My Best Friend's Navy SEAL Dad: A Steamy Standalone Instalove Romance

by Flora Ferrari

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  This is so wrong.

  But even as I think that I can’t deny how right it feels, how destined, almost, like Tess and I were meant to be together.

  I almost laugh at the thought.

  I don’t believe in that shit. I never have.

  And yet I’m feeling it right now.

  “How was your drive?” Tess says.

  I smirk at her efforts to make small talk. I wonder if she realizes how difficult it is for me not to maul her right now, not to claim her and dominate her and own her.

  I already own her. If I fucked her here, I’d just be demonstrating that fact.

  “It was fine,” I tell her.

  She nods and folds her arms over her chest, pushing those round, large tits together. I put my hands behind my back, forcing them to remain still, so I don’t grab her shirt and tear it down to give me a look at her cleavage.

  My dick is in pain, my need for her is so great.

  The tip tingles and my seed writhes up and down my hard length, roaring at me to push myself into her soaked slit right this second.

  “I guess I’m not the best at making small talk, Mr. Tanner.”

  “Call me Trent,” I snarl.

  It’s fucking absurd, the woman of my dreams – the future mother of my children – calling me by my surname.

  “Okay, Trent.”

  She smiles and our eyes meet.

  I have to look away before the desire to claim those pouty, full lips overwhelms me.

  “So how have you been?” I ask, which is an absurd question to be directing toward my woman.

  We should be discussing how many children we’re going to have together, how she’s going to juggle her photography career as well as raising our kids. A camera sits on the sparkling counter – this place is impressively clean – and I remember, in snippets, how obsessed Tess was with photography when she was a kid.

  “Not too bad,” she says.

  She’s still hugging her arms across her middle, drawing my eye relentlessly, making it impossible for me to turn away. My fingers twitch with the need to magnetize to her large, suck-me-now tits.

  “How specific,” I smirk. “What have you been doing since high school?”

  Her face drops and she stares at the floor.

  Guilt spirals into me.

  I want to tell her I’m sorry, which is damn strange because I rarely tell people that. But I want to roar it, to make whatever she’s feeling go away, so she never has to experience pain or heartache again.

  “Tess, what’s wrong—”

  “Dad,” Angela says, striding up behind me. “Sorry I kept you waiting.”

  I turn to my daughter and open my arms, love, and guilt twisted up in my chest. This was supposed to be a solely happy occasion, returning home to spend more quality time with my daughter than I have in years.

  But now, as I pull Angela into a hug and squeeze her tight, I can’t stop thinking about my woman, about the way her expression shifted when I asked her what she’d been up to.

  “What do you think of this place?” Angela says, once our embrace is over.

  I look around the diner.

  “It’s empty,” I say.

  “No.” She glares. “I mean—yes, it is. But not that.”

  I chuckle. “Oh, it’s clean. Very clean. You’ve done an amazing job.”

  She beams and throws a significant look at my woman, at her best friend, not my woman.

  For fuck’s sake, what the hell is wrong with me?

  “How long until you close up?” I ask.

  “About ten minutes. Do you want a coffee while you wait?”

  “Sure.”

  I walk over to the nearest booth and drop down, glad for an obstacle between my groin and my woman. My manhood has started to behave now, but I can’t trust myself not to get carried away as I drink in the sight of Tess again.

  “I’ll get it,” Tess says, striding away from us.

  That skirt she’s wearing hugs tightly onto the round bulbs of her ass, screaming at me to upend the table and sprint over to her, grab her thick flesh and massage and squeeze until she’s gasping and begging for more, more, more.

  I ache with the need for it.

  “So how does it feel, Dad, being back in Youngstone?”

  I aim my best attempt of a smile at my daughter, which is hard at the best of times. I’ve never been much of a smiler. But now, with my features trying not to constrict into beastly snarls and lust-filled grunts, it’s doubly difficult.

  “I’m happy to be home, with you,” I tell her. “I know I’ve been away a lot, maybe too much. But my men needed me.”

