Best Friend's Daddy (A Single Dad Romance)

by Naomi Niles

  Had my decision yesterday been the right one? The truth was that it probably wasn’t. Which is not to say that it had been the wrong one, either. It was just the decision I had made. The thought struck a memory and I felt one resurface immediately.

  It was a few weeks after Mom had left us. No, it was a few weeks after we had realized that she wasn’t coming back. I realized that those weeks after her departure had fused together in a blur of emotion that didn’t hold any individual moments. That was partly my fault, however. I had spent a lot of time trying to suppress those memories. But now, after years of avoiding thinking about them, something niggled at the back of my mind and forced me to remember.

  Dad was sitting outside in the garden. He was playing with Talen and Sam, both of whom were trying hard to make him smile. I could hardly watch them out there. It was too painful and much too sad. I could see the effort of trying etched across Dad’s face. It was obvious he was trying to put on a brave face when all he wanted to do was break down.

  I turned from the window and went upstairs, hoping to find solace in my bedroom. John was out, so I would have the space to myself, for at least a few hours.

  I was just passing Dad’s room when I noticed the door was slightly ajar. It was never usually open, but even when it was, it was an unspoken rule that we respected our parents’ privacy. It was different now, though. We didn’t have parents anymore. We had a parent…and he was broken.

  I don’t know what made me do it, simple curiosity, or a thirst for answers or just the urge to do something, even if it wouldn’t make a difference. I pushed open the door and stepped inside the room.

  I hadn’t been in there in years, not since I grew up enough to want to avoid the room. It smelt musty, cold and sad. It didn’t exactly smell like her, but it had the remnants of her in it. There were signs that she had been there and it was all the more heartbreaking because I knew my father had done his best to preserve those signs.

  Her hairbrush was still on the dressing table, with strands of her dark-brown hair running through it. An old nightgown that she had worn when we were children lay draped over the chair in front of the dressing table. Her worn out slippers that John had bought her five summers ago were kept by her bedside as though she would come back at any moment and have use for them.

  They were old things, things she no longer used anymore. That was the only reason they had been left behind. And I hated seeing them all there, preserved as though she deserved to have her memory saved. I wanted to gather them all up in my hands and fling them out the window. I wanted to burn them and in burning them, burn her hold over me and everyone else in this house.

  My fingers twitched; my eyes fell on each item and my need surged furiously through my body. I felt the hurt, betrayal, and anger of her abandonment all over again, and suddenly, I wanted to be out of the oppressive heat of the room. But still, I stayed. I walked over to the dressing table and opened the drawers, as though trying to find something that could give me the answers I needed.

  I had put on a brave face those past weeks. I had acted as though I knew she would leave us at some point. I had acted as though her leaving had barely touched me.

  But in truth, it hurt more every day. I had heard someone use the word closure a few days before. I had been picking up Talen from kindergarten and heard some of the other mothers talking.

  They hadn’t seen me turn the corner, but I had heard enough of their conversation to know they were taking about us, our family.

  “No, of course they’re not all right. Five boys and she just vanished without a trace…it’s very sad. They won’t have any closure…”

  “You’re quite right, and without closure, how can any of them move on?”

  How could we move on? I wasn’t entirely sure what closure meant, but the word had a nice round sound to it. It made sense that I would require it.

  The dressing table drawers were empty. I moved to the window where I could still see Dad sitting outside with Talen and Sam. The boys were running relays now with Dad as the judge. He gave them both a half-hearted thumbs-up and then his body hunched over again.

  I turned away from the sight and walked over to the bedside table drawers. Mom’s side was empty, but when I opened Dad’s bedside drawer, I found myself staring at a neat little envelope with his name written on the front. It was written in Mom’s familiar hand.

  I reached for it without thinking, and before I knew it, the letter was out of its envelope and in my hands. She had written him a letter before she left, that was clear to me the instant I held it. She had written him a goodbye and possibly even an explanation.

  My fingers shook – this letter could hold all the answers. Maybe after reading it, I wouldn’t hate her so much, maybe I would even understand. Hope was a difficult thing to suppress when it came upon you suddenly. Especially when you were looking for reasons to believe again.

  I opened the letter. It was obvious from the creased lines of its folds that it had been opened and read many times over. I was fairly certain Dad read it each night before he went to sleep. I started reading with my heart in my throat.

  My Dear John,

  I would like to start off by saying that I am sorry. I know it might not seem that way to you. You might even think that my departure was calculated and deliberate, but there is more to this than you know.

  You have been a good man and a good husband to me. You have always treated me with respect and kindness, and for that, I will be eternally grateful. I know the years have not always been kind to us, but you have never given up. A lesser man would have.

  I have a great favor to ask of you. I know I have no right to ask anything from you anymore, but in my selfishness, I must at least make the request. I was too much of a coward to have this conversation with you in person, but faced with pen and paper, it’s a little easier to get the words out. I want you to explain something to the boys for me. And perhaps in explaining to them, you will also understand.

