The Other Father (Steamy Short Story Collection)

My mother invited our neighbor, Paul Macaulay, to dinner.

I watch him eat his meal, a tight smile fixed on his face as he avoids my gaze, just like he always does.

He’s wearing a fine pin-striped suit, but his hair is still messy, rough in that way I’ve come to know. I subtly admire the light stubble on his face, a mix of brown and grey that catches the light.

He’s handsome as always, acting completely normal, keeping up the charade even though he was inside me right before he came here. His lips are still swollen from our kiss, his hair barely in place, and if I look closely, I can still see the faint smudge of my lipstick on his collar—left there in our rush, our desperation to be fast.

My eyes drop to his fingers. He isn’t wearing his wedding ring, just like he promised. The sight suddenly makes me sick, and I down an entire glass of wine in one go.

"Be careful, Babe. You don’t want to get drunk," my boyfriend, Zayne, slowly urges me, his hand resting on my knee in a gesture that’s clearly meant to be possessive.

My mother smiles at him with approval, that same warm approval that just moments earlier had me sliding the engagement and wedding rings off my finger underneath the table. I am married to my forty-six-year-old neighbor, and no one in this room has a clue.

I turn to look at Paul, hoping he’ll stare at Zayne touching me, but he doesn’t falter. He’s busy with my father, discussing politics, his new book set to be published, and everything else that doesn’t include taking his twenty-year-old daughter’s hand in marriage.

I roll my eyes, push up from the chair, and excuse myself.

"Are you alright, Penny?" my mother asks.

"Yeah, are you okay, babe?" Zayne questions right after.

"I just need to go to bed early, thank you for dinner," I bow to no one in particular and start to leave when my mother calls for me again.

"Aren’t you going to say goodbye to Mr. Macaulay?"

I force up a smile, not quite looking at him or meeting his eyes. "Goodnight, Mr. Macaulay."

I go upstairs to my exquisite bedroom, shutting the door behind me with a hard push. Hot tears spill over as I angrily drop the rings onto the cabinet close by. I’m sick of being his secret, someone he gets to have in the shadows while I’m still betrothed to someone else in the light.

We started sneaking around a month after he moved in. We developed a friendship over our shared love for literature, and then we started seeing each other on my nineteenth birthday. I was completely unraveled by the prospect of being his permanently, so I pushed for the marriage. Now, all I feel is regret.

A firm knock alerts me, and I shudder as he walks in, closing and locking the door behind him without a word.

"Penelope, are you alright?" he asks, his sickening British accent hitting me hard, sparking rage at how enthralling he still sounds.

I roll my eyes, kick off my shoes, and sit on the edge of my bed. "Yes, you can leave now."

He shuts his eyes and clenches his fists. "I don’t like that boy’s hand on you."

"You have to, Paul. It’s why he’s my boyfriend in the first place."

"Don’t try to be sassy now, Penelope. You said you couldn’t break up with him."

"Because my parents want him for me, I can’t just do that. Not now." I shake my head, exhausted. "I’m tired and I want to go to bed."

He grabs me roughly, pulling me to himself. His grip is tight on my arms, almost bruising, but I don’t pull away. I never do.

“You’re not going to avoid this conversation,” he says, his voice low and controlled in a way that still feels like a threat. “And yet you want me to announce our marriage.”

I swallow, trying to keep my voice steady. “It’s the only way they’d ever take us seriously, Paul. Can’t you see that? My sister’s getting married in a few days to Carlos. You think she chose Carlos?”

“So you just used me then,” he says, the words flat. “To avoid that fate, huh?”

“What? No.” The denial comes out too fast, too weak.

He rolls his eyes, the gesture dripping with contempt. He isn’t pleased. He looks angry, the way he usually does, and something deep in my stomach coils tight. It always does. It sort of turns me on, that dark heat in his eyes, even when I know I shouldn’t let it.

“Babe?” Zayne’s voice filters through the door, muffled but clear.

My heart stutters. Panic flashes cold down my spine. I look at Paul, my eyes wide, trying to silently plead with him. Please. Just let me go. I have to speak to him.

