Chapter 3: His Mouth

A few nights later the tension between us had thickened into something almost tangible, like static before a storm. Katie had texted me again, completely unaware, inviting me over for dinner and a movie like it was any other Friday. I showed up with my stomach in knots and my panties already damp, every stolen glance David sent across the table during pasta and small talk making my skin prickle with secret heat. His eyes lingered a fraction too long on the curve of my throat, the way my shirt clung to my breasts, and I had to press my thighs together under the table to stop the low ache from spreading.

The evening felt loaded from the start. Katie laughed at the same old jokes, oblivious, while David’s foot brushed mine once under the table—deliberate, electric. By the time we settled on the couch for the movie, the air hummed with everything unsaid. Katie’s head drooped against my shoulder halfway through, her breathing evening out into soft snores. David met my gaze over her sleeping form, his eyes dark with the same hunger that had kept me awake since his text. Without a word he stood, scooped her up in those strong arms the way only a father could, and carried her upstairs. I heard the faint creak of her bedroom door, the gentle rustle of blankets as he tucked her in. My pulse thrummed low and heavy between my legs while I waited in the guest room, door pulled shut but unlocked, heart hammering because I knew exactly what his message had promised.

The knob turned. David stepped inside, locking the door with a soft click that sealed us in. He wore a simple navy tee that stretched across his broad chest and those same loose boxers, the fabric already tenting slightly. His salt-and-pepper hair was rumpled from running his fingers through it, jaw tight with the same conflict I felt twisting inside my own ribs. He crossed to the bed without speaking at first, then sat on the edge and pulled me into his lap so I straddled him, our foreheads almost touching.

“I’ve fantasized about this for months, Riley,” he confessed, voice low and rough, hands settling warm and steady on my waist. “Every time you stayed over, laughing in my kitchen, wearing those little shorts ... I felt like a bastard for noticing. You’re my daughter’s best friend. Half my age. But the pull got stronger every damn night. I couldn’t stop thinking about how sweet you’d taste.”