Trapped with My Best Friend's Dad: A Steamy Standalone Instalove Romance (A Man Who Knows What He Wants Book 258)

by Flora Ferrari

  “I’m so happy,” I whisper, as tears spring to my eyes. “The world deserves to read more of your work.”

  He looks over at me, his eyes glimmeringly so intensely, that for a second I think he’s crying as well. But of course, he’s not. He’s merely filled with relief, the sort that makes him look as though he could be consumed with starlight at any second.

  “You did this, Rayla. There’s something about you being here that lets me write. It’s like I don’t feel so empty anymore.”

  The emotion of his words makes every inch of me tingle, but I have to try and get us back on track.

  The more we veer into that sort of territory, that sort of closeness, the harder it’s going to be to stick to our no-lust rule.

  “Come on. You’ve only written a line. Get to work. I’m your supervisor now. I want one chapter before dinner.”

  “Dinner, eh?” He smirks. “Are you going to cook me a meal?”

  A strangely welcome feeling comes over me at his words. “Could I?”

  “Are you asking me if I’d allow you to make me a meal?” He chuckles. “Yeah, angel, I think I could find a way to be okay with it.”

  “What would you want?”

  “We’ve got some steaks and some corn on the cob. And there are some fries there.”

  I nod, the word date fluttering through my mind. And there’s something else, something older, ancient, primal… It’s such an essentially human thing to do, cooking for your man, letting him know you’re there for him whenever he needs feeding – his lust or his belly.

  “Sure,” I say, trying to calm my tone down so he can’t tell how much this means to me. “I’ll give it my best shot. But first, you need to work.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He turns to the computer. There’s a pause – lightning crackling outside – and then he begins to write.

  The strangest thing happens as I sit there and he moves his fingers over the keyboard – as Tanker comes into the room and hops into my lap – as his fingers pick up speed. The tap-tap-tap of his writing seems to join with the rhythm of the rain until it’s like his touch is powering the storm.

  And it is. The storm in my heart.

  I stare hard at him, at the relief glimmers across his features as he types, my fingers stroking Tanker’s fur.

  Where are we going, Roman? Where does this end?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Roman

  I sit on one side of the dining table and my angel sits on the other, an unsure smile dancing across her face.

  The storm is still going, but a little early-evening sunlight has managed to find its way through the clouds. It shafts through the rain slick windows, making the light distorted and shimmery as it rests on Rayla’s face.

  My heart feels just as light, my mood flowing, flying when I think about how today went. We stayed in the office together for hours, as long-withheld ideas poured out of me… the same way the lust poured out of me when I claimed Rayla with my mouth when she told me she’s a virgin.

  Which means she’s mine, only mine. Forever.

  I wrote today, and the words were good. I reread them and edited them. With Rayla in the room, it felt so much easier like a weight lifted off my shoulders.

  She nods over to my plate, smiling tightly. “Are you going to try it?”

  I smirk over at her, my eyes moving down her body in another summer dress. Her face is flushed, her chest red, probably from the cooking. My little virgin is taking cooking me a meal very seriously, as though she doesn’t know she’s already given me the greatest gift she possibly could.

  Well, except her sopping young slit.

  I cut into the steak with exaggerated movements, chuckling teasingly. “I can’t. It’s too tough.”

  I put heavy sarcasm into my voice so she knows I’m only joking, so she knows how wonderful she really is.

  When I bite into it for real, my mouth erupts with flavor, with the perfection of her cooking.

  “Damn,” I say after I’ve swallowed. “It’s perfect, Rayla.”

  “Really?” she whispers.

  “Really.” I make my voice firm, somehow resisting the urge to lean across the table and smooth her rebellious hair from her face. “You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

  “I’ve never cooked a meal before, for a… a boyfriend,” she murmurs. “Not that I’m saying that’s what we are. But...you know, you get the point.”

  She’s fumbling to find words to mark what we are, what’s passed between us, and I can’t blame her. If I call her my girlfriend, that means we have to discuss telling Millie, and I can tell neither of us wants to venture into that potentially cataclysmic territory right now.

  “It’s amazing,” I growl passionately. “Just like you.”

  “You’re the amazing one,” she says, all bubbly again, the momentary darkness passed. “Watching you write today, Roman, it was a complete joy. I can’t believe how involved you get. It’s like the rest of the world drifted away.”

  “That’s it exactly,” I say, excitement sparking in my voice. “And that’s why I couldn’t do it anymore. Only two things have ever made me feel that way. Writing and – and you, Rayla. I think I needed one to bring back the other.”

  She blinks, nodding, as tears threaten to spill from her eyes. “I’m sorry. That’s just so nice. I’ve never felt, uh, needed like that before.”

  She looks down as she speaks, as though afraid to meet my gaze.

  “I need you more than I’ve ever needed anyone” I snarl, even if I know I shouldn’t be saying this, shouldn’t be saying anything even like this.

  But the words spill out all by themselves, driven by something I can’t understand. It’s like there’s lightning crackling inside of me, prompting spiraling and forking tendrils of electricity, spreading through me until all I can think about is how perfect my woman– Rayla is.

