Dinner and Distance

The smell of stir-fry had crept upstairs an hour ago, winding its way under Kate's door like an invitation Carol wasn't sure she could accept. Her stomach growled—she was genuinely hungry—but the thought of sitting across from Mr. Rich at the dinner table, pretending everything was normal, felt like a test she wasn't prepared to take.

"Dad says dinner's ready!" Kate called from the hallway, already heading downstairs.

Carol took a breath, checked her reflection in Kate's mirror one more time—smoothing down her hair, making sure her shirt sat right—and followed.

The dining room was already set when they arrived. Three places at the table, cloth napkins folded beside each plate, glasses of water already poured. Mr. Rich moved between the kitchen and dining room with easy efficiency, bringing out serving dishes filled with colorful vegetables, perfectly cooked chicken, and fragrant rice. He'd changed since they'd arrived—traded his work shirt for a simple black t-shirt that fit him in ways Carol tried very hard not to notice.

Kate headed straight for her usual seat, the one facing the window. Which left two chairs: one across from Kate, safely distant from Mr. Rich at the head of the table, and one beside him.

Carol made her choice before she could overthink it.

She pulled out the chair next to him and sat down, close enough that she could smell him—that intoxicating mixture of spices from cooking, mixed with his cologne, something woodsy and clean that made her head spin. The proximity was deliberate, reckless, and completely unfair to everyone involved, including herself.

Almost immediately, she felt her body respond. Her nipples stiffened against the fabric of her bra, sensitive and aching. Heat flooded through her, pooling low in her belly. This attraction couldn't be normal. This want she felt couldn't be natural. The intensity of it frightened her sometimes, how consuming it was, how it could take over her entire being with just his presence.

She wanted him so badly it physically hurt. And it pissed her off that she was the only one feeling this way, that he seemed completely unaffected while she was coming apart at the seams just sitting next to him.

"Everything looks amazing, Mr. Rich," Kate said, already loading her plate. "Way better than Mom's stir-fry. Don't tell her I said that."

"Your secret's safe with me," he replied, a smile playing at his lips.

Carol needed to touch him. Just a bit. Just enough to know if he'd react, if there was any possibility that this wasn't entirely one-sided.

She shifted in her chair, letting her leg brush against his under the table. Just a gentle pressure, could be accidental, could be nothing.

The contact sent a shiver down her spine. Every nerve ending in her body seemed to light up at once. She could feel the hairs on her arms stiffen, goosebumps rising on her skin. The heat of him through the fabric of their jeans was almost unbearable.

She pulled back immediately, her heart hammering. "I'm sorry," she said, offering a shy smile she hoped looked innocent.

He just nodded slightly toward her, his expression unreadable, and reached for the serving spoon.

"Do you care for some salad?" he asked.

Before she could answer, Kate chimed in: "I do!"

Carol said nothing, watching as he served his daughter first, the perfect attentive father. Her throat felt too tight to speak anyway.

She watched him as he ate. Watched the movement of his jaw as he chewed. Watched his throat as he swallowed, the bob of his Adam's apple, the strong column of his neck. Watched his hands—those capable, confident hands—as they held his fork, as they reached for his water glass, as they moved with unconscious grace through every small gesture.

The wanting became unbearable.

Her left hand slipped under the table, sliding beneath the hem of her skirt. She pressed her palm against herself through her panties and felt the dampness there, evidence of how badly her body craved him. This was insane. She was sitting at his dinner table, his daughter right across from her, and she couldn't stop herself.

She glanced at Kate—absorbed in her food, scrolling through her phone with her free hand—then at Mr. Rich. He was listening to Kate talk about something that happened at school, nodding occasionally, the picture of parental attention.

Carol's fingers slipped beneath the elastic of her panties.

The first touch against her bare skin made her bite the inside of her cheek to keep from gasping. She was so wet, so ready, just from sitting next to him. Her fingers found her clit, already swollen and sensitive, and she began to rub in slow, careful circles.

She kept her face neutral, kept her breathing steady. She listened as he spoke, that deep baritone voice washing over her like a physical touch. She imagined him using that voice in different circumstances. Imagined him leaning close, his breath hot against her ear, calling her a "good girl" while his hands did what hers were doing now.

The fantasy made her clit harden further under her fingers. She increased the pressure, biting her lip, so close to the edge she could taste it. The fact that he was right there, completely unaware, made it even more intense. Or was he unaware? Did he suspect? Could he tell?

She was about to come—right there at his dinner table, with Kate three feet away—when his voice cut through her haze.

