Happily Ever After with My Dad’s Best Friend

by Wylder, Penny

  “I love the smell of this soap. It smells like you,” he says.

  He takes his time, making sure every inch of my skin is clean. His warm body presses against me, his firm cock sliding between my soap-slick ass cheeks. I’m under the showerhead now, bubbles going down the drain as I rinse off. He gently bites my shoulder and reaches around, ring and middle fingers on either side of my clit, rubbing in soft, slow circles.

  My moans echo in the tiled bathroom. I lift my foot onto the lip of the tub to open myself up and give him better access. The head of his cock pushes at my asshole. I push back against it, but it won’t budge without lube, which probably wouldn’t feel good anyway, so it’s better to leave it alone. Instead, he uses his free hand to guide himself to my fleshy opening. I’m still a bit sore from our encounter the night before, but as soon as he’s inside of me, all pain is forgotten and only desire is left behind as he works me over.

  My palms flat against the wall, I let the water roll down my back and enjoy the sensation of being stretched. His grunting becomes animalistic as he starts to thrust harder. He puts his hand on my back, bending me over. That amazing pain is back as his rigid prick bottoms out. I’m crying out for more, screaming for him to “fuck me hard!”

  “God, you’re so tight,” he says, tearing into me, almost as if he too were in pain.

  He slides in and out of me before turning me around and lifting me off the ground. My arms are around his neck, legs around his waist. He pushes my back against the wall, holds my ass in his hands and somehow manages to hold me up and fuck me like that without any help from me. After ten minutes, the water is losing its heat but his pace hasn’t. He has the stamina of someone half his age, and the strength too.

  Like a puppet with wires, he positions my body whichever way he desires and I’m perfectly happy to let him do so. With one of my legs on the floor, he lifts the other, holding it in the crook of his arm and enters me at a side angle. It’s a direct hit to my g-spot. He nails it every time, tapping my button like it’s an O key stuck on a keyboard. Three more pumps and it’s game-over.

  My screams rise to an almost deafening pitch as my orgasm takes hold, making me faint and light-headed.

  The moisture in the air hurts my lungs as I try to catch my breath. He’s still inside of me when he turns off the water. He kisses me more, staying inside of me. When he finally pulls out, a torrent of our mixed fluids spill out of me and splash against the bottom of the porcelain tub.

  I’ll definitely hit up the pharmacy after school. At least I think I will. I’m taking the bus home and I’m not sure it goes in that direction. If not, I can always get Emily to take me tomorrow.

  My muscles and body are still wrecked when he takes my face in his hands and kisses me deeply. “You’re going to be late for school.”

  “I know,” I say and kiss him again. I don’t want this to end. I’m tempted to just not go to school, but my GPA depends on the results of these exams. “It was so worth it.”

  I clean myself up, dress, brush on a coat of mascara, and say goodbye to Paul before leaving the apartment. In the halls, several of my neighbors, all female, are outside talking to each other. I’m not all that close with any of them even though we go to the same school. I’ve never taken much time to say much other than “hi” and pet the one woman’s parrot. I’ve always wanted to live in a neighborhood where everyone knew each other and had the others’ backs, but I never got the vibe from these people that something like that would be an option, other than the neighbor whose cat I’m watching. From the day I moved in I had the feeling that they had a clique and I wasn’t invited in. It’s like high school all over again. Somethings never change, I guess.

  When they see me they bend their heads, whispering and laughing. “That must’ve been some party last night,” one of them says to me.

  Great, they heard me. I knew I was being loud, but I’d hoped I wasn’t being that loud. Gossip spreads around this complex like wildfire and before long, everyone will know. Oh, well. It wasn’t as if I’d dragged some one-night stand to my apartment (like I almost did) and had my way with him. I had an amazing night with the man I care about and I’m not going to pretend as if I hadn’t. And I’m definitely not going to apologize for it.

  I know I’m blushing without having seen my face. Nosey broads.

