Her Dad's Friend(9)

By: Penny Wylder


“Sorry,” I say, squeezing past him. “I need to get a glass.”

When he tries to maneuver out of my way, stepping behind me, I press my backside against his groin, pinning him against the fridge.

“Rachael,” he says, voice low and cautious. “We can’t.” There’s no conviction behind his words.

He puts his hands on my hips as if to push me away, but makes no attempt at stopping me as I arch my back and begin rolling my hips, cradling his growing cock in the cleft of my ass.

He groans and leans forward to press his lips against my neck. “We shouldn’t,” he says this time.

Can’t and shouldn’t are two very different things.

I close my eyes as he begins to rub against me. “But it’s my birthday,” I say.

He turns me around so that I face him. His eyes narrow, chest rising and falling as if he’s forcing himself to breathe. A tug-of-war plays out on his features, the pull between lust and guilt. I watch his battle until finally he swallows and crushes his lips against mine, kissing me. He takes my bottom lip between his teeth, gently nibbling and sucking. I moan into his open mouth. The tip of his tongue darts out, finding mine, tentatively at first, then winding together.

His tongue ripples over mine, gliding across my teeth and the ticklish spot on the roof of my mouth that raises goosebumps over my entire body when touched. He grasps the sides of my head, holding me like I might take flight if he were to let go—and it seems entirely possible because I’m buoyant. Floating. Inside, my body and mind are a perfect storm where everything is crashing together and coming apart and completely obliterated. No one has ever kissed me like this before, with such desperation, and I know that no other way of kissing will ever be satisfying after him. He will ruin me for everyone else who comes after. That thought is terrifying because I don’t want there to be anyone after Paul. For me, it’s always been about him. It will always be about him. I will chase this feeling to the end of the earth.

When we break for air, lungs heaving, I touch his abs, brush the tips of my fingers lightly over the muscles that cobble his stomach, caressing the micro-hairs. He shivers and leans forward, kissing my eyelids, my forehead, nose, chin. He kisses me everywhere on my face but my mouth, teasing me, sending me through the ceiling.

One hand cradles my head while another slides down my neck, down the middle of my chest, stopping on my ribs. He lifts my swimsuit cover to my waist and slips his hand beneath it. His thumb just barely touches the soft swell underneath my left breast around my bikini top. His skin is hot. Heat radiates into every part of me.

His entire hand rests on my right breast now. I lean forward, encouraging him to grip me, or squeeze, but he’s taking his time, savoring this. It’s a slow, agonizing exploration. This is the first time our age difference has become obvious to me. I’m used to young men my age diving right into the deep end without taking the time to get used to, and enjoy, the water. Part of me wants him to just rip off my bathing suit and be inside me already. But then this will be over, this lovely torture.

He’s watching me, our eyes locked together as his hand slides lower, touching the front of my bikini bottoms. I’m breathless as I wait for him to make his next move.

He must see the anguish I’m feeling, because his lips move into a teasing smile and he asks, “Is this what you want?”

Moving my hips, pushing myself into his hand, I say, “More than anything.”

His lips crash against mine again in a fevered kiss. As he rubs me through the fabric, I make gasping, yearning noises. He takes my tongue, sucking on it.

“You’re so wet,” he says more to himself than to me when he releases my tongue, and I can’t say anything because I’m off in some euphoric land that, up until now, I thought was just a myth talked about in romance novels.

“I want you inside me,” I beg.

I’ve never been good at waiting. Even though I’m sure prolonging these feelings will be worth the wait, I don’t know how much more of this teasing I can take.

Just as his fingers start to move under the fabric, I hear the front door to my apartment open on whining hinges. The moment he hears it, Paul hurls himself away from me like he’s been shot, his eyes wide. He looks almost confused seeing me standing in front of him.

“Rachael, are you here?” Emily’s voice calls out. “I forgot my dorm key.”

“It’s okay,” I tell him, “It’s just Emily.” But when I go to take his hand, he moves it out of my reach.

Scrubbing his hands over his face, he sighs and says, “I’m sorry, Rach, this shouldn’t have happened. I need to go.”

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