Trapped with My Best Friend’s Dad by Flora Ferrari
Chapter Eight
Roman
I stay with Tanker until the little man has let his eyes fall closed and curled into a tight ball. He buries his face against his body, snoring softly. I close the door to his crate and walk to the other end of my bedroom, pausing at the door to give him one last look.
After checking on the dog camera – linked to an app on my phone, a notification alerting me if he starts barking – I walk down the hallway with a hundred tormenting points of need torturing me.
My muscles feel stiff and on-edge, like any second I could snap.
I can’t help but think of the way Rayla looked sitting on her bed, wide-eyed with a gorgeous blush across her cheeks. I could see the sadness in her eyes, but the beast in me didn’t care about that.
The howling monster inside of me willed me to grip my manhood and pull out the solid length, slipping it into her mouth and driving forward until she was gasping and whimpering, a hand snaking between her legs to toy with herself, driving herself closer and closer to a shattering release.
I step into her bedroom to find her where I left her, sitting with her legs hanging over the bed.
Fuck.
Does she have any idea what she’s doing to me, sitting in her bathrobe, her thick juicy thighs pressed together?
Surely she would have changed if she didn’t want me to fall on her like an animal, prying her thighs apart, kissing and biting my way up to her young hot slit.
“Rayla.” I move across the room, standing over her. “What is it?”
“What’s what?” she murmurs.
I smirk at the sassy note in her voice. It’s the same note that filled her tone when she challenged me about her age, spunkily telling me she was a grownup as if I couldn’t see that for myself when I study every curvy twenty-year old inch of her.
“Maybe I’m not the most emotional bastard who ever lived,” I say, dropping down next to her. Our shoulders brushing as I fight the urge to wrap my arm around her, hugging her close. “But part of being a writer is being able to read people. And my instincts are telling me something is going on with you – with you and the storm.”
She makes an adorable whimpering sound, turning to face me. I glance down at her and the base of my manhood throbs. The front of her bathrobe has fallen open, giving me a delicious view of her cleavage, her breasts pushed together captivatingly.
“You know how freaky that is, don’t you? It’s like you’re reading my mind.”
“Maybe I am.” My fingers twitch, trying to force me to lift my hands and caress her face. Somehow I fight them. For now. “So…”
I let the question hang in the air.
“It’s so silly. I feel like such a freaking dork.”
“You never have to apologize for the way you feel. Not with me.”
I try to picture Millie’s face, the way she smiled up at me when she finished her first short story. She was so happy, her cheeks seeming to glisten in the lamplight of my office. She was literally beaming with pride, and yet here I am, with her best friend, the hands of fate willing me to claim her like a prize.
Rayla bites her lip and releases it. “It’s just that there was a really bad storm when I found out my dad died. We were living on the East Coast then. It was before Mom moved to live with her hippy boyfriend, my stepdad Markus. Anyway, I was seven and the storm was the worst I’d ever experienced. But the funny thing is, I wasn’t scared then. I actually quite liked them.”
She pauses, moving her gaze from the floor to me and back again. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”
I force myself to gaze at her face. Otherwise, I know my eyes will keep flitting to the slit of her bathrobe, to those round juicy tits. The base of my cock aches and pulses and the tip sizzles with sensation. I can’t help it, even if I know it’s inappropriate, even if I know I need to stop.
It’s like her scent is coiling around me and holding me prisoner, triggering the howling wolf inside of me.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Of course.”
“I was sitting at the window, watching the storm. And then mom walked in behind me and collapsed. She just fell like all the strength went out of her. She was crying, crying like I’d never seen her. She hates herself for that, for how she crumbled that day. But what else was she supposed to do? She’d lost the love of her life. Of course, she loves my step-dad, she really does. But she loved my biological dad more I like to think.”
She pauses, wringing her hands together.
“He skidded off the road during the storm. He crashed into a tree, he died instantly. There was nothing anyone could do. And then…”
Her fingers twitch. She pulls at the tie of her bathrobe, fiddling with it, as though her hands are desperate for something to do. I wrap my hands around hers without giving myself time to think about it, without giving myself the opportunity to remind myself how wrong it is.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, shuffling closer.
She flinches as though my words have struck her, but she tightens her grip on me, moving closer, closer until our thighs are pressed together. We’re twisted so we’re facing each other and we could kiss, any second now, we could lean in and taste each other.
Stop, stop, stop, a voice roars inside of me, battering in time with the rainfall.
“It’s not. I’m a crazy weirdo, that’s the truth. Because ever since she told me about what happened to my dad in that storm, I’ve been an absolute baby about them. They scare me so freaking much. I try to tell myself it’s irrational. I’m being childish. But it’s difficult. It’s like the rain reminds me of the sight of my mom, lying on my bedroom floor, crippled with anguish.”
“Come here,” I whisper, smoothing my hands up her arms and wrapping them around her shoulders. “It’s okay, Rayla. It’s all going to be okay.”
She falls against me, clawing her hands against my chest, her fingernails digging into my skin. I smooth my hand up her back and through her hair, massaging her scalp, and she moans, a high-pitched whimper that goes right to my base.
My heart hammers like there’s something trying to break out of me, and there is. My lust, my need, my desire to make her feel okay.
“What are we doing?” she whispers, her breath hot against my neck, shivering over my skin. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”
“I know,” I snarl, but I can’t stop my hand moving through her hair, across her scalp, the hot alive nearness of her crippling my defenses. “You don’t have to be scared anymore, Rayla. You never have to be scared again. I’m here. And I’ll fucking kill anybody and anything that tries to hurt you.”
She giggles, but there’s a croak in her voice, betraying her emotion. “How are you going to kill a storm?”
“I’d find a way for you.”
I lean back, stroking my hand over her cheek and smoothing her messy hair behind her ear.
She turns toward my touch, closing her eyes as though savoring it. “Why are you saying these things?”
“Do you want me to stop?”
She stares into my eyes, stares hard like she’s trying to make sense of what’s happening. But there’s no making sense of this primal need slamming inside of me, compelling my every movement, my every gesture, everything.
There’s no making sense of all this pent-up desire, as though it’s been trying to burst free for years, not hours.
“No,” she whispers. “I don’t. But I should.”
“I know,” I growl, lean down and claim her lips.
She gasps as our mouths collide and nature chooses that moment to send the loudest and most explosive crack of thunder across the heavens yet. I snarl through the kiss, tasting her, gripping her hips, and pulling her even closer.
The tips of our tongues clash together as she whimpers and moans.
I slide my hands under the fabric of her bathrobe, squeezing onto her thighs, heat flaring up inside of me when I feel how juicy and perfect they feel, how mine.
There’s no going back now.
She belongs to me.
Forever.
She just doesn’t know it yet.
