Hooking Up With My Dad's Best Friend

He doesn’t even have to touch my clit to have me on the edge, gripping his shoulders to keep my balance. Bryce uses his free hand to grab my hair and lock our gazes together. “Don’t look away,” he tells me.

I don’t. I fall into the dark blue of his eyes, and surrender to the feeling that’s carrying me away. I don’t even try to fight the rising tide of pleasure as it crashes over me. The orgasm is fast devastating, like a tornado rolling through my body. I soak his fingers, and my thighs, and I bite my lip to keep my moans in check. But I don’t look away from him as he continues to thrust through the orgasm until I’m limp and shuddering on his hand.

As soon as he pulls his hand away, I miss the sensation of him filling me. He lifts his fingers to my mouth, and I open. He loves it when I taste myself, and I know that he’s going to be hard when we walk out of here. I lick his fingers clean, watching his jaw clench with arousal and desire, before he lets me go.

Bryce is breathing hard, and he closes his eyes before he leaves the bathroom. I follow a couple minutes later, taking a second to clean up before I go back to the booth. The burgers arrived while we were gone, and I dive into mine without saying anything. Though I make a point of touching Bryce’s leg with my foot under the table. I want him to feel me.

The waitress stops by as we’re eating. “Is everything all right here?”

“Yes,” I say. “Everything is fine.”

She looks at me and I swear, it’s like it’s the first time that she’s seen me. She looks at me, and takes in my appearance. I barely glanced in the mirror while I was in there—I’m sure there’s something that says ‘quickie’ about me. “Oh,” she says. “Okay.”

Bryce smirks at me. “You know, if I end up getting hard every time I eat a hamburger, I’m going to blame you.”

“Then you’ll just have to take me to more diners. Who knows what kind of ‘listening experiences’ they have there.”

“That’s a very good point. And since you’re so keen on it, I’ll make sure to show you some of my favorite songs once we’re on the road again.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That’s not what—”

“I know what you meant, Katti,” Bryce cuts me off, laughing while he reaches for the ketchup. “More trips to diners will be arranged. I promise you.”

“Thank you,” I grin. “I would hate to miss out on British singing, no matter who is doing it.”

We’re both laughing now, and I think that this might be my favorite lunch I’ve ever had.

10

The rest of the trip is relatively uneventful, though Bryce does keep his promise to play me his favorite songs. It’s everything from true oldies to alternative rock and further to mainstream popular music.

He makes me laugh by singing along with every song—loudly and sometimes intentionally off-key—and he’s actually really good. I can’t believe that I never thought about this. That his deep, resonant voice would lend itself perfectly to singing. It’s also strange to hear him singing without the British accent. By necessity, mimicking American songs makes him sound American, and it’s weird.

We end up arriving in Waterton just in time for the start of the shower. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to Bryce’s family home, where the shower is being held. But it’s a gorgeous, huge house in a neighborhood set up on a hill with beautiful views of the valley laid out in front of it. From what I remember, there’s also a stunning pool in the back yard.

When we drive up, there are pink balloons and streamers everywhere. The entire house is decorated within an inch of its life. There is no second-guessing the fact that this is the place where the shower is being held.

“Let me guess,” I say. “It’s a girl?”

Bryce laughs. “Yes. How did you guess?”

I shrug. “Pure gut instinct,” I say.

Bryce leans across the center console and kisses me, long and slow, before he raises our joined hands to his lips and kisses the back of mine. “The last one for a while, I suppose,” he says.

I nod. “Unfortunately. Okay, let’s go see your sister.”

Bryce gets out of the car and grabs the present he brought from out of the trunk. It’s a box that’s almost bigger than I can carry, wrapped in gorgeous pink paper. He brought it into the store yesterday and insisted on filling it with every children’s book that I recommended to him. The box easily weighs thirty-five pounds, and I’m almost jealous of this baby because she is going to have a better library than I did as a kid.