"Carol, are you okay?"

His eyes were on her now, full attention, and the intensity of his gaze nearly finished what her fingers had started. "You look flushed," he continued, concern coloring his tone. "Is the food too spicy?"

Immediately, she withdrew her hand, her face burning with something that had nothing to do with the temperature of the food. "Yes, Mr. Rich," she managed, her voice surprisingly steady despite the frustration coursing through her. "I'm fine."

She could swear she saw the shadow of a smirk on his face before he turned back to his plate.

JAMES'S POV

I knew Carol had a crush on me. What I didn't know was how deep it ran.

I'd always thought it was just a schoolgirl crush, the kind of harmless infatuation that teenage girls sometimes developed for their friends' fathers. Something she'd grow out of, forget about once she graduated and moved on with her life. After my divorce two years ago, women had been the absolute least of my concerns. Immersing myself in work was all I could do to keep from drowning in the wreckage of a twenty-year marriage that had disintegrated in slow motion.

But lately, I'd started noticing things.

The way Carol looked at me when she thought I wasn't paying attention. The way she found reasons to be here more and more often. The way her breath would catch sometimes when I walked into a room.

And somewhere along the line, I'd started noticing her.

Really noticing her.

When had Kate's childhood friend become so beautiful? The transformation hadn't been sudden—I wasn't that oblivious—but my awareness of it was. One day she was just Kate's friend Carol, and the next I was catching myself watching the way she moved, the curve of her smile, the light in her eyes when she laughed.

It was wrong. I knew it was wrong. She'd grown up with my daughter, had been coming to this house since middle school. She was nineteen, for God's sake. I was forty-two, divorced, jaded, with a mortgage and a teenager and baggage that could sink a ship.

But by God, she was beautiful.

When she sat down beside me at dinner instead of across the table, my entire body went on alert. I could smell her—the scent of her shampoo, something floral and light, mixed with her perfume, something warmer and more complex. It was the most intoxicating thing I'd experienced in years.

I felt her leg brush against mine under the table. The contact lasted maybe two seconds, but it shot through me like electricity. She apologized—that shy little smile that made her look innocent even though I was increasingly certain she was anything but—and I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

It was intentional. I knew it was intentional. But I couldn't acknowledge it. Wouldn't acknowledge it. That way lay disaster.

I forced myself to focus on the meal, on making conversation with Kate, on being the responsible adult and parent I was supposed to be. But I was hyperaware of Carol's every movement. Every shift in her chair. Every breath. Every time she reached for her glass or pushed food around on her plate.

Then I watched, through my peripheral vision, as her hand slipped under the table.

I knew what she was doing. The knowledge hit me with absolute certainty, and it made me hard instantly, painfully. My jaw clenched as I fought to keep my expression neutral, to keep eating like nothing was happening while this nineteen-year-old girl touched herself not two feet away from me at my own dinner table.

It made me mad. Made me angry. How dare she do this here, now, with Kate right across from us? How dare she make me feel this way, make me want things I had no business wanting?

But more than anger, I felt a dangerous, predatory satisfaction. I wanted to punish her for this. Wanted to grab her wrist, pull that hand away, pin it above her head while I showed her exactly what happened to girls who teased men like this. Wanted to be the one touching her, the one making her flush and gasp and—

I caught myself before the thought could complete. Forced myself to breathe. To be the adult. To remember every reason why this couldn't, wouldn't happen.

I continued my conversation with Kate, asking about her classes, her plans for the weekend, anything to distract myself from what was happening beside me. But I couldn't stop watching Carol from the corner of my eye. Couldn't stop imagining what her face looked like, what sounds she was holding back.

My cock strained against my jeans, demanding attention I couldn't give it.

Then I made a decision. If I was going to suffer through this, so was she. I wouldn't be the only one left wanting.

"Carol," I said, watching as her eyes flew to mine, slightly unfocused, pupils dilated. "Are you okay?"

I let my gaze travel over her face—the flush on her cheeks, the way her lips parted slightly, the rapid pulse visible at her throat. "You look flushed," I continued, keeping my voice concerned, innocent. "Is the food too spicy?"

The look of confusion and frustration that crossed her face was absolutely priceless. Worth every moment of discomfort I was experiencing.

"Yes, Mr. Rich," she said, and I caught the slight tremor in her voice. "I'm fine."

I let myself smile—just a little, just enough—before turning back to my plate.

Two could play this game. And I'd been playing much, much longer than she had.