This girl is mine.
“I…” Shea starts, while finger combing her tangled hair. “I should probably go wait for her in the guest room.”
“Yeah,” I say, the tendons of my throat sore from all the groaning. All the straining I did trying to hold back my nut. To be gentle. To no avail. She felt way too good to slow down.
Shea starts to skirt past me. “Well, goodnight—”
I plant a hand on her hip, stopping her. “I was so goddamn rough, angel,” I say, leaning over to brush my lips against her temple. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
Regret is churning in my stomach. “If we had longer, I’d take better care of you.”
A blush graces her cheeks. “I wouldn’t change anything we did,” she whispers, turning her face into my shoulder, kissing me there. “It was perfect.”
The front door opens and bangs off the entry wall, followed by a crash.
“Oops,” slurs my daughter’s voice. “That rug came out of nowhere.”
Shea wince-giggles, separating from me and it’s all I can do not to tug her back against my side. Continue whispering secrets with her in front of the fire. My daughter has obviously returned home drunk, however, and both of us reluctantly leave the living room to go help her. We find her in a heap in the entry way, attempting to stand up.
“Before you ask, yes, I’m drunk,” Emma says when she sees us coming. “It was an accident. I ran right into those shots. Bang.”
Despite being distracted over what just happened in the living room, I can’t help but shake my head in amusement. “All right, come on, kid.” I scoop Emma up off the floor and carry her in direction of the guest room. “Some sleep will do you good.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Emma yawns. “You’re pretty cool, you know that?”
“I’ll grab her some water,” Shea murmurs, slipping toward the kitchen.
I settle Emma down on one side of the guest bed and step back, observing her as she kicks off her shoes and snuggles into the pillow. Shea appears in the doorway holding a glass of water and wow, it’s a good thing Emma is drunk or there is no way she wouldn’t notice that her friend looks like she’s been mauled by a tiger.
Red marks adorn her delicate neck.
Whisker burns galore.
Drowsy eyes. Smeared lip gloss. A bemused expression.
Pride prowls right to left in my gut. I might have been rough, but I fucked her right.
Shea crosses the room, inserting herself between me and the bed where Emma is already starting to drift off. “Here,” Shea says, shaking Emma’s shoulder. “Drink this glass of water. You’ll feel better for it in the morning.”
“How do you know so much about drunk people?” Emma asks, propping herself up on an elbow.
“From you,” Shea says, without irony.
They laugh.
“You guys are the best,” Emma says, after downing the water. “I don’t deserve you.”
Shea looks back at me over her shoulder, guilt etched into her features.
Yeah, I’m feeling it, too. Guilt.
I’m a father. I’m thirty-six. Too old and in no position to be sneaking around with my daughter’s eighteen-year-old friend. Especially when there’s a possibility that me and Emma might finally form a bond after years of stilted communication.
“Good night,” Shea mutters, putting her head down, walking past me and closing herself in the ensuite bathroom.
I can hear it in her tone. See it in her posture.
