Trapped with My Best Friend’s Dad by Flora Ferrari

Chapter Seventeen

Rayla

He stares across the room, not really looking at Tanker or the toy or any of it. It’s more like he’s looking into the past. His eyes are clouded, grim, his jaw set tight. Every part of him is even more tense than usual, his shoulders wide, his back flexed and tight, the tendons in his neck taut.

He’s like a mass of barely-contained explosives, pulsing against the surface of his hot skin.

Or maybe that’s just my desire pulsing through me, telling me to reach over and claw onto his shoulder.

Maybe I could lie to myself and say I’m doing it for comfort, and not so I can feel how solid his body is, how capable of protecting me and our family he is.

“Is that what it was like?” I murmur. “The writer’s block? Like it struck you?”

“Like lightning,” he snarls, shaking his head slowly, as Tanker’s toy whirs and then snaps. “I never used to believe in writer’s block. I’ve written so many books, some of them in a couple of months, caught up in the frenzy of creation. But then the frenzy wouldn’t come. I felt like a goddamn Viking berserker without his battle ax.”

He chuckles darkly, shaking his head, squeezing and releasing his hands into fists.

“Maybe that’s what I need...Like Mom and Dad. Drugs.”

“No,” I say fiercely. “You can do it, Roman. Let me help.”

I make the offer because it feels like the right thing to do, but the notion of what I can actually do to help doesn’t rise up inside of me. It’s more like my body is directing my lips, telling me to make him happy, to help him in any way I can.

He looks at me intensely. He moves so quickly, his gaze snapping to me, as though I’ve just offered the cure to an exotic illness.

“You might be able to,” he says, with a note of excitement thrumming in his voice.

It’s contagious and I find myself sitting forward, staring at him like he’s the only person in existence. Nobody else is real. Nothing else matters. Only this moment and this man.

“How?”

“I had this idea. Maybe it’s crazy. Maybe it doesn’t make any sense.”

“What is it?” I say, unable to hide my eagerness.

His lips twitch, and he reaches over, tucking hair behind my ear. Our eyes meet and we both know what he’s doing, how dangerously close he is to stomping over the no sex stuff rule.

But for a second we savor it, his hand on my cheek, as the rain drums and Tanker’s toy hums and the world keeps spinning.

But not for us, contained within this moment, this passing heaven. For us, time stands still as we stare into each other. Love, something like love, a breed of passion, commitment, and ownership flares awake inside of me.

I beat the word down.

Love, love.It can’t be that, not so soon…

And yet I wonder. I ache and contemplate.

He removes his hand, ending the timeless moment.

“I thought you could sit in the room as I try to write.”

“And do what?”

“That’s the thing.” I’ve never seen eyes so bright, so filled with immutable passion, as though there are little infernos contained within him. “You wouldn’t need to do anything. There’s something about being close to you, angel. There’s something… transformative about it. I know it sounds crazy. But this whole thing is crazy.”

“Transformative, how?” I murmur, unable to stop myself.

He chuckles. “Are you fishing for compliments?”

“Maybe.” I giggle, tilting my head at him, summoning up some sassiness. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No damn way,” he snarls. “You’ve transformed me. I can’t let myself get too worked up about it, because then I won’t be able to stop myself… to stick to our deal.”

I bite my lip, then quickly release it when I remember how passion-filled he became the last time I did it. It’s a new thing to get used to, how alert he is to every little thing I do.

“But you’ve changed me. Before I laid eyes on you, I didn’t know what I wanted with the future. I write – or try to write – because it’s what I’ve always done. It saved me when I was growing up. It gave me an escape. But other than that, I was blind to what was going to come…

“And I then I saw you, and everything solidified, as though my future was clay and suddenly it found its shape. It’s you, Rayla. The shape of you. Not just your looks, but your heart, your soul. Do you believe in souls?”

“I didn’t,” I say, laughing. “I mean, I’m not sure if I did. I never gave it much thought. But if you’d asked me, I probably would have said no.”

“And now? Because I’m starting to think I do. I know it’s crazy, but I’m starting to think this storm has trapped us here for a reason.” He shakes his head and chuckles at his own words. “I know how crazy that makes me sound.”

“Then I’ll be crazy with you.” Without stopping to question it, I dart my hands forward and clutch onto his, feeling his warmth and his strength and his agitation. “Because I feel exactly the same. We have to be careful not to cross any lines, obviously, but we can be honest about that.”