  She nods, as she always does when we discuss my time with the SEALs. Unless a person has served, they will never understand how loyal we are, how loyal we need to be. It’s the difference between a funeral and your next birthday.

  “But I’m excited,” I go on. “I’ve got my pension… which makes me feel damn old, but still.”

  “Old?” Angela laughs, sliding into the seat opposite me. “Forty-two is hardly ancient. And you’re fitter than most men our age, isn’t he, Tess?”

  There’s a loud crashing noise as Tess drops a mug.

  “Darn” she grunts. “Ah, sorry. Where’s that dustpan and brush? Don’t tell Kayleigh, Angela. She’ll take it out of my wages.”

  I stare across the diner at her, as the tension moves across her features. The idea of her being worried about the cost of a mug drives a stake of rage into my skull. My woman shouldn’t have to worry about such petty things.

  “Let me help,” Angela says, standing. “And obviously I won’t tell our manager. Jeez, who do you think I am?”

  Angela shoots me a look of apology and then moves around the bar, both of them fussing with the mug. I sit back in my seat, gripping the table, trying to stop my hands from shaking so I don’t betray how badly this is messing with me.

  Even across the room from her, she sends confusing impulses through me.

  But no, that’s bullshit.

  The only confusing part about this is that she’s my daughter’s best friend. If I’d walked in here and laid eyes on her – and felt this soul-thumping need – and she was somebody else, I would be fucking her over the table right now.

  Bent over, with her ass bare and pricked red from my possessive spanking, fuck, I bet she looks like heaven bare.

  Soon the mug is cleaned away and Angela returns to the table. Tess brings my coffee over, her hand trembling as much as mine. She lays it down and glances at me with a fleeting smile.

  “Sorry for the wait,” she says, with a tinge of sarcasm.

  I smirk and stare at her, hard, and then I have to force my gaze away so my daughter doesn’t get suspicious.

  What the hell am I doing?

  This is so wrong.

  “How’s the acting going, Angela?” I ask, trying to remember why I’m here, who I’m here for.

  I force myself to focus as my daughter tells me about the amateur production she was recently a part of, and then goes on to tell me about her YouTube skits. I know a lot of this information, but it’s good to hear it in person, instead of over the phone or on video chat.

  And anything is better than gazing at my woman, her curvy body pressed into that tight-fitting waitress’s outfit, like a gift begging to be unwrapped.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tessa

  I sit in the back seat, my hands clasped in my lap, as the man of my dreams guides us through the forest bordered road toward our hometown. Relief washes through me when my eyes move over Angie in the passenger seat.

  If I were sitting up there, I might lose control and lash my hand out to Trent’s leg, squeezing onto his firm muscles, the oak-like solidity of his flesh.

  I turn to the window and watch nature flit by, the setting sun making it hazy and magical. It’s easier than staring at the rearview mirror, at Trent’s face.

  He was so pissed back at the diner, glaring at me like he resented my
existence. I understand he wants some alone time with his daughter, but does he really have to make me so self-conscious?

  When Angie asked me if Trent was fitter then most men our age, I’m so happy I dropped the mug. It was the perfect distraction. Otherwise, I might’ve screamed how I really felt.

  Yes, he’s fitter than most men our age, and his age, and any age. He’s all rippled muscle and I’ve touched myself to images of him more times than you’d believe, Angie. You’d hate me if you knew how many times I’ve touched myself just thinking about your dad.

  I rest my forehead against the glass, trying to focus on the feel of it against my skin and nothing else.

  “So when do you start work on your business?” Angie asks.

  “A couple of weeks,” Trent says, in that husky, rumbling voice. “I’m going to relax for a while first. Well, try to relax.”

  “You’ve never been very good at that,” Angie says.

  He laughs gruffly. “Exactly.”

  “Maybe you should go on a nature walk with Tessa,” Angie says.

