Dating My Friend's Daughter

by Penny Wylder

  “Who knows, you might like it. Just like taking my cock deep, deep inside your ass, you might like feeling where I’ve touched you all day, imagining what I have planned for you when you get home.”

  My cock is already hard again, and this time I’m going to take her pussy. Possibly her mouth. Maybe everything, again.

  “Are you trying to turn me on, Mr. Foster?” she asks.

  “Yes, I am.”

  Her hand curls around my shaft. “It’s working.”

  “I know,” I say. “Now choose.”

  She bites her bottom lip, and I kiss her mouth open, tangling her tongue with mine and showing her with my tongue exactly what I’m going to be doing to her shortly.

  “I want to feel it,” she says, when we break apart. “I want to feel it.”

  The smile that’s on my face feels like it’s going to break me open. I don’t think I’ve ever felt such joy. I have the perfect woman, and she’s going to live here, and we’ll never have to be apart again. “I love you, you know that?”

  “I love you, too,” she says, her eyes locking with mine so I can see just how true her words are.

  “Now turn over and show me your ass, because I’m not done with it. Clearly you need to be punished more if we’re going to make sure you remember how to be good.”

  Cora giggles, turning her face into the pillows and wiggling her ass under my hand as it falls to spank her. “Yes, Mr. Foster.”

  Epilogue

  Cora

  Graduation Day

  A s soon as I walk in the door I kick off my heels and peel off the horrible polyester robe that’s been making me sweat all day. Michael is right behind me, loosening his tie. There’s nothing like June in Texas: hot as hell, dry as a bone, and completely unbearable. “Thank God,” I say, flopping back onto the couch. “If that speaker had gone on any longer, I thought I might pass out. That or strip right there.”

  Michael takes off his jacket and disappears into the bedroom, his laughter floating out. I never get tired of his laugh; the deep, sultry sound of it. That laugh could make a nun think dirty thoughts. And since I am most definitely not a nun, my thoughts are way past dirty. He comes out of our bedroom, still in his shirt and slacks, rolling up his sleeves, and I let myself look. All the way from top to bottom and back.

  His hair is just a little bit messy from running his hand through it, and he’s wearing a deep blue shirt that brings out his eyes and makes the rest of him looking fucking fantastic. I study that jawline that made me take a second look the first day of my internship, and down along his body. He looks amazing right now, and if I didn’t know what he looked like naked, I’d say that Michael Foster in a suit is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. Thankfully, I do know what he looks like naked. Halle-fucking-lujah.

  Michael leans against the doorway, hands in his pockets. “Are you happy it’s over?”

  “Graduation?”

  He laughs. “No. College.”

  I think about it for a second. “Maybe. I don’t know. I had a really good time—especially this last year.” I watch as the naughty smile appears on his face, but I keep going. “But I’m ready to start…everything.”

  “Everything?” he asks, coming over to the couch, not bothering to sit.

  I scoot forward to the edge of the couch, intentionally leaning forward so he can see my cleavage. The same move I used on him that first day. Works like a charm. Michael’s eyes go dark as he sees the way I’m leaning, the way I’m eating him up with my eyes, and I say, “Everything.”

  Michael clears his throat. “As much as I would like to pull you over my lap and give you an extra dose of graduation day pleasure, we have a party to go to and dinner reservations.”

  I stand up and wrap my arms around him, and from the feeling of his cock pressing against my hip, he’s very aware of the way my breasts are pressing against him. “Are you sure about that, Mr. Foster?”

  He laughs again, this time more sensual. “Unfortunately, yes. Ellen spent a lot of time on that party, and if we don’t show up she’s going to make both our lives a living hell.”

  “That’s true. I need to stay on her good side if I’m going to keep sneaking into your office during your lunch hour.”

  “Keep bringing her those lattes and I don’t think we’ll have a problem,” he says. “But, before we go, I do have something for you.”

  I raise an eyebrow, and make a meaningful glance towards the bulge in his pants. “Oh?”

  Michael pulls me to the couch so that we’re sitting together. “Not that. That, I’m saving for later.” He leans forward and whispers, “And later, I’m not going to stop until you’re screaming in pleasure.”

  I shiver, and before I know it, my lips are on his. I never get tired of his kisses, the way they set my body on fire and make me crave him in a way no man has ever done for me. I knew from that first day that he was different, that I wanted him. Michael pulls away, and I breathe, gasping for air because he steals my breath away. I realize that we’re both horizontal, without even realizing that we got that way. “I’m looking forward to later,” I say, breathless.

  Michael smiles, pressing another kiss to my lips before he moves us upright again. “Me too.”

  “So what is this thing you have for me? You already gave me the best graduation present ever by giving me a job.”