  What I should be thinking about is…

  But I can’t let my mind summon Millie’s memory, because the pain it prompts is too severe, too cruel to address.

  “Tell me about this play you’re writing.” I cut into the steak, savoring the juiciness of it with each bite. “Or about the play you’re acting in, for that matter.”

  I chuckle.

  “What?” she asks, her eyes widening for a fraction of a moment. “What’s funny?”

  “It’s just strange how I can know I want you, how my need for you rushes around my body with more and more force each second, and yet I don’t even know that much about you. I know you’re going to make an incredible mother. I know you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on. I know all of that. But…”

  “I want to write a play about a woman who quits her waitressing job and decides to work with animals instead. But that’s the only idea I have so far, and honestly, I’m not even sure if I want it to be a play.”

  “What else would it be?”

  “A book?” She shrugs, making her answer a question in itself. “A song? A freaking puzzle? I don’t know. It’s just an idea. I realize I’m probably making no sense right now.”

  I smirk. “Angel, you’re talking to the man whose writing ability froze before you came along to warm it up again. You don’t need to worry about not making sense with me.”

  She giggles, nodding. “Yeah, you’re probably right. That was like magic, the way you started writing. I couldn’t believe it was the first time in three years. The words were pouring out of you.”

  I finish chewing my steak, nodding, as the taste moves through me. And there’s something else, the heat of belonging, the heat of knowing that this woman is always going to support me. In the same way, I’m going to support her.

  Forever.

  “It was bizarre. Usually, there’s this block inside of me, like all my writing ability has been plugged up, stoppered, but every time I felt that feeling, all I had to do was look across at you and it went away. You’ve changed me, angel. Or let me go back to the way I used to be.”<
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  I aim my steak knife at her, as the candles glimmer all around the room. I laid them out while she was bringing in dinner, so they shimmer against the rain-clouded glass, dancing up and down the room. There’s something perfect about the way the light warps and flickers for us.

  “But we weren’t talking about me. What about the other play – the one you’re acting in?”

  “It’s just a small community thing in my hometown,” she murmurs. “Something to keep me busy over the summer. I play a woman grieving for her lost love, but then he returns as a ghost and tries to help her deal with the grief. It’s very experimental, and a little odd.”

  “And that was the singing part? Longing for your lover?”

  “Exactly.”

  There’s a pause as I stare hard at her, as her unquestionable beauty washes over me. Every second is torture as I try to stop myself from consuming her with my eyes.

  But I can’t fucking stop, not when she’s being so emotional, so forward in her feelings, making me feel closer to her than I have yet.

  “Tell me, Rayla,” I whisper.

  She tilts her head, giggling. “Tell you what?”

  I know I’m right as I lean forward, as I reach across the table and smooth hair from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. The message is written in every inch of her expression, in the way her lips twitch at the corners, in the light of her eyes.

  “You’ve got something you want to say. Don’t try to lie to me. What is it?”

  She bites her lip and then quickly lets it go, as she remembers the effect it has on me. But that – the way she bites and then releases it – drives me even more feral than if she’d just bitten it. Because now she knows how badly it makes me want her.

  The silent battle we’re waging is almost a physical presence in the room, a heavy scent, a tempting song, a scream as our bodies try to will us together.

  “It’s the song, singing about my forgotten lover, in the play.” She looks down at the table. “I was finding it difficult before, you know, to imagine I’d lost a lover. I’ve never had a lover, never even had anything close. But then I met you and—”

  A heavy bolt of lightning slashes across the sky, flashing bright blue into the room, creating doubles and triples of everything in the shape of shadows, despite the candles and the soft glowing lamplight.

  She giggles, shivering.

  “It’s okay,” I whisper, reaching over and squeezing down on her shoulder, hoping she can feel the support through my touch. “I’m here.”

  Reaching up, she grips onto my hand, squeezing down and nodding. “I know. And that’s what I mean. I can imagine what it would be like now, to have a lover… and to lose one.”

  She looks up finally, staring intently into my eyes.

  I wonder if she knows how enticing she looks when she stares like that, with her cheeks flushed, emotion blazing loudly in every part of her.

  To lose one…

  She’s talking about Millie, about our impossible future, about how our closeness could evaporate once the stormy ceases.

  “You’re not going to lose me,” I snarl.

  She flinches. “How can you say that?”

  I laugh gruffly. “Fine, you’ve got me. I can’t say it, not if you want to be technical about it. Technically, I can’t say a goddamn thing. Technically, I need to keep my mouth shut until I know for sure what the future holds because the alternative is to get our hopes up, to make us care.

  “But the thing is… I don’t give a damn. I don’t care about that. Because I care about you, Rayla, more than I can even understand. And whatever obstacles try to stop us from being together, I’ll tear them to pieces. I’d kill any bastard who tried to take you from me. I’d die for you, for us, for our future.”

  Tears sparkle in her eyes and she nods. But there’s something unspoken in her expression, in the way she stares.

  But what about Millie? You can’t fight that problem away.