  I squeeze my hands into a tight fist, digging my fingernails into my palms. I’ve read that phrase so many times in books. She dug her fingernails into her palms. But despite all the bullying I’ve experienced in my life, all the heartache with mom, I don’t think I’ve ever actually done it before.

  My temples pulse and my heart hammers.

  “What do you think, Tess?” Angie goes on. “Or would my old dad cramp your style?”

  “There isn’t much style,” I say, trying to laugh. It comes out strangled and wrong-sounding. “I traipse through the forest and try to take as many photos as I can. I mean, heck, if I take a thousand, a couple of them have to be good, right?”

  “I’m sure Tessa doesn’t want me to intrude,” Trent says, with that growling quality beneath his voice.

  Does this man ever just say anything? Does he always have to sound so angry?

  Rage flares inside of me at his attitude, unfair, unearned, but no less real for all that.

  I understand he’s annoyed that I’m even here, intruding on the closeness with his daughter, but the least he could do is show me some basic human courtesy. There’s no reason to act so angrily all the time.

  “No,” I say fiercely, sitting up. “I’d love it if you came, Mr. Tanner. I’m sure Angie would too.”

  “I’m going to that audition tomorrow, remember.”

  I stifle a groan. The walk is tomorrow morning… the same time as the audition.

  I completely forgot. I’m so scatterbrained lately, but then that’s nothing new. I’ve been scatterbrained all my freaking life.

  Well, it’s not like Trent is going to say yes anyway.

  He stares at me in the rearview mirror, a captivating smirk toying with his lips.

  “Sure,” he says. “As long as you don’t mind?”

  Is he really so proud that he’d agree to go on a walk with a woman he clearly hates just because I’ve challenged him? That’s crazy, but the idea of backing out is ridiculous to me now. There’s no way I’m going to let him bully me.

  Oh, shut up, something deep inside of me says. It feels like something inside of me, like some primal piece of me is waking up at his closeness, aroused by his scent, hungry for him to usher me into a new life filled with children and laughter and happiness. You want him to want you. You want him to need you.

  “I don’t mind,” I say after a pause. “Please, come along.”

  His smirk widens and he shrugs as if to say it doesn’t mean a damn thing to him.

  I sit back and fold my arms, resisting the urge to bite my lip, a desire which throbs and pulses through me.

  Oh, God, what the heck have I gotten myself into?

  “Tess, are you okay?” Mom asks as she chops the tomato with efficient motions.

  Click-click-click, she hammers the knife against the chopping board, smiling at me across the kitchen.

  The tension that has moved through me all evening – ever since Angie dropped me off – lightens a little when I take in the sight of my mom smiling.

  One of the reasons I didn’t go to college, apart from the issue of money, was that my mom needed me at home to support her during her schizophrenia episodes.

  It was rare and strange, how it struck in her late thirties, leading her down a deep rabbit hole that demanded most of my attention.

  Now, after a long hard battle and combination of therapy and medication, she’s in a much better place, and it makes me want to sing and dance and punch the air every time I think about it.

  She’s curvy, like me, with a close-shaved head and a tattoo of a butterfly on her neck.

  “Tess?” Click-click-click. “I asked you a question.”

  I sigh from the table, nodding, but then I realize she probably wants words.

  But what words can I offer that would make sense of any of this?

  I’m meeting with Trent freaking Tanner for a date tomorrow morning.

  No—not a date, it can’t be a date. If it’s a date, it could lead to other steamy things, kisses, and what comes after kisses.

  In your dreams, a bitter voice cackles inside.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “I’m just thinking about my walk tomorrow. Do you want to come?”

  She frowns. “You know I’m busy. I’m seeing Liam.”

  “I know,” I say. “I was wondering if maybe he canceled.”

  Liam is mom’s accountant boyfriend. It’s going really well and she thinks he’s going to propose soon. And he never cancels. He’s ridiculously punctual and always arrives in our little corner of Maine precisely when he says he’s going to, right down to the minute.

  “Something’s bothering you,” Mom goes on, lifting the chopping board and pushing the tomatoes into the pan. “You’ve been moping all evening. Did something happen at work?”

