Page 18 of Her Father's Best Friend
The doorbell rings, and Dad pushes off from the doorframe. "That'll be Mitch."
I wait until he's halfway down the stairs before checking my reflection in the mirror. I'm wearing a simple tank top and jean shorts—nothing overtly provocative, but the shorts are shorter than what I'd normally wear around Dad, and the tank dips low enough to show a hint of cleavage. My hair is loose the way Mitch likes it. I pinch my cheeks for color and follow Dad downstairs, my heart racing with the anticipation of seeing Mitch while pretending we're nothing more than old acquaintances.
He's standing in the entryway, a tool belt slung low on his hips, looking so painfully good in a worn gray t-shirt that molds to his broad shoulders. His eyes find mine over Dad's head, and something hot and electric passes between us before he carefully schools his expression.
"Morning, Bill," he says, clapping my father on the shoulder. Then, with practiced casualness: "Hey, Delilah. How's the apartment hunting going?"
"Slowly," I reply, leaning against the banister. "But I'm staying with a friend from college for now."
Dad gestures toward the back door. "Railing's gotten wobbly again. Probably just needs the screws tightened, but I figured you'd spot anything else that needs fixing."
"Happy to take a look." Mitch follows Dad toward the back door, throwing one heated glance my way when Dad's back is turned. I feel that look like a physical touch, warming me from the inside out.
I busy myself in the kitchen, pretending to make a sandwich while eavesdropping on their conversation through the open window. They talk about the deck, the weather, some mutual friend's new truck—the easy chatter of men who've known each other for years. It's so normal, so ordinary, that my chest aches with the knowledge of how we're deceiving him.
Twenty minutes later, Dad pokes his head into the kitchen. "Dell, I've got to run to the hardware store. Mitch needs some different screws for that railing. You good here for a bit?"
My pulse quickens. "Sure, Dad. Take your time."
The moment his truck pulls out of the driveway, I'm moving toward the back door. Mitch is kneeling on the deck, his back to me, muscles shifting beneath his shirt as he works. I stand in the doorway, just watching him for a moment, desire coiling in my belly.
"Did you really need different screws?" I ask, stepping onto the deck.
He turns, his eyes darkening as they take me in. "No."
The simplicity of his answer, the honesty of it, makes heat flood my cheeks. "You sent my dad to the hardware store on purpose?"
Mitch stands, closing the distance between us in two long strides. "Needed to see you. Touch you." His hand cups my face, thumb brushing across my bottom lip. "Been thinking about your mouth all morning."
I lean into his touch, my body responding instantly to his proximity. "We've got twenty minutes, max."
"That's nineteen more than I need to make you come," he murmurs, backing me through the door into the kitchen.
The moment we're inside, his mouth is on mine, hungry and demanding. I clutch at his shoulders, rising on tiptoes to get closer, opening for him instantly when his tongue seeks entrance. He tastes like coffee and mint and desire.
"Missed you," I gasp against his lips, though we were together just hours ago. "Hate pretending."
"I know." His hands slide down to grip my ass, lifting me onto the kitchen counter. "Gonna talk to him this week. Promise."
I've heard that before, but I can't focus on skepticism when he's trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down my throat, his beard scraping deliciously against my sensitive skin. My legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer until I can feel him hard against my center.
"We shouldn't," I say, even as my hands slide under his shirt to feel the warm skin beneath. "Not here."
"Tell me to stop." His teeth graze my collarbone, making me shiver. "Tell me, and I will."
But I can't. Not when his hand is sliding up under my tank top, cupping my breast through my bra. Not when he's looking at me like I'm everything he's ever wanted.
"Upstairs," I manage, pushing him back just enough to slide off the counter. "My room. Hurry."
We stumble up the stairs, unable to stop touching each other, stealing kisses on every other step. It's reckless and stupid—Dad could come back early, could catch us at any moment—but the danger only heightens the urgency between us.
In my bedroom, Mitch kicks the door shut behind us, already tugging my tank top over my head. I fumble with his belt, desperate to feel his skin against mine. We fall onto my childhood bed, the frame creaking in protest beneath our combined weight.
"God, I want you," he growls, unclasping my bra with practiced ease. "Always want you."
His mouth closes around my nipple, and I arch off the bed with a gasp, tangling my fingers in his hair to hold him there. His hand slides into my shorts, finding me wet and ready for him.
"So responsive," he murmurs against my breast. "So perfect."
