Trapped with My Best Friend’s Dad by Flora Ferrari

Chapter Four

Roman

I pace up and down my office, shadow-boxing and trying not to look at my laptop.

Those words – Chapter One – have been like a noose hanging around my neck for years now, threatening to tighten with each and every day.

Each time I sit down and try to drag some words out of me, diving into the depths of my creativity, and emerge empty handed… it breaks something in me, shatters it so I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to write again.

This evening it’s even more difficult with thoughts of Rayla surging around my head, flooding my mind until she’s all I can think about. I remember the way she looked standing at the window in her bedroom, the sun framing her body, her dress falling enticingly over her ass and setting something deep inside of me on fire.

Tanker makes a whining sound from his bed in the corner, tilting his head at me.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I tell him. “Do you really think I’d let myself fantasize over my daughter’s best friend?”

He tilts his head even more as if to say, Yeah, yeah I do.

I glance at the clock and see that it’s time for his dinner anyway. And I should probably eat something, instead of pacing around this room and pretend that I’m going to write when the only thing I can think about is Rayla.

How is she doing this to me?

It’s like she casting a goddamn spell on me or something, thoughts of her perfect thighs and her round ass and her large breasts, made for feeding our children, for palming, for grabbing as she creams… won’t stop bouncing around my head.

My manhood is stiff as I push the door open, biting down as insane primal desires hammer through me.

Tanker pads ahead of me and then stops, tail pricked, head tilted. I pause and listen. I can’t not listen as her voice drifts over to me from the open-plan kitchen, rising in a light song, soft notes shimmering in the air.

Something almost like a smile touches my face, but I can’t remember the last time I truly smiled, an ear-to-ear grin that was untinged by darkness, by introspection, by something other than happiness.

Some of my critics have said I can be a bit grim, and there’s not much I can say to argue against them.

The setting sunlight casts orange rays across the kitchen as I enter, pausing in the doorway to watch Rayla as she floats around the kitchen island. That’s what it looks like, floating, as her perfect summer dress cascades around her ankles and dapples her thick thighs.

Tanker pads over to her when she opens the fridge. The little rascal is always ready for a treat. Rayla is so consumed with her singing and her food preparation that she doesn’t even notice me standing in the corner.

She only pauses when she spots Tanker.

“Oh, hello, little man.” Her smile is radiant, lighting up her face as it spreads across her cheeks, making me want to leap across the room and hold her tightly in my arms. “Where did you come from? I thought you were with…”

Finally, she looks up at me, her smile trembling and then dropping. An unreadable look comes into her wide perfect eyes, making me wonder if I’m staring at her like some kind of a weirdo, or if my possessive hungry need is coming through in my expression.

“Oh, hey,” she says. “I didn’t see you there.”

“What were you singing?” I ask. I can’t stop myself, as curiosity swarms up inside of me, fluttering in my chest. “I could hear your voice, but not the lyrics.”

Her cheeks turn a gorgeous shade of red, the blush spreading from her face down her neck and disappearing into the fabric of her dress. I have to fight not to dart forward and pull the front of her dress down, revealing her round fleshy tits.

“I was practicing for this play,” she murmurs. “There’s a short section, very short, where I have to sing. My character’s standing on this balcony and pining after somebody, a lost love, and… anyway…”

She trails off as I move across the room, stopping at the kitchen island. I grip the edge of it as a way to prevent myself from leaping across the short distance and exploring her body with my greedy hands. I can imagine how red the rest of her would turn, her flesh dappling hotly, driving me to deeper and deeper possessive need.

“You don’t need to be nervous,” I tell her.

“Huh?” Her eyebrows quirk, rising, and she tilts her head. “I’m not nervous.”

“About the play,” I tell her. “About your singing. You sound good.”

I’m not nervous…

Then why is every inch of her turning touch-me red, and why is her chest rising and falling with such dramatic movements I can’t help but let my mind fill with a thousand different fantasies?

Her bent over the kitchen island, her dress in bunches in my fists, her round juicy ass begging to be touched. My hand sliding over her ass and down to her pussy, grinding my palm against it, making her slippery and ready… ready for everything I’m ready to give her, driving deep until she couldn’t take anymore.

Fuck.

I’m getting hard.

At least I changed out of my gym clothes. These jeans should hide my desire a little more than my shorts ever could.

“Thank you,” she murmurs after a long pause and then gestures to her plate. “Do you want a sandwich? I’m making turkey salad. I hope you don’t mind.”

I smirk, filling my voice with sarcasm. “Of course I mind. I didn’t think you’d dare to use my kitchen when you were staying here.”

She rolls her eyes, giggling softly, musically, a sound that goes deep inside of me. “Okay, smartass. Well?”

“Sure, sounds good. You can give Tanker a few pieces of turkey too. He normally has a snack around this time.”

“Oh, great.” Her face lights up as she looks down at the little guy, his tail wagging, his mouth open in his most handsome smile. “That’s perfect. I was hoping I’d get to feed the little guy.”

“You like animals?” I ask, sitting at the island.

“I love dogs. We never had one because my mom is allergic, but this little one is just perfect…”

She takes a strip of turkey and kneels down. Tanker sits and watches her patiently, opening his mouth when she offers him the meat. He gobbles it up and then stares at her, head tilted.

“Uh oh, what have I started, huh?” Rayla giggles. She turns to me, her eyes bright, her lips tilted up in a smile, radiant in every sense of the word. “Is he going to quit now?”

“Nope.” I chuckle. “Once you get started with this little lunatic, there’s no stopping.”

“How many can I give him?”

“Two or three more.”

“Okay, awesome.”

I tell myself to stop fantasizing as I watch her feed Tanker, tell myself to quiet the thoughts racing through my mind. But it’s like there’s a song blaring through me, a song that tells me her tender and loving nature will make her a perfect mother.

She looks down at Tanker with such care, with such profound love, that I can’t help but imagine her looking at our children in the same way.

And as the thoughts whirl around me, I feel that emptiness inside of me starting to fill, slowly at first, and then faster and faster as I consume her with my gaze. I want to deny it, to beat it down, but I can’t.

I want her. I need her.

The thought of any other man so much as touching her sends boiling rage through me, chords of jealous energy plucking and reverberating until I’m sure I’d make any bastard pay if he dared to look at her.

My woman. Fucking mine.

Forever.

She stands, brushing her hands down her dress. “Do you want mayo with your sandwich, Roman?”

I clear my throat, finding it suddenly difficult to speak. “Yes, yes, sure. That sounds good. When did you say Millie is getting here?”

“Tomorrow evening,” she says. “Why?”

Because I’m not sure how much longer I can resist you.

“Just wondering.”