Chapter 2: Hidden Desires

I stirred awake to the soft light filtering through the curtains, the unfamiliar hum of Parisian streets drifting into the room. For a moment, I was disoriented, my mind catching up to where I was—sharing a bed with my dad in a small hotel room.

My body was pressed snugly against his, his chest warmed my back, arm draped possessively over my waist. Large hands cupped my breast, fingers tracing idle circles that made my breath stall. Slow puffs of his breath tickled my neck, the rhythm of his chest rising and falling in sync with mine.

I froze, my heart skipping a beat as I processed the position. His body was spooning mine, his frame large and solid, enveloping me completely.

Then I felt it.

Something stiff and chubby pressed insistently against the cleft of my buttocks, nestled between my cheeks. My breath hitched, my stomach tightening in a mix of panic and something I couldn’t quite name.

Oh my God.

I lay perfectly still, my mind racing. This isn’t supposed to happen. This isn’t right. But as the warmth of his body seeped into mine, I couldn’t deny the flicker of arousal that sparked deep in my core.

My heart pounded as I became hyper-aware of every point of contact. His hand on my breast, his fingers brushing lightly against the fabric of my t-shirt, the way his thumb rested just above my nipple. His hips were pressed flush against me, the stiff ridge of his erection pressing firmly into the curve of my ass, the sensation both foreign and intoxicating.

I should pull away. I know I should. But my body betrayed me, a quiet throb of heat building between my legs. I stayed still, my breath shallow, my mind a whirlwind of confusion and guilt.

Then I felt him stir.

His breathing shifted, a soft groan escaping his lips as he began to wake. I panicked, squeezing my eyes shut and pretending to still be asleep, feigning the slow, steady rhythm of slumber.

I felt him still, his body tensing slightly as he realized our position. His hand, still cupping my breast, flexed almost imperceptibly, as if testing the weight of it, the shape. My breath caught in my throat, my pulse racing as he lingered there, his touch neither innocent nor overtly deliberate.

Then, slowly, his hand drifted lower, brushing over my ribs, my waist, before settling around my hip. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he shifted closer, his hips pressing more firmly against me, his arousal now unmistakable as it nudged between my cheeks.

My eyes flew open, my body stiffening as I felt the insistent pressure of him, the way he seemed to mold himself to me. My mind screamed at me to move, to break the contact, but my body responded differently, a quiet ache blooming in my core, my thighs pressing together instinctively.

He’s awake. I can feel it. His breathing had changed, and his hand tightened slightly around my waist. But he didn’t pull away. He stayed there, his body pressed against mine, his arousal a silent, undeniable truth between us.

Finally, unable to pretend any longer, I stirred, letting out a soft, almost sleepy sigh as if I were just waking up.

Behind me, Dad shifted, his hand slipping from my waist as he moved back, creating a small but deliberate distance between us.

“Morning, kiddo,” he said, his voice rough with sleep but otherwise calm, as if nothing had happened.

“Morning,” I mumbled, my cheeks flushing as I rolled onto my back, careful to keep my body angled away from him.

He sat up, stretching his arms above his head, the fabric of his t-shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of his toned stomach. “Sleep okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, my voice soft, my eyes darting away as I tried to steady my racing heart.

As he climbed out of bed and headed to the bathroom, I lay there, my mind a tumult of emotions. Confusion. Guilt. And, much to my dismay, a lingering, undeniable arousal that I couldn’t shake.

The group gathered in the hotel lobby, the air buzzing with excitement as we prepared for our first full day in Paris. Sunlight streamed through the grand windows, casting a warm glow over the polished marble floors and the intricate chandelier above. Students clustered in small groups, their voices combining into a lively hum of anticipation. Some sipped on steaming cups of coffee, others adjusted their backpacks or double-checked their cameras, eager to capture the city’s beauty.

I stood beside Kim, my hands fidgeting with the straps of my bag. I was still processing the morning—how I’d woken up pressed against Dad, his hand on my chest, his body so close. My face burned just thinking about it. It was weird, confusing, and ... I didn’t know how to feel.

Then I saw her.

Ms. Bennett, our French teacher, stood way too close to Dad near the front desk, her laughter ringing out as she touched his arm. The way her fingers lingered—just half a second too long—made my shoulders tense.

Kim followed my gaze and raised an eyebrow. I quickly looked away.

The tour guide ushered us outside into the crisp Parisian morning. The boys immediately launched into their performance.

“Did you know the Louvre was originally a fortress?” one announced like a museum docent.

Liam kept stealing glances at me, his cheeks flushing whenever I noticed. Normally, I’d find it sweet—but right now, all I could focus on was Ms. Bennett threading her arm through Dad’s as they walked ahead, leaning in to murmur something that made him smile.

Kim nudged me. “Earth to Emily.”

“Hmm?”

She smirked, nodding toward Liam—but my eyes dragged back to where Ms. Bennett was now adjusting Dad’s scarf, her red nails brushing his jaw. The twist in my stomach had nothing to do with breakfast.

The walking tour wrapped up, and the group was given free time for lunch and shopping. The students scattered, some heading to nearby cafés, others eager to explore the shops lining the charming Parisian streets.

Emily, Kim, and Maya—Kim’s bubbly roommate—decided to check out a flea market they’d spotted earlier, its colorful tents and eclectic wares beckoning them. The market was a treasure trove of quirky items—vintage postcards, antique jewelry, and handmade trinkets that seemed to tell stories of their own.

“Oh my God, look at this!” Maya held up a pair of oversized sunglasses with rhinestones along the frames.

Emily laughed, trying them on and striking a dramatic pose. “How do I look?”

“Like a movie star,” Kim said, snapping a quick photo.

As they wandered through the stalls, Emily found herself relaxing, the tension of the morning’s awkward moments easing as she laughed with Kim and Maya. The air was filled with the mingling scents of fresh pastries from a nearby bakery and the earthy aroma of old books sold by a vendor with a thick mustache.

“Hey, guys!”

Emily turned to see Liam, Caleb, and Dave approaching. Caleb, the most outspoken of the trio, led the way, his confident grin and relaxed posture a stark contrast to Liam’s awkward demeanor. Dave followed, his easygoing smile suggesting he was just along for the fun. Liam, on the other hand, lingered slightly behind, his hands stuffed into his pockets and his face tinged with red.