Alone

Carol didn't remember the drive home.

One moment she was saying goodbye to Kate at the door—Mr. Rich still notably absent, still in the kitchen where he'd retreated after dinner—and the next she was pulling into her apartment complex, her body moving on autopilot while her mind stayed trapped in that dining room.

She sat in her car for ten minutes after she parked, engine off, staring at nothing through the windshield. The streetlight overhead cast orange shadows across the dashboard. A couple walked past, arms linked, laughing about something. Normal people doing normal things. Carol felt like she existed in a completely different universe from them.

What had she been thinking? Touching herself at his dinner table, with Kate right there, not three feet away? The recklessness of it should have horrified her. Should have snapped her out of this obsession and reminded her of all the reasons this was wrong, all the lines she'd crossed, all the ways this could destroy the most important friendship she had.

Instead, all she could think about was the way he'd looked at her. That knowing glance. That ghost of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth before he'd turned away.

He knew. He absolutely knew what she'd been doing.

And he'd stopped her on purpose.

The realization sent a fresh wave of heat through her body. He could have ignored it, could have pretended not to notice, could have given her the mercy of plausible deniability. But he hadn't. He'd interrupted her deliberately, called her out in the most subtle way possible, and left her hanging.

Left her wanting.

Carol finally forced herself out of the car, gathering her bag and locking the door behind her. The walk to her apartment felt surreal, like moving through water. She climbed the stairs to the second floor, found her key, let herself into the small studio that had been home for the past year.

Everything else she did went by in a blur. She dropped her bag by the door—or did she hang it on the hook? She couldn't remember. Changed out of her clothes into her nightgown, the soft cotton falling to mid-thigh. Brushed her teeth, washed her face, went through the motions of her nighttime routine without any conscious thought directing her movements.

She didn't remember half of what she did. Her mind was elsewhere, stuck in that moment at the dinner table, replaying it over and over like a film reel she couldn't stop.

She kept seeing the ghost of that smile. Kept hearing his voice: You look flushed.

James.

No. She shouldn't think of him on a first-name basis. That made it too personal, too intimate, too real. He was Mr. Rich. Kate's father. Off-limits in every way that mattered.

But her mind betrayed her, whispering his name anyway. James. James. James.

She climbed into bed, pulling the thin covers up to her waist. The ceiling fan rotated slowly overhead, creating shadows that danced across the walls. She should sleep. She had class in the morning, had a million things to do tomorrow. Sleep would be the responsible choice.

But her body had other ideas.

Her skin felt too tight, too sensitive. Every brush of fabric against her nipples sent sparks of pleasure-pain through her chest. The ache between her legs hadn't diminished—if anything, it had grown worse, more insistent, demanding attention she'd been denied at dinner.

She closed her eyes and let herself imagine.

Imagined that he was here, watching her from the shadows of her room. Those dark eyes tracking her every movement. That knowing smile on his face as he watched her surrender to needs she couldn't control. She imagined him hard for her, his cock straining against his jeans the way it might have been under that table, if she'd affected him even a fraction of how he affected her.

The thought made her bold.

Carol let her hands begin to wander across her body, touching herself with a tenderness that made her shiver. She imagined they were his hands—larger, rougher, more confident. Imagined Mr. Rich touching her the way she'd dreamed about for months, maybe years.

Her fingers found her breasts through the thin cotton of her nightgown, cupping their weight, squeezing gently. She tweaked her nipples lightly, rolling them between thumb and forefinger, and felt the shiver run down her spine like lightning. They hardened under her touch, sensitive and aching.

In her mind, he was the one doing this. His hands on her body. His mouth following where his fingers led.

"That's it," she imagined him saying, his voice that deep baritone that made her knees weak. "Show me what you need."

Slowly, she pulled her nightgown up, bunching the fabric around her waist. The cool air hit her exposed skin, raising goosebumps across her thighs. She let her legs fall open, shameless in her solitude, and let her fingers trail down her stomach to the curly hair between her legs.

She played with it first, tugging gently, savoring the slight pain mixed with pleasure. Her hips lifted involuntarily, seeking more contact, more friction, more of everything.

When her fingers finally slid lower, finding her pussy, she was soaked. The wetness coated her fingers as she stroked herself lightly, teasingly, the way she imagined he might. Not giving herself everything at once. Making herself wait. Making herself earn it.

Her other hand returned to her breast, pinching her nipple harder now, the edge of pain making the pleasure sharper, more intense.

She found her clit, already swollen and sensitive, and began to rub in slow circles. In her mind, Mr. Rich—James—was stroking himself too. She imagined his large hand wrapped around his cock, imagined him hard and wanting her, imagined the look on his face as he watched her pleasure herself for him.

"Good girl," she imagined him saying. "Show me how badly you want it."

The fantasy spurred her on. She increased the pressure on her clit, her fingers moving faster now, chasing the orgasm that had been building since dinner. Since before dinner. Since the moment she'd walked into that house and smelled his cologne.

