The hum of a vibrating phone has all three of us patting our pockets to find whose is responsible. Tasha looks at her screen and then locks eyes with me, desperation filling her silent plea. I know she expects me to take one for the team—she wants me to distract Beck. I have no problem doing this. I’m eager for time with him in any way I can get it. If only Tasha knew how much I would suffer by keeping her hottie of a dad’s eyes focused on me. By suffer, I mean that ache inside while I try not to have my way with him on the garage’s futon in the time it takes Tasha to take her call…
She bats her lashes at me, holding the phone against her chest as she bounces from foot to foot. Desperation and the passion of new love have changed her. It is heartwarming to see her so wrapped up in someone.
“You owe me,” I mouth to Tasha. Really, I owe her. Looking up at Beck, I ask him about work. “Tasha said you are getting ready for a business trip.” As soon as he turns his attention to me, Tasha slips in the door to the house, leaving us alone. I hope ten minutes will be enough; I don’t know if I can trust myself with him longer than that.
I slide back under my project and install another of the mirrors, listening as he tells me about how he spent a week in India, delivering a shipment to a business partner there and volunteering some of his time in repairing an orphanage.
“You always were good with your hands.” I can’t stop the teasing huskiness to my words and am glad my heating cheeks are out of his view. I would love to see if he is as good with his hands in person as he has been in my dreams for the past decade.
“Beck, can you hand me another of the mirror plates from the box on your workbench?” I don’t wait for him to bring it before I grab the screws I’ll need to hold it in place. I scoot further back so that I’m in position and hold out my hand. It’s an effort to not stroke his fingers with mine as he settles the glass into my palm. For a wealthy CEO, he has not lost the hands of a man who worked his way to the top.
“Would it be rude of me to ask what the hell this is going to be?” Beck’s voice is rich with his smile, and I must admit I would ask the same if I weren’t the designer.
My fingers close around the grip of the electric screwdriver, and I fight to get this mirror shard into place. “I started off calling it ‘Disco ball, deconstructed.’ Now, though, I am leaning more towards ‘Eye of the Beholder.’ With the mirrors and everything, it’s something about how you see yourself is different than others do, because reflection and…” I trail off, having lost my train of thought as Beck strips off his jacket. His biceps strain the fabric of his button-down.
I clear my throat and continue, “I need to mount it on the plaque I already have hanging on the wall over there.” I use one foot to point at the painted canvas and wooden plaque I have hanging up with holes already drilled for the screws.
“This is the backside?”
I nod, then realizing he cannot see the motion, I confirm it verbally.
His chuckle is warm, and I imagine him making that sound again between my thighs before I can direct his mouth to my pussy. “Thank you for reassuring me that while I may be getting older, I’m not losing my vision or sense of design.” Beck squats down beside me, his hands resting on the nearest sawhorse to steady himself. “You’ve not changed much from the young girl who would disassemble broken appliances and turn them into water sprinklers.”
For a statement so full of nostalgia, the mixture of emotions rising in my chest prickle my eyes and surprise me. It is one thing to know that the man of your dreams is probably too old for you; it’s another to have him throw it in your face that you’re just a kid to him. I bite back the urge to cry or lash out in a temper. Those are not the ways to show him that I have grown up.
“That little girl,” I say instead, “grew up to take classes in mechanics, engineering, and art so that most of her art is also functional.” Slipping my fingers inside a hidden groove of the piece, I flip the switch of the hidden audio recorder. “Say something,” I prompt.
Beck is just low enough for me to see his eyes flash with mirth before he says “something” and smirks. His squatting position falters, almost landing on his well-formed ass, when he hears his voice playing back to us.
“That’s why I am going with a name referencing beauty being in the eye of the beholder. I thought I could fill the recorder’s storage space with affirmations about appearance as well as just existing.” I give the piece a once over, and deeming this stage done, I slide out.
“Do you need a hand up?” he asks.