“About destiny,” he growls, leaning close.

He brings his face inches from mine, but he doesn’t kiss me. His hot breath hovers over my cheeks and my lips, igniting a thousand tiny bonfires all over my face, each of them sizzling.

Then somehow we separate, both of us pulling back.

“Shall we try your plan?” I ask.

He nods, but his eyes stay locked on me the whole time. “Let’s go.”

Together we rise – not touching, but my body aches for it – and walk through the cabin. Tanker stays in the gym with his toy. And even if we leave all the doors open, so he can return to us any time he wants, I still can’t stop the aching awareness.

We’re going to be alone again.

My heart thunders and my core throbs, tightly, wetly, when I remember how he claimed me once when we were alone, the way his tongue felt against my eager sex.

His office is a small bare room, with a carved oak desk looking out at a window and a brown dog bed in the corner, but not much else. I wander over to one of the three chairs, sitting up against the wall.

His lips do quirk almost like a smile as he stands at his desk, but there’s an edge to it, a wolf’s instinct trying to flash through the look. “I like to keep my offices as empty of distractions as I can,” he says huskily. “I hope that’s alright.”

I squint my eyes and pout playfully at him. “It’s fine. Stop procrastinating. You’ve got some writing to do.”

His gaze lingers on me for a time, his chest rising and falling softly. His eyes are filled with something like determination, his lips twisted now. For a second I think he’s going to turn and flee the room. But finally, he sits down, switching on his computer and tinkering with the mouse and keyboard.

“Okay, chapter one,” he says, sighing as he glances over at me.

I give him the best supportive smile I can muster, praying all my desires for him come through my expression. I can see how important this is to him, the seriousness with which he’s taking it gripping my wifely instincts.

That’s what it is. I feel like his life partner, tethered to him, and it’s my responsibility – my joy – to help him overcome his obstacles.

We sit like that for a time, Roman at the keyboard and me in the chair. He looks over at me several times, his face tight, his eyes narrowed as though he’s experiencing pain.

But then, finally, he sighs and his fingers start to move over the keyboard. His eyes flit over the screen as he reads what he’s written, and then he nods.

He nods over and over, like the force of his writing is pounding through him.

“Yes,” he whispers. “Oh, fuck, fuck. Yes. This is it, Rayla. I can feel it. It’s coming back!”

“I’m so happy,” I whisper, as tears spring to my eyes. “The world deserves to read more of your work.”

He looks over at me, his eyes glimmeringly so intensely, that for a second I think he’s crying as well. But of course, he’s not. He’s merely filled with relief, the sort that makes him look as though he could be consumed with starlight at any second.

“You did this, Rayla. There’s something about you being here that lets me write. It’s like I don’t feel so empty anymore.”

The emotion of his words makes every inch of me tingle, but I have to try and get us back on track.

The more we veer into that sort of territory, that sort of closeness, the harder it’s going to be to stick to our no-lust rule.

“Come on. You’ve only written a line. Get to work. I’m your supervisor now. I want one chapter before dinner.”

“Dinner, eh?” He smirks. “Are you going to cook me a meal?”

A strangely welcome feeling comes over me at his words. “Could I?”

“Are you asking me if I’d allow you to make me a meal?” He chuckles. “Yeah, angel, I think I could find a way to be okay with it.”

“What would you want?”

“We’ve got some steaks and some corn on the cob. And there are some fries there.”

I nod, the word date fluttering through my mind. And there’s something else, something older, ancient, primal… It’s such an essentially human thing to do, cooking for your man, letting him know you’re there for him whenever he needs feeding – his lust or his belly.

“Sure,” I say, trying to calm my tone down so he can’t tell how much this means to me. “I’ll give it my best shot. But first, you need to work.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He turns to the computer. There’s a pause – lightning crackling outside – and then he begins to write.

The strangest thing happens as I sit there and he moves his fingers over the keyboard – as Tanker comes into the room and hops into my lap – as his fingers pick up speed. The tap-tap-tap of his writing seems to join with the rhythm of the rain until it’s like his touch is powering the storm.

And it is. The storm in my heart.

I stare hard at him, at the relief glimmers across his features as he types, my fingers stroking Tanker’s fur.

Where are we going, Roman? Where does this end?