“I envy you, boy,” I say. “You don’t think yourself out of being happy. You know what you want and you take it. And as long as you’ve got me and Millie, you’re content. A walk, some food, a treat here and there… Oh, and playtime, obviously.”
I chuckle as he launches himself at my leg, going for my laces with happy gnashing teeth.
“You’re supposed to be getting mature now, aren’t you?” I tease, leaning down to ruffle him behind the ears. “You’re almost nine. I thought that meant we’d be treated to a nice calm Tanker soon, eh?”
He rumbles, almost like he’s laughing as he continues to gnaw at my shoelaces. But then he suddenly stops, tilting his head, the way he does when there’s a car at the end of the road.
I glance at the calendar which hangs on the kitchen wall, checking if I’m having any groceries delivered.
But there’s no sign of any visitors today. Millie would’ve told me if she was coming up…
But hell, the way I’ve been trying to force words out of myself lately, maybe I wouldn’t have even remembered if she had told me. All my mental energy has been spent attempting to drag the words out of my head.
But if it was Millie, Tanker would be going crazy, sniffing the air and running in frantic circles like he always does when he hears her coming. He always knows when it’s her.
Instead, he’s frozen, the way he does when there’s a car coming but he’s not familiar with the owner, like a delivery driver. I tickle him under the chin… as he’s gotten older, he’s started to grow a little white beard, prompting Millie to sometimes call him The Wizard.
“Huh, boy?” I say. “Who is it, huh?”
I stroll over to the front-facing window, looking over the miles and miles of pine forest that stretches up the hill which leads to the cabin. We’re completely secluded down these parts, which is one of the reasons I love it so much for writing.
Or, at least, one of the reasons I loved it so much – past tense.
On the other side of the hill is the small town of Summerdrop, where the people are friendly and the smell of fresh-baked bread often fills Main Street on the rare occasions I have to visit it. But mostly I stay secluded here, hammering out the words. Or, more recently, trying to hammer out the words.
I watch as a car bumps up the mud path, appearing from the shadows of the pine forest. It’s a rental car, and not at all suited for this terrain, bumping and jostling its way down the road before coming to a stop next to my off-roader, looking like a toy as it sits next to it.
“What the hell?” I murmur as I stare at the woman…
Something explodes in my chest, hammers, and roars, and suddenly that hole I’ve been trying to fill – with exercise, with writing, with living – floods and it’s like I don’t have to try anymore. I don’t have to ache anymore.
She’s there, right there. My meaning. My woman.
I stare as she runs a hand through her long brown hair, letting out a gorgeous yawn. She’s wearing a summer dress that hugs onto her curvy made-to-be-fucked body, her breasts large and heaving, her hips wide and perfect for grabbing. As she turns to the car, I have to bite down to stop myself from letting out a feral roar.
Her ass is goddamn perfection, round and plump and made to be palmed and spanked and claimed.
This is it. She’s it, the thing I’ve been waiting for.
This woman, with her gorgeous wavy hair and her perfect body…
She’s going to be my everything, whoever she is, my life partner, and the mother to my children. I’m going to claim her in the most carnal way a man can, painting every inch of her body with my touch, with my tongue.
I’m going to own her.
Forever.
But first I should probably learn her name.
Chapter Three
Rayla
I walk toward the trunk of the car, letting out a satisfied breath. This must be the place. When the guy at the rental place said it was a little ‘out of the way’ and gave me directions, I couldn’t have guessed just how out of the way it would turn out to be.
As I was driving down the bumpy country road, I became convinced I was going in the wrong direction.
Even though Millie had warned me, it still felt difficult to believe.
I stop at the trunk, putting my hands on my hips and looking over the glittering lake, with more pine forest on the other side.
I can’t complain too much, because this place is beautiful, every part of it summer bright and inviting, causing a smile to spread across my face.
Then suddenly there’s a dog running at me, a tiny cute squat dog with a patch over his eye. He leaps over to me with his tongue hanging out, jumping up on his hind legs as he puts his forepaws on my leg.
I laugh and lean down, stroking him behind the ear as he jostles around in excitement. “What’s your name, little fella? Where’s your owner? Where did you come from?”
He whines and runs in a small circle, his excitement getting the better of him, making his small silver tag rattle.
Standing, I look over at the lake, wondering if his owner is walking him around the edge or through the forest, but everything looks untouched, as though the scenery hasn’t seen a human in a while.
“Come on, Tanker.”
I flinch when the man’s voice strikes me. It’s deep and intense, husky, the sort of voice that is difficult to ignore.
“I’m sorry,” I say without thinking, turning to address the man. “I didn’t think anybody would be near the cabin. In the cabin. Around the cabin.”
I’m rambling but who the heck could blame me?
The man who approaches me is like something out of a cover of a magazine. Six and a half feet tall with throbbing muscles… muscles that look as though they’ve been recently worked out if his tense arms and pulsating veins are anything to go by. He’s got wide-shouldered and wears a sweat-stained T-shirt, showing me the outline of his ripped torso.
His eyes are bright and blue, piercing me, and his hair is the color of steel – catching the sunlight as he steps forward, his expression intense.