Her breathing came faster. Her hips rocked against her hand. She was so close, right on the edge, her body tensing in anticipation of release—

And then she stopped.

Her hand froze, fingers still pressed against her clit, body trembling with unfulfilled need.

Why had she stopped? She didn't know. Didn't understand the impulse that made her deny herself what she'd been chasing. All she knew, with sudden crystalline certainty, was that she didn't want to come like this. Didn't want to give herself an orgasm in her empty apartment while imagining a man who didn't want her back.

She wanted him to get her off. Wanted his hands, his mouth, his cock. Wanted him to make her come so hard she forgot her own name.

And she was going to have her way. Somehow. Eventually.

What she didn't know was how soon that would be.

JAMES'S POV

I had to stay in the kitchen while Carol took her leave.

I heard Kate call goodbye, heard the front door open and close, heard my daughter's footsteps as she headed back upstairs to her room. And I stayed exactly where I was, hands braced on the counter, breathing carefully through my nose.

I didn't trust myself around Carol anymore. Didn't trust what I might do or say if I had to look at her again tonight, had to smell her perfume, had to see that flush on her cheeks and know exactly what had put it there.

My dick was still hard. Painfully, insistently hard. It had been hard since the moment I'd realized what she was doing under that table, and it showed no signs of softening.

I should be disgusted. Should be horrified that my daughter's nineteen-year-old friend had touched herself at my dinner table, that she'd been so bold, so reckless, so desperate for me that she couldn't wait until she was alone.

But I wasn't disgusted.

I found it sexy as hell.

The thought made me grip the counter harder. This was wrong on so many levels I'd lost count. She was too young. She was Kate's best friend. She'd been coming to this house since she was a kid, for Christ's sake. I should feel protective of her, paternal, anything except this consuming desire to bend her over this very counter and show her exactly what happened to girls who teased men they shouldn't.

I forced myself to move, to finish cleaning up from dinner. Loading the dishwasher gave my hands something to do, kept them occupied so they wouldn't do something stupid like adjust myself through my jeans. I wiped down the counters with more force than necessary, put away leftovers, took out the trash—anything to burn off this restless, dangerous energy.

Kate poked her head into the kitchen at some point. "I'm going to bed, Dad. Thanks for dinner."

"Night, sweetheart," I managed, keeping my back to her so she wouldn't see my face, wouldn't pick up on whatever I was failing to hide.

When I finally heard her bedroom door close, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.

I needed a shower. A cold shower, preferably, though I knew from experience that cold water didn't do much against this kind of arousal. Still, I had to try something.

The bathroom was my sanctuary. I locked the door—unnecessary since Kate was asleep, but the gesture made me feel marginally more in control—and stripped off my clothes. My cock stood at full attention, flushed and straining. I deliberately didn't look at it as I stepped into the shower and turned on the water.

The spray hit my skin, hot rather than cold because apparently I was a masochist. Steam filled the small space within seconds. I braced my hands against the tile wall, let the water cascade down my back, and tried to think about anything except Carol.

It didn't work.

I couldn't stop thinking about her. About the way she'd looked sitting next to me at dinner, her eyes dark with desire. About the little gasp she'd tried to hide when her leg brushed mine. About what her face must have looked like when she was touching herself, what sounds she'd been holding back.

My dick throbbed, demanding attention I'd been trying not to give it.

I had no problem making myself come. I was a forty-two-year-old divorced man—I'd become intimately familiar with my own hand over the past two years. But for some reason, I didn't want to right now. Didn't want the quick, efficient release I could give myself.

The only place I wanted to release was in her pussy.

The thought hit me with the force of a physical blow. I could see it so clearly—Carol beneath me, those long legs wrapped around my waist, her head thrown back as I fucked her the way she clearly wanted to be fucked. The way she deserved to be fucked.

My hand moved to my cock almost without conscious thought. I wrapped my fingers around it, stroking lightly, and imagined her cute little mouth stretched around it instead. Imagined teaching her exactly how to please me, how to take me deep, how to swallow everything I gave her.

"Fuck," I muttered, my strokes getting faster, less controlled.

I imagined her bent over my kitchen counter, nightgown pushed up around her waist while I took her from behind. Imagined her in my bed, spread out like a feast, while I made her come on my tongue before I even considered giving her my cock. Imagined her riding me, those perfect breasts bouncing while she worked herself on my dick, chasing her pleasure while I watched.

The only thing I could think about was Carol.

I needed to have her.

The realization should have terrified me. Should have made me stop, made me confront how far over the line I'd already gone just by entertaining these thoughts.

Instead, it made me stroke myself harder, chasing an orgasm I knew wouldn't satisfy what I really wanted.

I came with her name on my lips, barely more than a whisper lost in the sound of running water. The release was intense but hollow, leaving me more frustrated than before.

Because my hand wasn't enough anymore.

Nothing would be enough except her.