  Sometimes in life, choices have to be made. Some choices require the sacrifice of a person’s morals and values, some require the sacrifice of more physical things, but if you know in your heart that it is the right thing to do, then sometimes you have to accept the choice, even if it is the tougher one. You have to accept it for yourself and the people you love most. You have to accept it so that your conscience can rest easy.

  When people look back at the choice you made, some will condemn you and curse your name, but you have to stay the course. You have to stay true to yourself and your conscience. I hope you understand that that is what I am doing, John.

  I have to do what I think is right, even if it means leaving. I know what it will look like to the world, but that is beyond me. Decisions are never easy to make, but when you come to the right one, you can never turn away from it. You must never turn away from it.

  I love my boys, John. You must believe that. But if you don’t, I would not blame you. I would only say this. Look after them, as I was never truly able to. Protect them and love them and be the parent and the person that I could not be for them. I trust you more than anyone else on this planet. And, I will always love you for it.

  Please forgive me,

  Alice

  I folded the letter up carefully and slipped it back into the envelope. It was like she had written a poem, not a letter. I could barely understand any of it. I set it back in the drawer and closed it shut. Then I slipped out of the room and tried my best to forget I had ever read it.

  As my eyes focused on the dark living room I was sitting in, the memory of that moment came back to me as clearly as though I had just lived it. I got up and walked into my bedroom. I rooted around in the back of my closet until I found the old shoebox I used to keep as a child. When I opened it, I found my mother’s letter nested at the bottom of the box. It was faded with age now, yellowing around the corners and tearing off in places. The words were not as clear and the paper smelled of neglect. I hadn’t opened it since that day w
hen I had found it in my father’s bedside table.

  After Dad’s death, John and I had combed through his room. I had taken the letter before he had found it and secreted it away with my own possessions. Then I had forgotten all about it, not because it was worth forgetting, but because it was necessary to.

  I opened the letter for the second time in my life and read through it again with fresh eyes. Reading it as an adult was an altogether different experience from reading it as a hurt teenager. I could see the nuances between the sentences; I could see the possibilities there. And suddenly, I was beginning to think that maybe Mom hadn’t left because she wanted to. Maybe she had left because for some reason…she had to.

  “I was too young to understand,” I whispered to myself.

  A knock on my door distracted me from the newfound realization that was dawning. I put the letter away and slipped the shoebox back into the recesses of my closet. When I opened my bedroom door, I found Madison standing outside it.

  I could tell that she had just stepped out of the shower. She smelt of soap and shampoo, though her hair was very nearly dry. She was wearing a thin dress that clung to her body and accentuated the curves of her breasts. I could see her nipples through the fabric and felt myself harden at the sight.

  Her beautiful eyes looked large, sad, and sultry in the dull light; her hair tumbled in waves over one shoulder. She was looking at me with an odd expression, one that I couldn’t fully understand.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, wanting desperately to pull her into my arms.

  She shook her head. Then she put her hands on either side of my face and kissed me gently. It was a long, slow, tender kiss different from any one we’d shared before. I could sense something more in that kiss, something that was more than desire or lust or want.

  When she pulled away from me, her eyes were still hooded with emotion. She stepped past me and walked into the bedroom without invitation. I turned to watch her, mesmerized by everything about her. Then slowly, she started undressing before my eyes.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Madison

  I wanted him. That was the foremost need that expressed itself in my consciousness. But I was aware of a torrent of other desires, too. I didn’t just want his body – I wanted his whole being. I was greedy tonight, and I knew I was approaching him with an almost predatory stance.

  As he shut his bedroom door and turned to me, I slipped the dress off my shoulders and pushed it down from my hips, until I was standing naked in front of him except for my lace panties.

  I saw his eyes canvas my body; I saw his desire rise to meet my own. I could see the erection jutting out from his pant front. The sight gave me a whirl of satisfaction. I had the power to make him hard and it had never meant as much to me as it did right at that moment.

  I stared into his eyes and removed my panties. I didn’t know what had given me this great confidence. I didn’t know that I had ever been the type of woman to stand naked in front of a man and be completely comfortable with it. But it seemed tonight I was. And with him, I was.

  Peter just stared at me, almost as though he were afraid to approach me. I let him watch me and admire my body. It gave me a great sense of satisfaction to know he wanted to see me that way.

  After a while, I walked up to him. His eyes followed my every movement. When I was standing right in front of him, I pulled him close to me and started kissing him again. This time, I was the one in control. I was the one who was going to determine the next move. He seemed to sense this, too, because he submitted to me completely. He allowed me to lead.

  I kissed him until I was well and truly wet. I could feel the hardness of his erection prick against my thigh and knew he was bursting with desire, but he wanted to prolong the moment. I pulled away after a moment, leaving him breathless and confused. I took his hand and led him to the chair in front of his dark desk. I pushed him down into a sitting position and then sunk to my knees between his feet.