“Tanker, here. Here, boy.”
The dog turns and pads over to the man, sitting at his feet and letting his tongue loll out.
Looking past him, I let my eyes skim over the cabin.
It’s built over part of the lake, on stilts, with an inviting wooden exterior and lots of windows to make the summer light bounce and shimmer. The front door is open… meaning that this man is either an intruder, a lodger, or—
I let out an involuntarily gasp, and then immediately feel like the biggest dork idiot ever.
“What is it?” the man says, taking a step forward, Tanker lightly padding at his side.
“Nothing. I just… I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting anybody to be here.”
A light smirk touches his lips. I wonder how old he is. Forty, forty-five? Whatever the case, he’s so ripped and he looks so freaking dominating and carnal and hot, I don’t care.
I must look like a dorky twenty-something nothing to him.
“I was about to say the same thing.” He nods to the car, to the stuff piled up on the backseat. “Looks like you’ve packed half your life. Are you planning on moving out here?”
“No, I’m only here for a week. I’m Millie’s friend. Rayla. And I’m guessing you must be Roman? Are you?”
I need to stamp down on this silly excitement thundering through me, making my heart hammer in my chest, my skin tingle. My mind is doing silly things, like imagining what it would be like to have his arms wrapped around me, to collapse against him and rest my cheek against his chest and feel how solid he is.
“Yes, I’m Roman,” he says, making my belly tighten, a fierce ball of tension squeezing down.
Crap.
I’ve just been fantasizing about my best friend’s dad. That is not cool, not even close to being okay.
“Did Millie not mention we were coming?” I ask.
He waves a hand. “She might have. I�
�ve always found fiction easier to remember than reality. Where is she?”
“Her flight was canceled. She’s coming down tomorrow. She didn’t say you were going to be here though.”
“It was a last-minute decision, wasn’t it, boy?” He leans down and pats Tanker on the back of the head, not an easy feat for a man as huge as him and a dog as little as Tanker… but he moves athletically, easily, more like a fighter than a writer. “This place helps me think. The city doesn’t.”
“Oh.” I bite my lip, unable to stop my eyes from moving over the tight ropes of his arms, the tension which seems to swell inside of him with each moment. “So should head back to the airport or…”
He chuckles, shaking his head. The laughter doesn’t seem to reach his eyes. The thought that I’ve made him angry works its way into me, followed by another gut-punch sinking feeling that I’ve displeased him. But I shouldn’t want to please this man in any way.
So what if he’s hot. Super hot. Hotter than anybody I’ve ever laid eyes on. And so what if he’s sending crazy thoughts surging through my mind, like wondering what it would be like to claw onto the front of those gym shorts and rub, and keep rubbing until his manhood swells in my hand.
“It’s not your fault I’ve crashed your trip,” he says. “Come on in and I’ll show you the guest room. I don’t mind, honestly. I can always drive back tomorrow morning if I’m cramping your style too much.”
I nod, even if the thought of him driving back to the city makes me want to scream…
Stay, stay, stay, don’t leave. Don’t ever leave me.
I push the thought deep down where it belongs…
But even that is wrong. It doesn’t belong deep down inside of me or anywhere remotely near my mind. It’s the sort of thought I’d never dream of having about my best friend’s dad – before I laid eyes on him, before I drank in his hulking form and his bulging muscles, and that way he has of looking at me…
What way? A voice whispers. You’re imagining it.
I know I must be imagining, wishing the intensity of his eyes into existence, and yet there’s a part of me that can’t deny the tingles that move over my whole body as he consumes me with his gaze.
“Need help with your bags?” He strolls over to the car without waiting for my response, bringing with him his musky manly scent, my gaze flitting to the firmness of his arms. “Rayla?”
“Um, yeah, sure. Thank you.”
We carry the bags in together, Roman grabbing my suitcase as though it weighs nothing, causing the muscles in his arms to press against his skin, delicious outlines that cause even more traitorous desires to surge up inside of me.
The cabin is beautiful inside, far more rustic than I’d imagined it. Every surface is sleek wood and there are rugs everywhere, with gorgeous landscape paintings dotted all over the walls. The exposed rafters give it a super intimate and homely appeal.
Walking ahead of me – with Tanker trotting loyally at his feet – Roman leads me to a door at the very end of the hallway. He opens it and nods inside, revealing a four poster bed carved with various animals running up and down it, with rugs laid over each other on the floor. There’s a door to an ensuite off to the side too, completing the inviting look.
But the best part is the large window at the end of the room, which overlooks the lake, giving me a glorious view of the glittering water and the pine trees all around it.
“This is beautiful,” I murmur, wandering over to the window. “Really, really beautiful.”
“Yes.” Roman’s voice is deep and husky, making me think he’s going to leap at me for a crazed second. “It really is.”
He’s talking about the view, of course, and not about me. Because there’s no tension simmering between us, no want, no need, or anything. It’s all in my head and I need to beat it down, to tame my desires before they have a chance to flare up and cripple me.
At least Millie will be here tomorrow, quietening this insane desire spiraling through me.
