Best friend's Dad: Part 2

I lasted another twenty minutes before I got up.

Mia didn’t stir when I slipped out from under the blanket. The television still cast its low blue light across the living room. I padded barefoot toward the kitchen, the tank top and soft shorts suddenly feeling thinner than they had under the throw.

Mr. Hale sat at the small table near the window, the same glass in front of him, now half empty. The bottle stood open within reach. He looked up when I appeared in the doorway. For a second surprise flickered across his face, then settled into something heavier and harder to read.

“Couldn’t sleep,” I said.

“Neither could I.”

I walked to the counter and poured myself a glass of water I didn’t really want. The silence between us stretched. I could feel him watching the line of my legs, the way the shorts sat high on my thighs, the soft movement of my tits under the thin tank top when I turned. I set the glass down without drinking and leaned against the counter opposite him.

“Long day?” I asked.

“Long year.” He lifted the glass, drank, and set it down again. “You shouldn’t be out here. Go back to sleep.”

“I’m not tired.”

He studied me across the small kitchen. The alcohol had loosened something in his usual restraint. His eyes moved over me more openly now—across my bare shoulders, the shape of my nipples against the fabric, the stretch of my legs. The look sent a warm pulse between my thighs. I didn’t cross my arms to hide it.

“You’re Mia’s friend,” he said, as if reminding himself.

“I know.”

“You’re in my house at one in the morning in those clothes, looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

He didn’t answer. Instead he stood, collected his glass, and walked past me into the living room. The scent of whiskey and his skin reached me as he passed. I followed after a moment, the pull in my stomach stronger than any reason to stay behind.

He sat on the same sectional where Mia still slept at the far end, choosing the opposite corner. The television light caught the tired lines around his eyes and the open collar of his shirt. I sat down closer than I needed to—close enough that the cushion dipped between us, close enough that my knee nearly touched his thigh. He noticed. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t move away.

“You should go back to the other end,” he said quietly.

“I like it here.”

“You’re making a mistake.”

“Maybe.”

I shifted an inch closer. My bare knee brushed the fabric of his trousers. The contact was light. It still sent a spark of heat up my leg. Mr. Hale’s hand flexed around the glass. He stared at the dark television screen like it might give him an exit, but he stayed where he was.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention,” he said. “At the birthday dinner. In the driveway when I drop Mia off. You think I don’t notice?”

My mouth went dry. “I didn’t think you did.”

“I do.” He turned his head and looked at me fully. The loneliness in his expression sat right next to something hungrier. “And tonight I’m drunk enough to say it out loud instead of pretending otherwise.”

The air between us felt thick. Mia’s soft breathing continued at the far end of the couch, a quiet reminder of every line we were close to crossing. I didn’t move away. My knee stayed against his leg. Under the tank top my nipples had drawn into tight peaks, obvious in the low light. His eyes dropped to them for a second before climbing back to my face.

“You’re too young for this conversation,” he muttered.

“I’m twenty-two.”

“And I’m your best friend’s father.”

“I know exactly who you are.”

I reached out and took the glass from his hand. My fingers closed over his for a moment as I set it on the coffee table. He didn’t stop me. When I sat back I stayed close, the outside of my thigh pressed fully against his now. The heat of his body soaked through the thin fabric of my shorts. I felt the tension in him—the way he held himself still, the controlled rise and fall of his chest.

“Tell me to go back to the other end of the couch,” I said softly. “Tell me to go to sleep and we’ll pretend this didn’t happen.”

He looked at me for a long moment. The television light moved across his face. His hand settled on my bare knee, heavy and warm, and stayed there.

“I should,” he said.

“But you’re not.”

“No.” His thumb stroked once across the inside of my knee. “I’m not.”

The touch sent a slow, heavy pulse straight to my cunt. I felt myself growing wet under the soft shorts. Mr. Hale’s hand slid higher, resting on the bare skin of my thigh, fingers spreading slightly. He watched my face while he did it, giving me every chance to stop him.

I opened my knees a little wider instead.

A rough breath left him. His hand moved higher still, under the hem of my shorts, until his fingers brushed the damp fabric of my panties. He found the wet heat there and pressed two fingers against it through the cotton. My hips shifted toward the pressure. A soft sound escaped my throat.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

He stroked me through the panties in slow passes, feeling how soaked I had become. The quiet wet friction filled the small space between us. At the far end of the couch Mia slept on, unaware. Mr. Hale’s eyes stayed on my face while his fingers worked, rubbing my clit through the thin fabric until my breathing turned uneven and my hand gripped his forearm.

“We stop now,” he said, voice low and strained, “or I don’t stop at all.”

I met his gaze and let my knees fall open further against his hand.

“Don’t stop.”

Something in him gave way.

He pulled the crotch of my panties aside, slid two fingers through my bare slick folds, and pushed them inside my cunt. The stretch pulled a broken sound from me that I muffled against his shoulder. He worked his fingers in deep strokes, thumb pressing my clit, while the television light and his sleeping daughter’s quiet breathing framed every second of it.

The living room stayed otherwise silent.

His fingers curled inside me, and the night finally tipped past the point where either of us could call it back.