s like I can’t hear the guilt and the regret and the shame. All I can hear is my desire for this woman, looking up at me with those wide innocent eyes, with her hair falling in tempting wild curls around her.

“Saved him,” I whisper huskily. “I was down south for some research. That’s another reason I like to keep myself hidden online. I travel for research whenever I can, and I like to pretend I’m a nobody. People are more comfortable being themselves around a drifter.”

My mind flashes back to that evening, the smell of piss in the air, the sound of his cries.

“What happened?” she asks softly. Tanker has curled up in her lap and she’s stroking him gently. His eyes close and he sleeps peacefully, oblivious to the storm. “Roman?”

I swallow. “I was walking by to my hotel late one night and I heard him barking. These high-pitched, soul-searing yaps. Jesus. They were like being cut with a knife. So I followed the noise and I found these guys, these four motherfuckers, and they were…”

“They were what?”

I clench my fists as the memory returns to me with abrupt vividness like I’ve just been dropped inside of it. “They had sparklers, the kind you get on the Fourth of July, and they were poking at him. Having a whale of a time. So I… I did something that was maybe wrong. Maybe I should’ve called the cops. But they were poking at that the little dog, Rayla, and they were laughing. They were making him squeal.”

She blinks and her eyes glisten with tears. “What did you do?”

I clench my teeth, my words coming out as a growl. “I went to work on those bastards. I ran at them and we fought. It was a wild and bloody fight. They knocked out two of my teeth and broke my hand. But I got them worse. I knocked one motherfucker out with a shot clean to the face. I choked one of them out, and the other two cowards ran.

“And then I took Tanker for myself. I swore to him that day I’d never let anything bad happen to him. Maybe that’s why I baby him sometimes but look at him. He’s brave. He’s strong. He just needed a chance.”

“A chance,” she murmurs, staring as though she’s mesmerized. “Is that what…”

“What?” I urge when she trails off. “Say it.”

“What we need, a chance?” she finishes. “Me and you? Do we need a chance?”

Our gazes lock, fuse together like there’s something alive and demanding our attention. It’s like our desire is a separate thing, far more primal and ruthless than our minds. We know we have to put Millie first, but our bond is a loud and dangerous thing, roaring out each second, threatening to crumble us.

“We can’t, can we?” she says a moment later.

“No.” My voice is grave. I don’t know if I’m telling the truth. “We have to pretend this never happened. We have to try and forget how we feel.”

Those are a fool’s words, spoken as though for someone else’s benefit. Not Rayla’s… like there’s an audience watching and I’m trying to make myself look noble. There’s nothing noble about the things I want to do to Rayla’s young body.

But there’s something noble about wanting to be with her afterward, to raise a family together, to watch as she ignites into motherhood.

“I think you’re right.” She flinches as Tanker stirs and climbs from her lap. “I guess… you just work on your book. And I’ll work on my rehearsal and my play.”

“You’re writing a play?” I ask, interest sparking.

“Yes. Or I’m trying to. I haven’t really started yet. I’m trying to think of a scene to start with, but, yeah. It doesn’t matter.”

It does. It blazes through me, the thought of my woman writing and starring in her own play, setting the world on fire with her unique vivacity and beauty and genius.

But if I let myself ask any more questions, I know I won’t be able to resist the animal urge to fist her dark hair and bend her over, grinding my swollen cock between her ass cheeks. I’d slip in deep, hard, right to the base, so her ass cheeks pressed against my belly. She’d whimper and shiver and beg that she’s too tight, her young slit is too small.

But then I’d pull out slowly, making her feel every tiny movement until she begged to be filled again.

I turn away, rising to my feet, stalking over to the window, and looking out upon the shimmering blackness. The rain distorting the darkness.

“I should say goodnight then, right?” she murmurs, rising to her feet behind me.

No, no, no, a voice roars inside of me, trying to compel my pulsing body across the room and over to her. Throw her onto the bed and tear her hoodie off, revealing those plump tits, and then pound her virgin hole as those nipples danced for me.

“Y-yes,” I snarl, having to force the words past my instincts. “Goodnight, Rayla.”

“Goodnight, Roman.”

She turns and walks away, her footsteps slowly receding until their sound is lost beneath the rain.

I take in a deep breath, but there isn’t enough air.

I feel empty, hollowed-out, as I think about a future without Rayla in it.