Quiet One Claims Her Best Friend's Father

Danielle had spent three years pretending she didn’t notice the way Damon filled out a pair of jeans or how his voice dropped into that low, gravelly register when he talked about anything other than his daughter. At nineteen she still felt like the bookish shadow trailing behind Fiona’s loud laughter and endless stream of boyfriends, but every time she slept over she catalogued the salt-and-pepper at Damon’s temples, the thick forearms dusted with dark hair, the way his dress shirts stretched across a chest that belonged on a man half his forty-six years. Fiona never shut up about how her dad was “embarrassingly hot for an old guy,” and Danielle had nodded along like the good best friend she was supposed to be while her cunt clenched under the table.

Now Fiona was gone for a full week—some last-minute beach trip with her newest fling—and Danielle had the house to herself with Damon. Officially she was keeping him company so he wouldn’t rattle around the big empty place right after the divorce papers finalized. Unofficially she had packed the shortest robe she owned and left every pair of panties in her dorm drawer.

The first two days were torture dressed up as politeness. Damon cooked dinner both nights, moving around the kitchen in soft gray sweatpants that did nothing to hide the heavy swing of his cock. Danielle sat at the island in oversized hoodies, legs pressed together, pretending to read while she watched the flex of his shoulders. He leaned past her to grab a wine glass once and his forearm brushed the side of her breast; neither of them jumped away fast enough. Later he put a hand on the small of her back guiding her toward the living room couch and left it there three heartbeats longer than fatherly. His palm was warm, broad, and she felt the imprint of it all the way up to her nipples.

By the third night the air in the house felt thick enough to chew. Damon poured two generous glasses of red and they ended up on the big leather couch, some forgotten movie flickering. Danielle had changed into the robe—thin black silk that barely covered the tops of her thighs—and nothing else. She sat with her legs folded under her, the fabric already riding high. Every time she shifted she felt cool air kiss the bare lips of her pussy.