  His eyes never left my face and that was exactly how I wanted it. I unzipped his pants and pulled them down. His erection was long and impressive, desperate to be free of the oppressive hold of fabric. I felt the moisture between my legs spread as I bent down and took the length of him into my mouth all at once.

  He gasped audibly and threw his head back. I didn’t care if he came in the next five seconds. I just wanted to suck him hard. I wanted to feel his cock in the back of my throat. His hand fell upon my head, but it was gentle, a light pressure encouraging me onward. I sucked his penis furiously and when I finally pulled back, his whole body was trembling from the effort of resisting his orgasm.

  I pulled his shirt off him and ran my tongue up and down his chiseled chest and stomach. He tasted amazing. I rose to my feet and mounted him gently, slipping him inside easily. His eyes closed as we fused together and his hands came down around my hips, anchoring me in place.

  I moved slowly on top of him at first, letting each stroke stand on its own. Every time I came down on top of him, I felt a little flutter in my heart. His hands clung to me, touching my breasts, my nipples, my thighs, and my ass – and still it wasn’t enough.

  Fueled by my insatiable desire, my movements increased in tempo until I was fucking him faster and harder than I had ever intended. The sound of our flesh slamming together created a strangely erotic sound that seemed to bang off the walls.

  “Fuck,” he cried out as he came violently against me.

  He held me close for a long time, sucking at my nipples every now and again until his breathing calmed. After a few minutes, I eased myself off him and walked over to his empty bed.

  “I want you again,” I said, lying down on his bed. “I want you to fuck me again. And, I want you to fuck me in every way it’s possible for a man to fuck a woman.”

  I saw Peter’s eyes zing with desire and his penis twitch a little, as though it had heard me speak. He stood up and came to lie beside me in bed.

  We lay like that, on our sides, staring at each other’s faces as though we were looking for secrets and treasures both. We didn’t speak. There was no need for conversation that night. There had been enough conversation all around.

  The time for talk was done; now it was time for us to simply be animals. After a few minutes had passed, Peter pulled me towards him, his hands snaking down my body as though they were looking for something.

  Slowly, he turned me over and entered me again from the back. I cried out, reveling in the feel of him inside me. I was sore between the legs already, but it was a welcome soreness, the kind that made you feel like you had done something worthwhile. He fucked me slowly, taking his time and exploring my body with his hands.

  After a while, he flipped me over again and hiked my leg over his shoulder as he slipped inside me again.

  We stared at each other the whole time. I could see my reflection in his eyes. I had never experienced that before. Usually, I was much more self-conscious with men. It was hard to look directly at them when they were fucking me.

  But this was different. Peter was different. He was a man who could look into my eyes and not be scared or intimidated. He was a man who was not afraid of making a connection or maintaining one. He was wholly in the moment, which made it easier for me to be in the moment, too.

  Every now and again, he would bend his head down to kiss my neck, my lips, and my ears. He would kiss me tenderly and sincerely, as though I was the most precious thing in the world and he was the only one who saw my worth. I clung to him desperately, wanting to feel the exhilarating thrill of orgasm and yet, at the same time, not wanting the moment to end.

  Again, he changed position so that both my legs were in the air, and he was pounding down on top of me. The pressure of his entry was forceful in its thrill, and I felt a rush of some unnamed emotion that was close to orgasmic deliria. His eyes found mine again, and I felt them ferociously, feeling a sense of possessiveness overtake me.

  How could I possibly let this go? It was the first time I h
ad ever experienced this connection with anyone.

  Usually, sex was just sex. It was an act that didn’t require any feelings. It was an act that didn’t require a connection or a relationship. It was purely carnal and completely devoid of affection.

  Now, I realized that that was only because I had been fucking all the wrong men. I had given myself to men who didn’t care about me. They were men who wanted my body and once they had had me, they wanted nothing more to do with me.

  I had never experienced the act of making love with a man who actually cared, a man who had actually gone out of his way to protect me. Was this love? I wondered. Was this the insatiable, earnest need that heroines hungered for in great novels? Because if it was, then I could finally understand it, Peter had opened my eyes.

  It was in the moments before I came that it hit me. I was falling in love with Peter Burbank.

  The honest truth was that I had already fallen for Peter Burbank. I craved him and that craving was for more than just his body and what he could do with it. That craving was for his mind, his thoughts, his opinions, and the fierce sense of pride and care that he had for his brothers.

  He had referred to me once as his family and until now, I had never admitted to myself how badly I wanted it to be true. I desperately longed for that sense of family, which I had never received at the hands of my neglectful parents and a brother who was too young to know any better.

  My orgasm was violent, bright, and uncontrollable. I shuddered, whimpered, and writhed underneath Peter’s hard muscles. And even though I was short of breath and tired and aching all over, I still wanted more.

  We lay in bed together for an hour, staring at each other’s faces and touching each other’s bodies. Sleep seemed to evade both of us, but neither invited conversation. It was almost as though there was an unspoken agreement between us. Let’s not ruin the night by talking. Let’s save that for the next day and just enjoy the silence and all the little nuances it hid.