  Instead of staying embarrassed and letting these girls get under my skin, I say, “You have no idea,” and exaggerate bowed-legs as I walk down the stairs.

  * * *

  “Someone’s looking happy,” Emily says as we leave class. I’d arrived five minutes late and got nasty glares from Mr. Oliver, but nothing could kill my mood.

  “That’s because someone got laid,” I say.

  Emily slaps my arm, eyes wide. “Tell me everything. Spare no details.”

  Normally I get annoyed by the bump and grind in the hallways as students scurry to their next classes, but nothing can bother me today.

  “A lady doesn’t kiss and tell.”

  “I know, so tell me everything.”

  We head toward economics, the other class we share. In fact, it was how we met in the first place. We sit down in our seats next to each other and I tell her everything.

  * * *

  I meet my dad for lunch. He takes me out once a month. It was my mom’s idea. She thinks it will bring my dad and I closer together. She’s tirelessly optimistic. All my dad ever talks about is how hard he had to work to get the things he has, and how he’s doing me a favor by never lending me money—which I never ask for. If I did, he’d hold it over my head like a wrecking ball.

  We sit down at a diner and look over the menu. He talks mostly about work. I pretend to listen to him for the most part and just try to enjoy the free meal.

  I’m only half listening when I hear the tail end of what he just said. “And Paul stayed out all night. I wonder what he’s up to.”

  My French fry gets caught in my throat and I have to pound my chest with my fist to swallow it down.

  “He probably hung out with other friends.” I shrug, as if I couldn’t care less. “So what do you and mom have going on for your anniversary. That’s coming up soon, right?” I say, trying to get off the subject of Paul.

  “We have the same friends. He would’ve told me. When I called around looking for him last night, no one had seen him.”

  “Someone’s a little clingy,” I tease.

  Please stop talking about Paul.

  “He’s staying at my house. The least he can do is call me and tell me he’s not coming home so I can set the alarm. Besides, he’s only here for a day or two, and we have plans.”

  That’s it? All the time I have left with him is a day or two? Of course, my dad will most likely hog every minute of it.

  Dad waves a waitress over to refill his drink. When I was a kid I always hated it when he did that. The waitresses were busy and would get to us eventually, but my dad never has the patience to wait. I still hate it even as an adult, but I’m more concerned about what’s happening with Paul to care.

  I don’t want Paul to leave and I can tell my dad—in his own, pig-headed way—doesn’t want him to leave either, but he would never come right out and say it. He’s too proud for that. But he’s also a different person when Paul’s around. Lively, younger, he smiles more, glares less. If it were up to my parents they’d have him move in.

  “I don’t know why he has to leave at all,” my dad says.

  “I’m sure he needs to get back to his job and his life.”

  “I don’t see why. It’s not as if he has to work.”

  “Why not?”

  “He sold that construction company of his for several million and made a killing on investments. He wouldn’t have to work another day in his life if he didn’t want to, but the guy likes to get his hands dirty.”

  I nearly choke on the hamburger I just took a bite of. Paul’s worth several million? How did I not know that?

  Then it hits me. Dude, I just sle
pt with a millionaire. Seems like I should be more excited about that part; it’s just one more thing to brag to my friends about at gatherings. While everyone else is telling their wild tales, I’m always the one who shrugs and says, “not much,” when they ask what I’ve been up to.

  Also, what girl doesn’t want a guy with some ambition—as well as one who doesn’t live with his parents and “forgets” to bring his wallet on dates? Yet, I’m mostly just excited about the man I slept with. Not his money.

  I shake my head and take a deep breath to clear my mind. Suddenly the food in my stomach feels like a ball of lead. “If you’re so upset about it, convince him to stay,” I tell my dad.

  “Believe me, I’m trying, but I couldn’t convince him to stay the first time and I doubt I can this time. What he needs is to fall in love and settle down with someone. Plant some roots.”

  I couldn’t agree more.