I shake my head, roll off onto my knees and start to get up. The movement has my hair hiding my face at first, and I catch a glimpse of what looks like Beck peering down my gaping shirt. He turns his head away from me, cheeks flushing, and I let it slide. If he is going to play like that, sneak glimpses while hinting that I’m too young, I will make it into a game and see who wins.
I grab the nail gun and bend over to plug it into the power strip, wiggling my ass just a little in the process. A fast intake of breath from behind me gives the first point of the game to me.
“Where is your next business trip taking you?” I make my way back to the workspace and line up the nail gun tip with the dots I marked earlier. “Somewhere interesting?”
“Nowhere is that interesting when you’ll be surrounded by coworkers and strangers for several weeks. I’m making a few stops, but the bulk of my time is going to be spent with two larger clients and helping them straighten out some deals. It’s all boring stuff.”
Assuring him that I could never find what he says boring, least of all about a job he has so much heart in, I go back to my art. I want to finish it before going back home. The gun misfires on the fifth nail, the air compressor making a feeble puff before it goes dead.
“Fuck!” Instinct forces me to clap a hand over my mouth and apologize. “Sorry. I—”
He pulls my hand away, and I can almost taste his skin. “Fuck is most definitely an appropriate word choice. Is there any other way to do what you need without that? I can try to fix the compressor, but you’d be out a few hours of work most likely.”
The way he swore… I feel my panties getting damp at the sound of the word dropping from his lips. Warm, wet, and swollen from just his presence, it is an effort to not reach down and pull my jeans down a bit to avoid crushing my clit.
It takes me a minute, maybe two, to come up with a solution to the lack of a nail driver that doesn’t involve me using a hammer. “I managed to get all of one quadrant in before the compressor died. I can do something else for the other three. These are going to become flower petals. I’ll just use other things or be a bit more careful and use a hammer for the remaining ones. I have to hang this up on the base now, though. Do you mind if I use your ladder? I’m not quite tall enough to reach it and have the strength to manipulate it around from the ground.”
“Go ahead, Lia. I’ll get started on the compressor. I don’t know the last time I cleaned this off. It’s covered in grease.” He says it like I would mind watching him get all dirty.
I turn to reach for the step ladder and… Wow. The button-down has joined his jacket, and Beck is so muscular I cannot imagine the hours he must spend to keep that sort of physique. There is a faint scattering of hair across his pecs, and his nipples are rosy against his suntanned skin. My mouth waters, and I am an achy mess with the desire to lick and kiss my way down his body. There is a trail of slightly darker hair beneath his navel, disappearing behind his belt, and without the jacket I can see that he hangs to the left and is definitely not small.
“I thought you artist types were used to seeing shirtless men.” Beck sits down on the creeper board I had been on and tugs at the power plug for the air compressor.
“We are, but most of the male models we get in have a ‘dad bod,’ not umm… well, fashion magazine male model bodies.” I try not to stammer out the words, but I know I’m blushing. I think he’s earned at least two points in our game for this exchange.
To hide my embarrassment, I climb up on the ladder and finish readying the board to connect to the base of the sculpture. I will need to tweak the painting to fit the changed design, but that’s how art goes.
It’s hard to not stare at him. Grease from the compressor mar his hands and streak his forearms. I want him to cover me in it and the sweat on his chest. As if hearing my thoughts, he looks over at me. “Careful up there, Lia.” His eyes burn when they look at me, and I climb down to get my sculpture.
“Maybe you could spot me?” I offer. I bite my lip and widen my eyes, trying to look innocent when I feel anything but.
He is hesitant in getting up, visibly fighting the game we’ve been playing since Tasha went inside. I can’t see him acting like this if he weren’t into me.