  “Well,” Michael says, clearing his throat, “in about three weeks, it will be the one-year anniversary of the day we met. Of the day you walked into my office and knocked me off my feet. I thought about waiting for that day, but it didn’t feel right. It felt like this was the perfect day.”

  A dawning feeling of shock rolls over me. Is what I think is happening about to actually happen?

  “And I didn’t want to do this in public, because I wanted it to be just us, before we’re out with people and you’re swarmed with admirers.” He shakes his head, looking away for a second. “I’ve loved you since…I can’t even remember a time when I didn’t, even when I was spending all my time fighting it. And when you said you loved me and you agreed to move in with me, I thought that I was the happiest man in the world. But there’s one thing I can think of that would make me even happier.”

  Michael moves off the couch, and suddenly he’s kneeling in front of me and I can’t breathe. This is real. This is really happening. Oh my God. Oh my God. My heart is pounding in my chest and I have an adrenaline rush and there’s a bubble of pure joy rising in my chest. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a little box. Everything is blurry because there are tears in my eyes. He opens the box and a gorgeous ring—rose gold and diamonds—is inside.

  “Cora Bradbury,” Michael says, “will you marry me?”

  “Yes!” The word is out of my mouth almost before he’s finished the question, and then I’m on him. I can’t stop kissing him, and we collapse onto the floor together. I’m laughing through my tears, and I don’t know if I’ve ever been this happy before. Michael pulls away, taking my hand and putting the ring on my finger.

  “Rose gold to match your red hair.”

  I roll my eyes. “There’s more to me than my red hair, Mr. Foster.”

  “Believe me, future Mrs. Foster, I know.” He kisses my hand right over the ring, and the way he’s looking down at me, it makes my chest ache. There’s pure emotion there, and I feel it as he kisses me again. It’s slow this time, deep. He whispers the words against my lips, “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “Should we go to this party so that we can come back and I can make good on my promise?”

  “Hmm,” I say. “I could try to seduce you into staying.”

  Michael brushes the hair away from my face. “You could. Or we can change, go to the party, tell everyone and bask in all the congratulations, collect all the gifts I know people got you, and then come home and have a very long night of sex.”

  “Just how long is this night of sex?” I ask.

  “I’ve already told Ellen I’m
not coming in tomorrow.”

  I can’t keep the smile off my face, because I know what that means. It means that tonight he’s not going to go easy on me. He’s going to command me, and I’m going to let him, and when he finally lets me come, I’m going to explode. And if we’re not going to work tomorrow it’s going to happen again and again. I’m wet just thinking about it.

  Michael laughs, and I realize that I just said that last part out loud. “Good. I expect you to be dripping when we get back here.”

  “Dripping?”

  “Yes. So that I can tear your clothes off and bury my cock in you over and over again.” He presses his lips to mine, hands running down my side. I can feel my body heating up, and I pull him down to me. As soon as I do, he pulls away. “Later.”

  I pout. “Fine.”

  He pulls me up off the floor, and never lets go of my hand as he pulls me to the bedroom. “Just because we’re waiting until later, doesn’t mean I don’t have every intention of watching you change.”

  “Oh, is that so? Do you want me to put on a show for you?”

  “If you put on a show for me, you very well may get your way and we’ll never leave the apartment,” he says, pulling out the suit he’s planning on wearing to the party.

  “Then I’m definitely going to do that.”

  Michael shakes his head as I start to wiggle out of my dress. “Don’t you dare.”

  “Is that a command, Sir?”

  “You bet it is.”

  “Hmm,” I say, holding out my hand and admiring my ring. “I have one condition, one change that I want.”

  He pulls me against him. “And what is that?”

  “If I have to call you Mr. Foster, then you have to call me Mrs.”

  The smile on his face blinds me and fills me up and turns me on and a million other things that overwhelm my every sense. “You have a deal, Mrs. Foster.”

  * * *

  THE END

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  * * *

  I should be looking through the job ads since rent is due faster than my bank account can keep up, but everything that I’m qualified for is either demeaning or doesn’t pay enough. When the most promising thing I can find is a mascot at a burger shop, I decide to give my search a rest and look through travel magazines instead. One day I will go to Greece. It’s my life’s mission. I don’t care what kind of job it requires to get there. I’m going to do it—even if that means dancing in a hamburger costume on main street.

  Mandi, my roommate and best friend, walks in and plops down on the couch beside me. She looks worn out and stares at the blank TV screen with her brow furrowed.

  We’ve been friends most of our lives, and surprisingly, we’re still friends after rooming together for a year. She’s the worst when it comes to cleaning up after herself, so I do it for her. Which is a fair trade considering she makes more money than I do and picks up my slack when I can’t pull my weight with the bills. Weird thing is, I don’t even know exactly what she does for a living. Whatever it is, she always has money. Lots of it. I’ve asked, but she always manages to skirt around the answer. My guess would be stripping. In the last year she’s gotten breast and butt implants, her lips done, and hair extensions. Each time she gets some new augmentation, I ask her why, and she always says, “It’s for work.” What other kind of job requires that kind of upkeep?