  5

  I don’t have a car. Well, I did, but ended up selling it for a few hundred dollars. I was lucky to get that much. It was an old Datsun that was literally held together with duct tape. At least the doors and windows were. Some things had to be sacrificed to get my apartment. Gas and insurance were expenses I just couldn’t afford.

  Normally Emily gives me a ride home from school, but she had somewhere she needed to be so I’m taking the bus. It’s about an hour trek across town when it would only take ten minutes by car, if that. At least the weirdos riding with me are entertaining.

  As I’m walking out to the parking lot, I see a tank-sized pickup truck with a lumber rack taking up two spaces in the lot made for eco-friendly subcompacts. Paul is standing next to it with a fist full of lilies. This contrast of soft and hard is almost jarring to the eye. My heart jumps around in my chest. I should not be this happy to see a man who’s going to bounce out of my life just as fast as he swept in.

  “What are you doing here?” I say, trying to maintain some semblance of keeping my shit together.

  He hands me the lilies, our fingers grazing as I take them. His hands are the only thing even remotely aged about him. They are calloused and scarred from a lifetime of hard work, building things, and putting them together, making sure everything fits just right. But it’s exactly those “flaws” that make them sexy as hell.

  He kisses me lightly on the mouth, then follows up with a peck on the nose. When we separate, people are watching us. They probably thought he was my dad before that kiss, but since Paul doesn’t seem to mind what people think, I sure as shit don’t either.

  “I want to spend some time with you out of the bedroom.” He nudges my shoulder playfully. “Until later, that is.”

  A swarm of pterodactyls rises up in my stomach. I’m beyond butterflies at this point. At least I have the promise of another night with him. I’ll take what I can get.

  He opens the passenger side door, and I get in. It’s an older pickup with the black paint chipped and peeling. The interior is ripped up and dirty and smells like gasoline and burned oil. The floorboards are covered in chunks of dried cement and drywall dust. The whole thing just oozes testosterone. He could afford any vehicle he wanted, according to my dad, yet he sticks with tried and true. I find it so endearing that I can’t help but look at him adoringly with a stupid smile on my face.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “It’s a surprise.”

  He drives with one hand loose on the steering wheel and the other dangling out the open window. There’s something arousing about a confident driver. Or maybe I’m just really horny. Doesn’t seem to matter what Paul does; it’s all a turn on for me.

  He heads for the freeway. On our way we drive through one of oldest neighborhoods in town. There are a lot of Victorian homes in this area, their paint salt-bleached and flaking off from the harsh winds coming off the Pacific. On a cliff overlooking the ocean like a stern nanny, is a gothic Victorian home I’ve always been obsessed with my entire life. As a girl I thought it looked like a giant dollhouse painted white with pink gingerbread trim. The colors leave something to be desired, but it’s impossible not to see the beauty beyond that.

  “That’s my dream house,” I tell him, pointing to it.

  His gaze follows my pointed finger. He raises his brows. “Really? Looks like a place someone was probably murdered in.”

  I laugh. It really is in bad shape. It has been vacant more often than not. I imagine the previous owners who’d bought it had done so with the hopes of fixing it up to its former Gone with the Wind glory, but once they realized the staggering amount of work that would need to go into it, the for sale signs were back up in the yard again.

  “It does have a bit of American Horror Story curb appeal,” I admit. “But I love it. It’s different from all the other houses around it and that view … I could stare out those windows and be content for the rest of my life.”

  “Those old homes have good bones. Old things aren’t always useless,” he says, winking at me. He reaches over to where my hands rests on the seat and wraps his fingers with mine. I look at our intertwined hands, again, the contrast of hard and soft. His tan hands against my pale ones. It’s so comfortable and effortless, it feels as if we’re old pros at this whole being together thing.

  We chat easily as we drive down the freeway, and even when we’re not talking, I feel completely content next to him just staring out the window and listening to the low growl of the diesel motor. We’ve been in the truck for half an hour when he pulls off into a town that is so small it has one exit. If you blink, you’ll miss it. The entire town consists of a motel, gas station, Denny’s restaurant, and a furniture store.