I climb up two of steps and brace my knees against the frame while I begin hooking the screws into their slots. He moves in behind me to make sure I can’t fall, but I wonder if I would have been safer without him. Beck’s breath is warm on my shoulder, making it hard to focus with him so close, and I lose my grip on the metal. Leaning forward to catch it, I wobble on the ladder, start to fall, and he’s there to steady me—his sweaty chest slick against my back, lips pressed into my hair, hands outstretched to catch the sculpture while his arms cage me in. The strength of his muscles is almost feral in intensity as he saves both me and my hours of progress on my piece of art.
We stay there, locked together long after I could climb down safely. I relish the feeling of him leaning into me, the hardness…
Like a hard ridge pushing insistently against me.
I look down over my shoulder, trying to peer between our bodies. Yeah, Beck is hard. His hard-on is straining the zipper of his slacks.
Beck is breathing on my neck, lips trailing up and down with each breath in an almost-kiss. “It’s safe now, Lia; you can move.” Despite the words, he does not release me. If anything, he is pushing into me harder. I can imagine the feel of him thrusting into me while holding me down on his huge four-poster bed. Years of dirty fantasies started with him taking me to that princess bed.
I push back into him, just a little, and those maddening lips of his part on my neck. The heat sears me. I don’t know what to do. I know what I want to do, but what I should do is something else.
Not wanting my sculpture to crash, I finish hooking the final latches into place and then turn around on the ladder, sitting down on the top seat of it so that Beck and I are eye to eye.
He licks his lips, and his eyes are on my mouth while I watch his. If he doesn’t make the first real move, I fear I might have to. “Please,” I hear myself whisper.
Our gazes meet, and the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles. It’s so fast that I don’t have time to even close my eyes before his lips are on mine. Firm but soft, Beck’s mouth parts before his tongue begs permission. I know we shouldn’t do this… I promised we wouldn’t.
But the feeling. Oh, the feeling. His lips press harder into mine, and there’s the heat of his lips, the slick strokes of his tongue as it dances along mine, the hands sliding down to the hem of my shirt only to climb back up to rest on my waist. I part my legs around him, inviting him to lean against me, and I can’t resist the temptation to run my fingers up and down his back and cling to his shoulders. It’s so much better than any of my dreams. Beck groans against my mouth, and I swear it’s the hottest sound I’ve ever heard. He’s thrusting into me with his slacks and my jeans between us. I wrap one leg around his hip, and I am half hanging from his shoulders to change position so I can get the other leg up too.
We thrust together on the ladder, and I can feel the urge to come building as Beck thrusts again and again along my zipper. The pressure builds with each stroke of his tongue on mine, the hands pulling me into him, and the hard cock insistently grinding against my pussy. I know I’m going to come if we continue this.
I hear the creak of footsteps on the stairs just on the other side of the garage’s door to the house. What we’re doing crashes down on me. “Tasha!” I whisper, pushing Beck away from me. It feels like I’m ripping out my heart while doing so.
He stumbles back, palming his face and turning away to adjust his cock. He grabs for his jacket, holding it over his arm in front of his body, hiding his arousal just as Tasha walks back in.
She looks at her father, glances at me, and then back again. Suspicion narrows her eyes but she relaxes and smiles as she pockets her phone. “What did I miss?” she asks.
Beck’s voice sounds strained when he fills her in on the near disaster, and I realize that I can’t stay. Tasha might suspect that we were flirting, but if I stay even another minute, she’s going to know that I wanted to fuck her dad in the garage.
“I have to go.” I rush out of there, leaving all my tools in a disarray. Maybe I can wait until Beck is gone on his work trip before coming back. Or wait until I know he’s at work…
I run the opposite direction from home, finding my way to the abandoned park that was once my refuge from all the world. The dilapidated swings and merry-go-round haven’t seen a maintenance crew in years: flaking paint reveals the rust beneath, and the swings don’t look sturdy enough to hold a toddler let alone an adult.
The merry-go-round squeals out a complaint of gears needing servicing, but it still spins when I kick it into motion. Running with one foot, the other leg kneeling on the cool metal, I get the playground equipment spinning until it’s fast enough to go for a while on its own. Laying down in the center, I watch the clouds and mentally replay my day at their garage.