  She’s right, of course, she is, but I can’t bring myself to face the problem, to address it with words, as though ignoring it will make it go away.

  “This steak is delicious,” I murmur, as I cut another strip.

  She smiles widely, her face blooming with the simple joy of making me a meal. “Thank you, Roman. It means a lot. Really.”

  For now, that’s enough, letting us sink into the beautiful simplicity of sharing a meal together.

  We eat in silence for a little while, even if it’s not a true silence. The rain interrupts it and thunder continues to warble in the distance. Occasionally a lightning bolt shattering the heavens.

  It’s a personal silence, contained within the two of us, as we sink into each other’s company.

  It’s like we’re already married, already fused, so at ease with each other, we don’t feel the need to fill the silence with words.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Rayla

  Roman looms over me, a giant mass of muscle and possible pleasure as he stares down at me. His eyes alert. His body is a behemoth, barely contained within the blue shirt he wore for dinner.

  We stand at my bedroom door, in the darkened hallway. Tanker sits at Roman’s feet.

  “I guess I should say goodnight,” he murmurs huskily.

  I nod, bit my lip, and then let it go quickly.

  He chuckles. “It drives me even crazier when you do that, angel. When you bite it and then let it go. It makes me realize how close you are to the edge too. But we’ve got our deal…”

  “No more sex stuff.” I nod, trying to make the words seem firm, confident, trying to make it seem like I’m not constantly on the edge of letting go. “And we need to stick to it, at least until…”

  I don’t need to finish the sentence, but we both know where it leads, who it leads to.

  He glances down the hallway, his jaw going tight, as though he doesn’t like the idea of leaving me for the night. “Why do you want to be an actress, Rayla?”

  “I don’t really know how to answer that.”

  He turns to me, that intoxicating smirk on his face like he’s silently begging me to lean forward and press my lips against his. “Care to elaborate?”

  “It’s just that I’ve always wanted to be an actor. It’s like what you talk about in Jack’s Promise. There are certain grooves people can’t help but fall into, and these can be bad grooves, evil grooves, or they can be good, positive. Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve wanted to dress up, to be other people. And later, when I became a teenager, I started to think…”

  “What, Rayla?” he growls, voice deep as he steps forward. “Tell me.”

  I whimper as our bodies brush. They don’t crash together, just press close like they did before. But right now, with our no sex stuff rule hanging between us, the barest touch feels like a universe of sensation.

  “I didn’t want to be myself. I didn’t want to live trapped in me. So I pretended to be other people, and I practiced doing their voices and moving like this and that, so maybe I could truly believe I was them. And sometimes I’d get this feeling, almost magical like I was somebody else entirely. Does that make me crazy?”

  He shakes his head but does that just-Roman thing where his eyes never leave me. “No, it makes you exactly like me. That’s how I feel when I’m immersed in a story.”

  I should stop, I should really freaking stop, but I can’t…

  I reach up and grip onto his shirt, digging my fingernails in so I can feel his muscles against my fingertips. He makes a shivering growling noise as though the mere force of my touch is setting things alight inside of him.

  “Your heart is beating like crazy,” I whisper, as it thunders against my palm.

  “It’s you,” he snarls. “It’s like I’m constantly fighting to stay strong, to remember who I’m supposed to be, what sort of man I’m supposed to be. But you, Rayla, you make me want to be a monster.”

  “A monster?” I whimper, tightening my hold on him, feeling his need surge through him, makin
g him seem bigger, the tension pressing against his skin like a beast trying to escape.

  “Yes. A monster who doesn’t care about the future, about how wrong this could be. A monster who only cares about what it feels like now.”

  He leans even closer, letting me feel his breath whispering across my skin, and I look down at Tanker, curled up at his feet. The little dog is our only escape, our only way out of this, stopping us from crossing the line.

  “Tanker,” Roman says. “You want to get to bed, boy? Hmm, bed?”

  Part of me prays for Tanker to ignore him, to sit down and look up at him as if to say, What the heck are you talking about?

  But another part of me silently screams for the little dog to get the hint and give us our space.

  There’s a moment when it could go either way, but then Tanker yawns and turns away, padding down the hallway. I watch him go with a disbelieving smile on my face, and that’s proof right there… the smile tells me what I really wanted to happen, not what I pretended to hope would happen.

  Privacy, just me and him.

  It’s like Tanker wants us to be together.

  The future be damned, consequences be damned.

  He leans down. “I fucking need you. I can’t play these games anymore.”

  I gasp as his lips collide with mine.

  Chapter Twenty

  Roman

  I tried to be strong, but the effort of being close to her all day – of smelling her scent and studying her perfect tits, wide hips, and round ass – has broken something in me. I can’t fight it as I smooth my hands down her body, squeezing onto her ass cheeks as I drive my hips forward, pushing her into the room with my manhood against her soft stomach.

  Our lips move together in searing passion, our tongues clashing over and over again. She gasps through the kiss, her hands clawing onto my shoulders.

  I snarl and break off the kiss, staring down at her.

  My manhood is a thick long pole of tension, every inch of it swelling and pulsing with the desire to release.