I turn as Roman drops my bags onto the bed and makes for the door. “I’ll get the rest. And then I’ll leave you to settle it.”
There’s that word again.
Leave.
I almost call after him to come and stand by the window with me, to wrap his arm over my shoulder and hug me close to him as we take in the scene. I almost ask him if I can rest my cheek against his chest, just for a little while, to hear his heartbeat hammering against my ear.
But then he’s gone, and I know it’s for the best.
I can’t let myself want this man. It can only lead to disaster.
Tomorrow, I reassure myself. Millie will be here tomorrow.
Chapter Four
Roman
I pace up and down my office, shadow-boxing and trying not to look at my laptop.
Those words – Chapter One – have been like a noose hanging around my neck for years now, threatening to tighten with each and every day.
Each time I sit down and try to drag some words out of me, diving into the depths of my creativity, and emerge empty handed… it breaks something in me, shatters it so I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to write again.
This evening it’s even more difficult with thoughts of Rayla surging around my head, flooding my mind until she’s all I can think about. I remember the way she looked standing at the window in her bedroom, the sun framing her body, her dress falling enticingly over her ass and setting something deep inside of me on fire.
Tanker makes a whining sound from his bed in the corner, tilting his head at me.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I tell him. “Do you really think I’d let myself fantasize over my daughter’s best friend?”
He tilts his head even more as if to say, Yeah, yeah I do.
I glance at the clock and see that it’s time for his dinner anyway. And I should probably eat something, instead of pacing around this room and pretend that I’m going to write when the only thing I can think about is Rayla.
How is she doing this to me?
It’s like she casting a goddamn spell on me or something, thoughts of her perfect thighs and her round ass and her large breasts, made for feeding our children, for palming, for grabbing as she creams… won’t stop bouncing around my head.
My manhood is stiff as I push the door open, biting down as insane primal desires hammer through me.
Tanker pads ahead of me and then stops, tail pricked, head tilted. I pause and listen. I can’t not listen as her voice drifts over to me from the open-plan kitchen, rising in a light song, soft notes shimmering in the air.
Something almost like a smile touches my face, but I can’t remember the last time I truly smiled, an ear-to-ear grin that was untinged by darkness, by introspection, by something other than happiness.
Some of my critics have said I can be a bit grim, and there’s not much I can say to argue against them.
The setting sunlight casts orange rays across the kitchen as I enter, pausing in the doorway to watch Rayla as she floats around the kitchen island. That’s what it looks like, floating, as her perfect summer dress cascades around her ankles and dapples her thick thighs.
Tanker pads over to her when she opens the fridge. The little rascal is always ready for a treat. Rayla is so consumed with her singing and her food preparation that she doesn’t even notice me standing in the corner.
She only pauses when she spots Tanker.
“Oh, hello, little man.” Her smile is radiant, lighting up her face as it spreads across her cheeks, making me want to leap across the room and hold her tightly in my arms. “Where did you come from? I thought you were with…”
Finally, she looks up at me, her smile trembling and then dropping. An unreadable look comes into her wide perfect eyes, making me wonder if I’m staring at her like some kind of a weirdo, or if my possessive hungry need is coming through in my expression.
“Oh, hey,” she says. “I didn’t see you there.”
“What were you singing?” I ask
. I can’t stop myself, as curiosity swarms up inside of me, fluttering in my chest. “I could hear your voice, but not the lyrics.”
Her cheeks turn a gorgeous shade of red, the blush spreading from her face down her neck and disappearing into the fabric of her dress. I have to fight not to dart forward and pull the front of her dress down, revealing her round fleshy tits.
“I was practicing for this play,” she murmurs. “There’s a short section, very short, where I have to sing. My character’s standing on this balcony and pining after somebody, a lost love, and… anyway…”
She trails off as I move across the room, stopping at the kitchen island. I grip the edge of it as a way to prevent myself from leaping across the short distance and exploring her body with my greedy hands. I can imagine how red the rest of her would turn, her flesh dappling hotly, driving me to deeper and deeper possessive need.
“You don’t need to be nervous,” I tell her.
“Huh?” Her eyebrows quirk, rising, and she tilts her head. “I’m not nervous.”
“About the play,” I tell her. “About your singing. You sound good.”
I’m not nervous…
Then why is every inch of her turning touch-me red, and why is her chest rising and falling with such dramatic movements I can’t help but let my mind fill with a thousand different fantasies?
Her bent over the kitchen island, her dress in bunches in my fists, her round juicy ass begging to be touched. My hand sliding over her ass and down to her pussy, grinding my palm against it, making her slippery and ready… ready for everything I’m ready to give her, driving deep until she couldn’t take anymore.
Fuck.
I’m getting hard.
At least I changed out of my gym clothes. These jeans should hide my desire a little more than my shorts ever could.
“Thank you,” she murmurs after a long pause and then gestures to her plate. “Do you want a sandwich? I’m making turkey salad. I hope you don’t mind.”
Trapped with My Best Friend's Dad: A Steamy Standalone Instalove Romance (A Man Who Knows What He Wants Book 258) Page 2