My thoughts keep coming back to Beck. Not even thoughts about how well my sculpture turned out can hold my attention for long. Beck is so gorgeous it is ridiculous. Everything about him is perfection: the way he kissed me, his body, his laugh, just everything. Well, everything except being my best friend’s dad. The best friend who was there to help hold my hand when I told my dad I wanted to go on birth control at age fifteen. The best friend who made sure I was going to be okay after my mom died. The best friend who drove across multiple state lines with me to get me settled into my tiny apartment near the art school campus.
I want Beck, and I can’t have him. It’s just too much. I can’t let anything more happen with him.
Those are the nails in the coffin of my dreams. I now know how he kisses, and I know just what I will be missing. It’s better than I had ever imagined. I would miss my best friend more, and I can’t come between them. I’ll just have to get over him somehow. I’ll have to avoid him.
It’s late when I finally walk home. Each step carries the reaffirmation that I will not let myself continue dreaming about Beck. I can’t.
There are no cars in the driveway when I let myself in, but the lights are still on. I barely make it into the kitchen to find leftovers when Jean descends.
“Sorry I’m late, Jean. I know I should have texted. I am going to eat something and go to bed if that’s okay.” I don’t want a fight. Not now. I don’t think I could get through it without crying, and I’m damned well not going to let her see me cry.
“Actually, Lia, I came in because I have great news.” She bounces around wistfully, and for a moment I panic that she’s trying to tell me she’s pregnant. “My boss called before dinner and said he had reconsidered hiring on new people. He’s found room in the operations budget for someone to be his secretary.” She gives me a smile that might be the first genuine, friendly one I’ve received from her. “I think it is an amazing position to be working with the owner so personally. He’s such a great guy to work for.”
As “Senior Researcher of Blahbity Blah” or whatever it is she does, Jean has a considerably better job than secretary, but she seems oddly wistful about the position, as if she would welcome the demotion. Maybe the boss is hot, and Jean is crushing on him. Who cares, though? As long as she doesn’t act on it and hurt my dad, she can have a fantasy about whomever she wants.
“How often would you and I have to see each other?” I ask her. I
try not to make it sound rude, but I know that is a failed effort.
“You could commute with me, if you want. The bus stop two blocks away has a route that runs only a block or two from the main entrance if you’d rather do that. Otherwise, I’m rarely near the main office unless we have a system-wide meeting or there’s something that can’t be handled by email. My division head doesn’t send researchers over to see the main boss often.” Jean taps her fingernails on the counter, waiting for me to accept the job she has obtained for me.
I don’t want to give Jean what she wants, but this opportunity means I can give my dad back some money for the studio loan. Besides, it’s just a job. If I can pack up everything and come back home, I can also go to a nine to five job to earn money. Speaking of nine-to-five… “When and where, exactly, will I be working?”
Jean bounces, and not an inch of her plastic enhancements jiggle with the motion. “Tomorrow is your first day, and it’s normally an eight to five shift, but you might have to work later on occasion. I don’t think he’ll have you doing overtime often, being just a secretary. And it’s at Huntsworth Industries, silly girl. You’re working for the CEO, Beck Huntsworth. Isn’t he your friend’s dad?”
2
Beck
Pacing is one of my few bad habits, but I can’t help it. My mind is racing, and while I know my undivided attention should be given to the attorney I’m speaking with on the phone, my thoughts keep returning to Lia. Two hours into my day, and I’m already fighting the urge to walk out of the office to work from home. I won’t have to face Lia there or the nearly constant hard-on I have for her. I don’t remember ever being this horny. Lia should arrive at the HR department any moment now, and she’ll be up to my office shortly after they’ve given her a security clearance badge and finalized her paperwork.
Happily Ever After with My Dad’s Best Friend Page 10