  I don’t push her for answers because a. It’s none of my business, and b. I don’t want her to feel ashamed.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, when she continues to sit there without saying anything.

  “Oh, just work stuff.”

  I raise my eyebrows as if to say, ‘That’s all you’ll give me?’

  “Alright. If you want to talk about it, you know where to find me,” I say and get up to go to my room.

  “Wait, Sylph.” I stop and turn to face her. She looks worried.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “I need a big favor.”

  I slowly walk back toward her and sit on the couch. The tone of her voice tells me I might not like what she has to ask. “With what?”

  “Work stuff.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. Is she finally going to reveal what she does for a living? A tendril of nervousness coils in my stomach. If I’m right, and she’s stripping for money, what could she possibly need my help with? I certainly don’t have the assets she has. I barely fill my B cup bra; my ass is shapely but small. I’m not exactly built for the kinds of things I fear she might ask me to do.

  “What kind of work stuff?” I ask hesitantly.

  She cringes, and now I’m scared. “The kind where you pretend to be married to someone.”

  I just sit here, blinking, wondering if I heard her right. “You want me to pretend to marry someone …” I test out the words to see if they make sense when I say them out loud versus the way it sounds in my head. “… for money.”

  This is a thing? I’ve never heard of it before and I can’t believe Mandi has kept it from me all this time.

  Mandi shrugs. “Easy, right? And the pay is good.”

  Just thought of marriage, pretend or otherwise, fills me with anxiety. I was married before, when I was eighteen. Divorced by the time I was nineteen. It left a bad taste in my mouth and I don’t ever want to go through anything like that ever again.

  “I’m sorry, Mandi, I can’t.”

  I start to stand, but she grabs my arm, her eyes pleading. I’ve never seen her desperate like this before.

  “I know it sounds crazy, and I would never ask you to do something so bizarre if I weren’t absolutely desperate.”

  “This is your job, pretending to marry people?”

  “Believe it or not, it’s a high-demand business. And ten thousand dollars per week isn’t bad pay.”

  I choke on nothing. There is literally nothing in my mouth and yet it feels like I swallowed a jawbreaker. “Ten thousand a week? That’s what these men pay you?”

  All the things I could do with ten grand a week flash through my head. Mostly images of Greece come up, but there are other things too, like rent, and my phone bill, and food. I imagine stress-free days lounging on the couch instead job hunting. I can stretch 10k long enough to figure out what I’m going to do with my life.

  “How long do the jobs last?” I ask.

  “A few weeks, usually.”

  A few weeks. Again, my head is flooded with images of more money and less problems. How hard could it be to pretend to marry someone, unless …

  “Do you have to sleep with these men?”

  “God, no. I’m not a prostitute. All you would have to do is meet with the guy, come up with a plan about your history together, meet the family or the people he’s trying to either impress or get off his back, have a pretend ceremony to make those people happy, then when the client is ready to exit the marriage, you part ways with a fat check in hand.”

  “I guess that sounds easy enough,” I say.

  Maybe too easy. The guy is probably a troll. Anyone who has to pay someone to pretend to be their fiancée must need a bag over his head to get laid, but I suppose that doesn’t matter. I don’t have to sleep with him. All I have to do is pretend to be his bride and I get paid more in a few weeks than I have in a year.

  “I’m in,” I say. Though the money sounds amazing, I’m still skeptical. It sounds too good to be true.

  Mandi squeals and wraps her arms around my neck in a bone-crushing hug. “Thank you so much. You’re saving my skin.”

  Mandi goes over the client’s information with me. Heath Starre is a billionaire heir for a huge international real estate development company. He’s never been married, has never had a real girlfriend of any kind. I bet he looks like Lord Fa
rquaad from Shrek: short, so hairy he would be shot in the woods during hunting season, and probably an honest-to-god asshole too. People with that kind of money don’t have to be nice. All they have to do is wave some bills around and people will do whatever they want. I can already picture the kind of shit-show I’m getting myself into. I just have to keep my eye on the prize. I need that money. Do it for Greece, Sylph.

  “You ready for this?” Mandi asks.

  I shrug. What choice do I have? My job prospects are basically nothing and I’m drowning in debt. If I’m not careful, I’ll find myself homeless, or worse, back at my parents’ house. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “Good. I’ll arrange a meeting for you at his office. He’ll go over the details for the background of your relationship and the things he needs you to do going forward.” She sounds far more excited about this than I feel.

  “Okay.” I square my shoulders and take a deep breath. “Let’s do this.”

  * * *

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