Kissing My Dad's Friend
“To what do I owe this surprise?” I ask, still blushing. I take a hesitant sip of the coffee before I relax. Cream, no sugar. Just the way I always drink it. Russ has picked up coffee orders en route to my parents’ place before, but I’m surprised he noticed which of our three orders was mine. Or that he remembered it. I can’t remember the last time we were all together like that. It must have been months ago. Did he really remember so many tiny details about me?
As if reading my mind, he winks. “It was a selfish move, actually. I wanted to brighten up my own day a little bit. I knew seeing you would be the quickest way to do that.”
I duck my head to hide the smile that tugs at the corners of my lips. “Russ…”
“About yesterday.” He dips a little closer, lowers his voice even more, although his baritone deep voice is already pitched pretty low. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”
“Neither can I,” I breathe, and I force myself to look up, then, and meet his gaze. Those dark brown eyes of his bore into me, from this distance, so filled with heat and desire that I can hardly make myself look away. But I do. I have to. “But, Russ… we can’t do this.”
He arches an eyebrow, studying me. “I already told you, I’m not worried about getting let go. I have plenty of other fish on the line, employment-wise. I’d be fine.”
“But you’d lose your status. Surely another hospital wouldn’t employ you at the… well, the level you’re at now.”
“Or with as much influence as I have, since the director is my best friend, you mean?” Russ catches my eye with a smirk. “Maggie. I’ve thought this through. Long before yesterday, actually.”
My cheeks heat up all over again at the suggestion. At what that implies. But I don’t rise to the bait. I can’t. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t do this, to you or to me. My father is… he’s so much more controlling than you understand.”
“Believe me, I know how controlling your father is, and what he’s capable of.” Russ shakes his head slowly. “Maggie, if you don’t want to do this, I understand—”
“It’s not that,” I reply, so vehemently that it takes us both aback. I shake my head. “I… I want you. I’ve wanted you for years. But we can’t, okay?” With that, I shove off the wall, determined to walk away before I do something more that I’ll come to regret. “Just… leave it.” Without waiting for him to reply, I push through the locker room door, into the women’s area, where he can’t follow me. I crouch there against one of the benches, my warm coffee in hand, and take deep breaths, until the stinging at the backs of my eyes finally goes away.
This is for the best. I have to push him away, before this goes any farther. Before we both get hurt.
By lunchtime, I’ve almost stopped obsessing over the deep, morose expression in Russ’s honey brown eyes when he looked at me, as I told him we had to end things. At least, so I tell myself. But it’s hard to stay preoccupied, or busy, when I barely have enough patients to take care of to distract myself. Unfortunately, all the down time my father ensured I have in my schedule just leaves me way more time to fantasize about his friend.
Just before lunch, I give in and lock myself into one of the bathroom stalls. I shut my eyes and lean back against the wall. Shut in here, I can almost imagine that I’m back in the stairwell again with Russ. I can feel the heat of his warm body pressed against mine. The way his thick, strong leg parted my thighs as he pinned me back against the wall. The way his hands roamed across my body, traced my curves. I do the same with my own hands now, following his tracks, and it feels all right, but nowhere near as good as when he did it. His hands were so much rougher, stronger, more calloused and manly than mine.
Finally, I give up and just slide a hand under the waistband of my scrubs, tracing my panties, dipping beneath them. Once again, it’s inadequate. My fingers are narrow and soft and slim. Nothing like Russ’s thick fingers. But I do my best, tracing the lips of my pussy, my eyes squeezed shut tight, trying to imagine him. The scent of his sweat and musk, the smell of sex that lingered between us in the stairwell the last time he fucked me. I try to imagine my finger is his, the way he pressed a fingertip inside my pussy and traced its edges, slowly moving in and out.