  I doubt he took me out of town to eat at a run-down diner, and he has plenty of fuel. So that leaves the motel and the furniture store. Since my apartment gives us plenty of space to hook up without getting caught, my only conclusion is that he’s looking for furniture and my heart lifts because it possibly means he’s moving back to town.

  He parks right outside the furniture store and we walk inside. It smells like pine and varnish. Everything is hard, heavy woods, handmade. I’m stunned at how beautifully crafted everything is. Ikea, eat your heart out.

  “What are we doing here?” I ask.

  “Just looking.”

  He takes my hand and we wander through the store. We stop in each department: kitchen, rugs, dining room, living room, and he asks my opinion on different pieces that he likes. It’s all beautiful to me, but I tend to like the more weathered, beachy items better.

  Eventually we end up at the back of the store. We go through a door and I’m not sure we’re supposed to be back here, but when the man carving wood at a saw table looks up, he smiles and says, “Paul! Hey man, I haven’t seen you in years.” He takes off his protective glasses and reaches out his hand for Paul to shake. He’s a hippy-looking older guy in his fifties, a Big Lebowski type with long dreadlocks, wearing tie-dye. “Did you finally move back?”

  Paul looks at me then back at his friend, ignoring the question. “How’s it been going? The place looks great.”

  “Same old thing every day.” His friend looks at me and smiles. “And who’s this goddess on your arm?”

  “This is Rachael, my …” he hesitates a moment and I think he’s about to introduce me as his best friend’s daughter, but he utterly stuns me and says, “My girlfriend.”

  I blink away the shock on my face. Girlfriend. Really? Did I miss something? Don’t get me wrong, I love the sound of it, but it kind of comes out of nowhere and I’m trying to figure out if he meant it, or if it was just easier to introduce me that way rather than explain our unique situation.

  “Finally!” his friend says, shaking my hand. “I thought this guy was a terminal bachelor. Nice to see he’s calming down in his old age. So what can I help you with?”

  “Well, Rachael has terrible taste in furniture—what little of it she has.”

  I roll my eyes. What little furniture I have was all I could afford—and I worked really hard
at figuring out the instructions and putting it all together with a tiny Allen wrench by myself, thank you very much. I may have spent a total of two-hundred dollars on my furniture in my apartment. These homemade beauties are definitely not in my price range.

  I look up at Paul, frowning. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m buying you furniture.”

  I know he can afford it, but why? Because we had sex? It feels like a strange gift.

  “She seems to like the drift wood pieces best,” Paul tells his friend.

  “Good choice. I think I can help with that,” the man says.

  Paul is relentless. I keep telling him no, it’s too much, but he’s not having any of it. He refuses to leave the store without buying me an entire bedroom set including headboard, bedside tables and lamps, and a dresser. He tries not to let me see the price tag, but I sneak a peek at the receipt while he’s helping to load it in the back of the delivery truck and it’s in the thousands.

  I want to tell him he doesn’t have to buy my affection, or whatever else he’s getting from me, but we are having such a good time and I love being around him. I’m afraid that bringing up money will put a damper on things.

  I thank him profusely and we head back toward home. I thought we were going back to my apartment but he’s not done spoiling me yet. We have a couple hours to kill before the delivery truck makes it to my apartment, and he’s dragging me around to clothing stores to fill up my new dresser. He’s so stubborn, and I’m kind of having a Pretty Woman moment in the store trying on all these clothes while he waits outside of the dressing room to give his opinion. Thankfully he manages not to make me feel like a call girl. Instead, I just feel special. It comes as no surprise that he likes the skimpy items best. Honestly, I do too.

  While we’re out he insists on buying me proper school supplies rather than all the crumpled notebooks and chewed up pens and pencils he saw on my kitchen counter the first time he was over. It really is too much. I tell him so several times, but he pretends to be old and hard of hearing. Eventually, I just go with it because it’s easier than arguing with him.