  I laugh dryly. “Nothing ever happens at work, Mom.”

  “What is it, then? Is it… have you been thinking about all I put you through?”

  I stand and walk across the room, leaning against the kitchen partition so I can look closely at her.

  “I don’t blame you. I’ve never blamed you. It’s not your fault.”

  She nods shortly, but I can tell she still doesn’t believe me. Even though it’s been almost a year since the paranoia and the arguments and the constant rage ended, she still thinks there’s a part of me that harbors resentment toward her.

  “Thank you. That means a lot. I just wish you’d find a nice boy – or girl – and go and have some fun.”

  “Boy, it’d be a boy,” I say. “But I don’t need anybody. I’m fine on my own, just me and my camera.”

  It wouldn’t be a boy. It’d be a man, a man named Trent Tanner who I’ve crushed on since I was a little girl, a man who’s served overseas and has muscles that look like they are carved out of marble… and probably feel that way too.

  Mom sighs. “I don’t like it when you say things like that, Teepee.”

  I giggle. “And I don’t like it when you call me Teepee. One time I did that.”

  She grins. “And one time was enough.”

  Teepee is a reference to the time I covered the whole house in toilet paper when I was a little kid. Mom told me that, as punishment, she was going to call me Teepee for the rest of my life.

  Over the years, it’s evolved into a loving nickname, something that calls me back to the simpler times of my childhood.

  “There might be somebody, actually,” I say a moment later, the words coming as though somebody else is controlling my lips.

  Mom pauses with her hand on the pan’s handle, gaping at me. Her mouth falls open as though I’ve just told her I’ve mastered the art of growing a second head.

  “And who might he be?” she asks.

  “I don’t want to say. But it doesn’t matter. It could never work anyway. He’s…”

  How the heck can I tell her its Trent Tanner without telling her it’s Trent Tanner?

  “I
t’s complicated. But there’s stuff in the way, too many reasons it couldn’t work.”

  “Maybe you should spend some time with him.” She speaks carefully, as though aware of how rarely I talk about things like this. “See if there’s any chemistry there. Who knows, maybe you’ll hate each other and the problem will sort itself out.”

  I don’t tell her Trent already hates me. He’ll probably no-show tomorrow at the trail, and that’s fine by me – I tell myself – just freaking perfect.

  I don’t need Trent Tanner and his irresistible gleaming green eyes, or his thick safety-promising arms, or his smirk, or anything else about him at all.

  I’m perfectly fine with my camera and the trees and nothing else.

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  Mom looks at me for a long time and then turns away.

  “What?”

  She laughs. “What?”

  I smile. “Come on. You were about to say something. Don’t act like I can’t read you, Mom.”

  Her eyes meet mine again, seriousness streaked across her features.

  “Just because things didn’t work out with me and your father, it doesn’t mean relationships are inherently bad. I hope you know that.”

  “I do,” I tell her, even if I’m not sure, I’ve never been sure.

  I return to the table, picking up my Kindle and staring blankly at it. The words refuse to come into any sort of order. They shimmer and dance across the page, teasing me, as if they know my mind is going to be Trent’s prisoner for the rest of my freaking life.

  I can’t imagine moving on, falling for somebody else, obsessing over somebody else.

  But I also can’t imagine him wanting me either.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Trent

  The next morning, I stand at the gate to the nature trail, my hands behind my back out of habit.

  One of the first things I noticed when I joined the military is nervous men tend to twitch and shift their hands, so I vowed to keep mine still, always, to never give a sign I was feeling anything.

  I made myself cold.

  Maybe that’s why I thought I’d never find a woman, never be hit with this bomb of obsession.

  I breathe in the early-summer air, letting it move through me. Youngstone and the surrounding pine forests have a particular, welcoming scent, bringing me back to my younger years before I joined the Navy. I’d run through the forest in a weight vest, my body roaring at me to stop, but I’d keep going, on and on until I felt like I was going to break.