Touch me, Mr. Rich

"My father will be home tonight, so we'll have to keep it down, you know," Kate said as they made their way down the tree-lined street toward her house.

Carol nodded absently, her gaze already drawn ahead to the two-story duplex that materialized through the late afternoon haze. It stood there like it always did—stately, pristine, with its cream-colored facade and dark shutters framing windows that seemed to watch her approach. The small garden out front bloomed with late-season flowers, meticulously maintained. Everything about the place whispered of care, of attention to detail, of a life Carol could only glimpse from the outside.

She told herself, as she always did, that this was why she came here so often. The house was beautiful. The neighborhood was peaceful. Kate's room had better lighting than her own cramped apartment. These were the reasons she gave herself, the comfortable lies she wrapped around the truth like a blanket.

Not Mr. Rich.

Never Mr. Rich.

Except it was always Mr. Rich.

Tall, dark-haired, with shoulders broad enough to fill a doorway and a presence that seemed to shift the very air when he entered a room. He had this way of moving—unhurried, confident—that made everything he did seem deliberate. When he smiled, really smiled, it reached his eyes and carved these lines at the corners that Carol found herself staring at longer than was appropriate. Looking at him felt dangerous, like staring directly at the sun. It left her dazed, spots dancing in her vision, a sinking feeling in her stomach that traveled lower, settling between her legs with an ache she'd learned to disguise.

Was it even normal to feel this way about someone older?

She was nineteen. He was forty-two—she'd calculated it from an offhand comment Kate made about his birthday months ago. Twenty-three years. More than two decades separated them, a gulf that should have felt insurmountable but instead felt like nothing at all when she watched him lean against the kitchen counter with his sleeves rolled up, forearms flexed as he opened a bottle of wine.

God, she wanted him.

"Carol. Carol!" Kate's voice cut through her thoughts like scissors through silk. "Can you hear me? Where did you go just now?"

Carol blinked, refocusing on her best friend's face. Kate was giving her that look—part amusement, part exasperation—that she'd perfected over years of dealing with Carol's tendency to drift off mid-conversation.

"Sorry, I was lost in thought," Carol said, managing what she hoped was an apologetic smile.

"I could tell. You had that glazed-over thing happening with your eyes." Kate adjusted her backpack on her shoulder. "What were you thinking about?"

Everything. Nothing. Your father's hands. The way his voice drops half an octave when he's tired. How his shirt fits across his chest. Whether he'd be shocked or intrigued if he knew what I think about when I'm alone.

"Oh, nothing serious," Carol said lightly. "You mentioned your dad would be home and we needed to be quiet, right? I can do that. I'm excellent at being quiet."

Kate laughed. "Since when? You're literally the loudest person I know."

"That's slander."

"It's observation."

They'd reached the front steps now, and Carol felt her pulse quicken the way it always did at this threshold. The possibility of him being inside made her hyperaware of everything—the way her jeans fit, whether her hair looked decent, if she'd remembered deodorant that morning. Ridiculous things that shouldn't matter but somehow did.

Kate fumbled with her keys, finally finding the right one and pushing open the door. The interior of the house greeted them with its familiar warmth—hardwood floors polished to a soft gleam, framed photographs lining the hallway, the faint scent of coffee and something else, something masculine that Carol had never quite identified but that made her think of him instantly.

"Dad?" Kate called out, dropping her bag by the door. "We're home!"

"Kitchen," came the response, and Carol's stomach performed that traitorous flip it always did at the sound of his voice.

They made their way through the living room, past the leather sofa where Carol had sat countless times pretending to watch movies while secretly cataloging every movement Mr. Rich made when he passed through. The kitchen opened up before them, all granite countertops and stainless steel appliances, and there he was.

Mr. Rich stood at the island, still in his work clothes—dark slacks and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was chopping vegetables with practiced efficiency, a cutting board before him and a pan already heating on the stove. He looked up when they entered, and Carol felt the full force of his attention land on them.

"Hey, sweetheart," he said to Kate, his mouth curving into a smile that Carol felt in her knees. Then his gaze shifted to her. "Carol. Good to see you."

"Hi, Mr. Rich," she managed, proud that her voice came out normal. Steady. Betraying nothing of the chaos underneath.

"How many times do I have to tell you? It's James." He returned to his chopping, the knife moving in quick, confident strokes. "Mr. Rich makes me feel ancient."

Kate rolled her eyes. "You are ancient, Dad."

"Cruel. My own daughter wounds me." But he was grinning, completely unbothered. "You two hungry? I'm making stir-fry."

"Starving," Kate said. "But we've got a project to work on, so we'll grab something later. Come on, Carol."

Carol followed Kate toward the stairs, but not before glancing back one more time. Mr. Rich had returned his focus to cooking, completely unaware of how her eyes traced the line of his shoulders, the way his hands moved with such certainty, the small furrow of concentration between his brows.

What would those hands feel like? On her waist. In her hair. Everywhere.

The thought hit her with such sudden intensity that she nearly stumbled on the first step. Kate, already halfway up, didn't notice. Carol gripped the banister and forced herself to keep climbing, one foot after the other, away from the kitchen and the man who occupied far too much space in her mind.

Kate's room was a sanctuary of organized chaos—textbooks stacked on her desk, posters covering the walls, a bed with too many decorative pillows that Kate never actually used. Carol had been here so many times she could navigate it blindfolded. She dropped her bag by the door and collapsed onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling while Kate rummaged through her closet for something.

"So," Kate said, her voice slightly muffled, "did you finish your part of the presentation?"

"Mostly." Carol hadn't thought about the presentation in hours. "I just need to polish the conclusion."

"Good, because I—" Kate emerged from the closet, triumphant, holding up a dress Carol had never seen before. "What do you think of this? Too much for Saturday?"

Carol barely saw it. Her mind was still downstairs, replaying the way Mr. Rich's forearms had flexed, the casual domesticity of him cooking dinner, how natural it would feel to walk up behind him and wrap her arms around him and the sliding her hands down and grabbing his dick, she wondered how his member would feel on her hands, she could feel her pussy throb as she thought about it, she so badly wanted to touch herself. She imagined his mouth on hers, wondered what his tongue would taste like, wondered how he would kneel and then out his mouth on her wet mound, goodness gracious she was going crazy,

"Carol? Earth to Carol?" Kate was waving the dress at her now. "Seriously, where do you keep going today?"

"Sorry," Carol said again, sitting up and trying to look engaged. "Show me again?"

But even as Kate launched into an explanation about the party on Saturday and who would be there and whether this dress sent the right message, Carol's thoughts kept drifting downstairs. To the kitchen. To him.

She was playing with fire, she knew that. Kate was her best friend—had been since middle school. This house, this family, they'd become hers by extension. To want what she wanted, to feel what she felt, it was a betrayal of the highest order.

But knowing that didn't make it stop. Didn't make her want him any less.

It only made the wanting more dangerous.