Risky Moments With My Dad's Bestfriend

I gulped as he walked slowly toward me. His eyes didn’t waver—locked on mine, burning with that same intense hunger I’d dreamed about so many times. He looked like a predator closing in, and God help me, I loved it.

I rubbed my thighs together, trying to ease the heat building between them. I was sprawled out on his desk, helpless, waiting for his touch. My dress clung to my skin like it had melted onto me. Thin. Useless. I might as well have been naked.

Desmond stopped in front of me, close enough for me to feel his body heat. He’d always been this steady, calming presence in my life, someone I looked up to. But not tonight. Not like this. My heart pounded as he looked down at my half-dressed form, his eyes dark and unreadable, full of things I shouldn’t want from him.

He raised his hand slowly, brushing a few strands of hair from my face. I trembled under the gentleness of it.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” His voice was low, quiet, made just for me. His words slid down my spine like silk, settling low in my belly, warm and dangerous.

My lips parted. I wanted to answer. But no words came. I couldn’t think. My brain was fogged with him—just him.

He leaned in, his breath warm against my cheek, fingertips grazing the strap of my dress. “This is so wrong,” he whispered, his lips grazing the shell of my ear.

I shivered.

His hand drifted down my arm, slow and certain, until it landed on my hip, his grip firm, possessive. “So wrong,” he murmured again, dragging his mouth down the side of my neck. His teeth grazed my skin, just enough to make me gasp.

My hands moved on their own, finding the fabric of his shirt. My fingers trembled as I undid the buttons, one by one. I was really doing this. After years of wanting, imagining, aching—I was about to have the one person I was never supposed to.

Only him.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this,” I whispered.

Something in his face softened.

Then he kissed me.

Hard.

His mouth crashed into mine, deep and demanding. I gasped as our tongues tangled, desperate and hot. His hands explored me, pulling my hips into him like he couldn’t get close enough. Every curve, every inch of my skin, he touched like he was memorizing it.

He groaned when I tugged at his hair, pulling him closer each time his fingers slid along my bare skin.

Desmond.

My father’s best friend.

The man I’d known my whole life.

The man I wasn’t allowed to want.

But I did. So badly it hurt.

He broke the kiss, and I whimpered at the loss. A small smirk played on his lips as he slid his hand beneath my dress. “You don’t know what you do to me, Brielle.”

I swallowed hard. “Then show me.”

That broke him.

His eyes darkened as he spread my legs with his knee. His fingers were on me again, brushing over my lace panties. I moaned—loud and raw. I couldn’t hold it in. He rubbed slow and deliberate, teasing me, watching as I writhed under him.

“You’re so wet,” he whispered, tugging the lace to the side. “So ready for me.”

My body shook, already spiraling with pleasure. It was too much, and not enough. I needed more.

He leaned in, resting his forehead against mine. His breath was ragged. “Say it. Say you want me.”

“I want you,” I whispered, voice shaky, breathless.

He kissed me again—deeper, rougher. One hand gripping my hip, the other sliding back between my legs, finding that aching spot I needed him to touch. I cried out against his mouth, moaning as his fingers worked magic on me.

“That’s it,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Let me hear you.”

And I did. Loudly.

“This is so wrong,” he said again. But his hands didn’t stop. “God, it’s so wrong.”

And I didn’t care. If anything, the wrongness only made me hotter, needier. My hips moved without permission, chasing his touch, chasing the edge I was so close to falling off.

“I’m going to—”

“Brielle,” he murmured against my neck, kissing the sensitive spot under my ear. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

His fingers moved faster. Deeper. My breath caught.

I was right there.

So close—

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

The blaring of my stupid alarm clock ripped through the air and shattered everything.

I shot up in bed, breathless, dazed.

My chest heaved, my skin was damp with sweat, and my heart was pounding. I blinked fast, trying to remind myself that none of it had been real. Just another damn dream. A vivid, sinful, toe-curling dream.

I looked down. My nightdress was twisted around my waist. My panties soaked. My thighs were clenched like they were still begging for more.

I ran a shaky hand through my hair and groaned.

Just a dream.

Another dream of Desmond doing things to me he had no business doing. And it felt real. Way too real. I could still feel his touch, his breath on my neck, the weight of his body. It clung to me.

I staggered to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. My reflection stared back at me, flushed and guilty. I’d been having these dreams for over a year. And today—of all days—was my birthday.

The day I was supposed to see him.

I dried my hands and tried to shake it off.

Then—a knock at the door.

I froze.

Please let it be Mom. Or Dad. Anyone but him.

I crossed the room and opened the door.

And there they were. Mom. Dad.

And Desmond.

Holding a lit birthday cake between them.

“Happy birthday to you…” they sang in unison, grinning.

I tried to smile. Pretend everything was normal. But how could I, when the man I’d just been dreaming about—moaning for in my sleep—was now standing three feet away from me with a candlelit cake?

My eyes found his over the flames.

His face was calm. Friendly. Unreadable.

But something in the way he looked at me made my stomach tighten.

“Make a wish,” Mom said, beaming.

I nodded, eyes on the cake, and forced myself to breathe. Then I leaned in and blew out the candles.

“How does it feel to be twenty?” Dad asked, stepping into the room.

“Still feels like nineteen,” I mumbled with a small laugh as Mom wrapped me in a hug.

Desmond stood at the door, still watching me. His face hadn’t changed. Still calm. Still unreadable. But my body remembered. Every part of me remembered.

“Happy birthday, Brielle,” he said.

His voice was deep. Familiar. The same one that had whispered in my ear just minutes ago—in the dream.

“Thanks,” I whispered.

He handed me a small gift box. “Thought I’d stop by early before work. I’ll see you tonight at dinner.”

“Seems like just yesterday your dad passed out in the delivery room,” he joked, grinning.

“Okay, don’t start,” Dad said, rolling his eyes.

We all laughed.

Our fingers brushed as I took the box from him. The contact was brief, innocent. But my body reacted like he’d touched something much deeper.

He gave me a small smile, then turned and walked down the hall.

I closed the door and leaned back against it.

The same man I had just begged for in my sleep had shown up with a birthday cake.

And I had to sit across from him tonight like nothing was wrong.

God help me.