Paul doesn’t move. The rage in his eyes sharpens instead, like he’s been waiting for this. He holds me back when I try to step away, his hand a solid band around my wrist. He pulls me hard against his chest, my back pressed to the front of him, so I can feel every tense line of his body.

“What is wrong—” I start, but my voice is drowned.

His mouth crashes down on mine. It’s not a kiss; it’s a takeover. His tongue pushes past my lips, rough and demanding, stealing my air, my protest, my thoughts. I gasp into him, my hands coming up to push against his chest, but he doesn’t budge. He walks me backward until my knees hit the edge of the bed, and then I’m falling, the mattress dipping under my weight.

He doesn’t break the kiss. He pulls at his tie, yanking it off with one sharp tug and tossing it aside. His eyes never leave mine as he follows me down, his weight settling over me, pinning me in place. The room feels suddenly too small, too hot. I can hear Zayne moving around in the living room, the faint sound of the TV clicking on.

One of his hands fists in my hair, tilting my head back to give him better access as his mouth moves from my lips to my throat. His other hand is busy, impatient. He makes quick work of the buttons on my blouse. The fabric parts easily under his hands, and he pushes it open, baring my skin to the cool air and his heated gaze. His palm is rough as it slides over my ribcage, up to the lace of my bra. He doesn’t bother with the clasp. He just pushes the material aside, and his mouth finds me there. The sensation is sharp, almost painful in its intensity, a mix of wet heat and the scrape of his teeth that makes my back bow off the mattress.

A fractured sound tries to escape my throat. He lifts his head, his lips glistening. His eyes lock on mine, dark and warning. “Quiet,” he breathes against my damp skin. The command is absolute.

He shifts his weight, his knee pressing between my thighs, urging them apart. My skirt is pushed up, bunching around my waist. His fingers hook into the waistband of my panties and he pulls, the fragile lace tearing without ceremony. The sound is obscenely loud in the quiet room. I flinch, my eyes darting to the door, but he doesn’t let me look away for long.

His hand returns, his touch deliberate and punishing. His fingers slide through my wetness, circling, pressing, but never giving me what my body is now desperately clenching for. He’s teasing me, drawing out the tension until I’m trembling with it. His thumb presses down on the sensitive bundle of nerves, and white-hot pleasure arcs through me. My hips jerk off the bed, a silent, desperate plea. I bite my lip so hard I’m sure it’s bleeding, the metallic taste sharp on my tongue.

He lowers his head again, his mouth replacing his fingers. The intimacy of it is shocking, devastating. His tongue is relentless, laving and sucking with a focus that unravels me completely. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. My hands fist in his hair, not sure if I’m trying to pull him closer or push him away. Every nerve ending is on fire, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter, a spring wound to its breaking point. I’m writhing beneath him, my heels digging into the mattress, my entire world narrowing to the sensation he’s orchestrating and the terrifying awareness of Zayne just beyond the thin wall.

Just outside, I hear a door shut. Then Zayne’s voice, clearer now, calling out a casual, “Heading out for a bit!”

The front door closes with a solid thud.

The sound is a trigger. The last thread of my restraint snaps. A powerful shudder wracks my body as the climax begins to crest, ready to pull me under.

Paul feels it. He pulls back abruptly, leaving me exposed and shuddering on the brink. The cold air is a brutal shock. He sits back on his heels, looking down at me where I’m spread beneath him, panting, wet, completely at his mercy. His own breathing is ragged, his shirt disheveled. He doesn’t touch me again.

He watches the desperate, frustrated tremors that continue to course through me, his expression hard. I can feel the ache of denial, a deep, throbbing emptiness where there should be release.

He leans down, his mouth near my ear. 

“Remember this,” he says, his voice quiet and final. “Remember who you belong to when you’re talking to him.”

Then he stands up, adjusting his clothes with a chilling calm.

"I'll see you at Vegas, Penny," He looks at me one last time, my own want and humiliation reflected in his eyes, before he turns and walks out of the bedroom. 

He leaves me there alone, tangled in the ruins of my clothes, throbbing and utterly unfinished

, with nothing but the sting of his lesson and the echo of the front door sealing my loneliness.