MY FATHER'S BEST FRIEND 2

MY FATHER’S BEST FRIEND 2

ANNA'S POV

His hand stayed over mine on the keys, thumb brushing slow circles against my pulse point until the touch felt like a brand. When I turned my head, his face was closer than I expected—close enough that I could see the flecks of green in his storm-gray eyes, close enough that his next breath ghosted across my lips.

“Anna…”

That single word came out rough, almost broken.

I didn’t let him finish. I closed the last inch and kissed him.

For one heartbeat he was perfectly still, like the disciplined man I’d watched charm an entire party. Then something snapped. His hands clamped onto my waist and he dragged me sideways into his lap so hard the piano bench skidded back with a screech. The kiss turned messy instantly—teeth, tongue, a low growl in his throat when I opened for him. Stubble scraped my chin; his fingers dug into my hips like he was afraid I’d vanish if he loosened his grip.

I could feel him under me already—thick, rigid, straining against the fine wool of his trousers. I rolled my hips once, slow and deliberate, just to test.

A guttural sound vibrated through his chest.

“Jesus, Anna.”

I did it again, harder. His head fell back against the piano lid for a second, throat working, before his eyes snapped open again, dark and dangerous.

“You have no idea what you’re starting.”

“Then show me,” I whispered against his mouth.

That was all the permission he needed.

One arm locked around my lower back, the other slid up my spine until his hand fisted in my hair. He kissed me like he was starving—deep, filthy strokes of his tongue that made heat pool low in my belly. I ground down harder, chasing friction, and felt him twitch against me.

My hands went to his belt on instinct. The leather was warm from his body; the buckle gave with a soft metallic clink. I popped the button, dragged the zipper down tooth by tooth. He lifted his hips just enough for me to shove trousers and boxer-briefs down in one impatient push. His cock sprang free—heavy, flushed dark, the broad head already slick. A single bead of precum clung to the slit, catching the last of the sunset through the windows.

I slid off his lap and dropped to my knees between his spread thighs before I could second-guess myself. The marble floor was cold against my skin, but I barely felt it. I wrapped my fingers around him—God, he was thick; my thumb and middle finger didn’t meet—and gave one slow stroke from root to crown. His breath hissed out through clenched teeth.

I leaned in and licked that bead away, slow and deliberate. Salt and something sharper burst across my tongue. His hand tightened in my hair—not pushing, just anchoring, like he needed to feel I was real.

I took him deeper. My lips stretched around the head, tongue pressing flat against the underside as I sank down. He was velvet over steel, pulsing against my tongue. I hollowed my cheeks and sucked, drawing the most broken sound I’d ever heard from a man. His hips jerked; I felt the tremor run through his thighs.

“Fuck—Anna—”

I pulled off just long enough to look up at him. His head was tipped back, eyes half-lidded, lips parted. The composed, elegant Daniel Reynolds was unraveling, and I was the one doing it to him. The power of that went straight to my head.

I took him again, deeper this time, until he nudged the back of my throat. My hand worked in tandem with my mouth—tight, twisting strokes, slick with spit and precum. His breathing turned ragged. Every time I swallowed around him his fingers flexed in my hair.

I could have stayed there for hours, could have made him come just like this, but he had other plans.

His grip shifted, tilting my head back until I released him with a wet pop. His eyes were almost black now.

“Stand up,” he ordered, voice gravel-rough. “Turn around. Hands on the piano.”

My legs were shaky as I rose. The air felt ten degrees cooler without his heat against me. I stepped forward, palms meeting the cool, glossy fallboard. Behind me I heard the tear of foil—he’d had a condom in his wallet, of course he did—and then the soft thud of his shoes hitting the floor as he kicked free of his trousers.

His hands slid up the backs of my thighs, pushing my dress to my waist. Cool air kissed damp skin; I hadn’t even realized how wet I was until that moment. He hooked his fingers in my panties and dragged them down in one smooth motion, letting them pool at my ankles.

“Look at you,” he murmured, almost reverent. One broad palm smoothed over my ass, then dipped between my legs. Two fingers slid through my folds, spreading wetness, circling my clit once, twice, until my knees buckled. “Soaked already.”

I whimpered—actually whimpered—and pushed back against his hand.

He gave a dark chuckle. “Greedy girl.”

Then his fingers were gone, replaced by the blunt, hot pressure of his cock. He dragged the head through my slickness, coating himself, teasing my entrance until I was shaking.

“Please—”

The word tore out of me the same second he thrust in.

One long, relentless push and he was buried to the hilt. The stretch burned beautifully; I felt every thick inch of him. My nails scrabbled for purchase on the piano lid as he pulled back and slammed home again. The whole instrument shuddered under the impact; a low discordant chord rang out when my elbow hit the keys.

He set a brutal rhythm from the start—hard, deep strokes that drove the air from my lungs in sharp gasps. Each thrust nudged that spot inside me that made my vision spark white at the edges. His hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise, holding me exactly where he wanted me.

The room filled with the sounds of sex: wet slaps of skin on skin, my broken moans, his ragged breathing, the occasional thud when my palms or hips hit the piano. Somewhere far away the party carried on—glasses clinking, laughter floating in on the breeze—but it felt like another planet.

He leaned over me, chest to my back, one hand sliding up to cup my breast through the silk of my dress. His mouth found the sensitive spot beneath my ear and bit down. I cried out, clenching around him involuntarily.

“That’s it,” he growled against my skin. “Let me feel you.”

His other hand snaked around my hip, fingers finding my clit with unerring accuracy. He rubbed tight, ruthless circles in time with his thrusts. Pleasure coiled low and vicious, building so fast I couldn’t catch my breath.

“Daniel—fuck—I’m—”

“Come,” he commanded, voice shredded. “Come on my cock right now.”

The orgasm crashed over me like a wave, sharp and blinding. My back arched; every muscle locked as I pulsed around him, milking him in rhythmic waves. He swore viciously, hips stuttering, then drove deep one last time and held, buried to the root, as he came with a low, guttural groan against my shoulder.

For a long moment the only sounds were our harsh breathing and the faint hum of the party outside.

Slowly, carefully, he pulled out. I heard the snap of the condom coming off, the soft rustle as he dealt with it. Then his arms were around me, turning me, pulling me back against his chest. His lips brushed my temple, surprisingly tender after everything.

I sagged into him, legs trembling, heart racing, dress twisted and ruined, hair a mess.

Somewhere down the hall a woman laughed—bright, carefree, completely unaware that twenty feet away Daniel Reynolds had just fucked his best friend’s daughter senseless over a Steinway.

He pressed another kiss to my damp skin and murmured, voice hoarse but amused, “We should probably rejoin the party before your father sends a search party.”

I laughed—shaky, disbelieving—and felt him smile against my neck.

Yeah. We probably should.

But neither of us moved just yet.