Snowbound with my best friend's father

The Man I Should Never Want

CHAPTER 1 – The Man I Should Never Want

The first snow of December drifted through the night sky as I stood frozen in front of the mansion’s towering doors, hugging my suitcase close like it was a shield. I shouldn’t be here. I knew that the second I stepped onto the Moretti estate.

My best friend invited me for the holiday, saying I needed “a break, a distraction, and maybe a hot cocoa or five.” What she didn’t mention—what she never mentioned—was that her father would also be here.

Lorenzo Devereaux.

The name rolled like velvet and danger.

A man whispered about in boardrooms and back alleys.

A man with power thick enough to choke the air.

A man whose stare could warm or destroy.

A man I should never want.

I told myself I’d survive three days here. Just three. Then I’d go home, pretend I hadn’t noticed the way his voice could melt my spine, pretend my body didn’t react whenever he entered a room.

But then the door opened.

And there he stood.

Dressed in a dark turtleneck that clung to every sculpted line of his body, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal veins and power, Lorenzo leaned against the doorframe like he owned the world—and the right to look at me like that.

His eyes swept over me slowly. Too slowly.

Like he’d been waiting. Like he was hungry.

“Aria,” he said, voice low and rich, a forbidden caress.

“You’re early.”

I swallowed. “I—I can wait outside. It’s fine.”

He stepped closer, snow melting on his shoulders.

“No,” he murmured.

“With this cold? You come inside. Now.”

My breath hitched as he took my suitcase from my shaking hands, his fingers brushing mine. Satin heat burned up my arm. I cursed myself for reacting. I cursed him more for noticing.

Inside, the mansion glowed with warm lights, garlands, cinnamon scents—everything that screamed cheerful holidays.

But nothing in me felt cheerful.

Because Lorenzo Devereaux was too close.

Because he shut the door behind us, sealing me inside his world.

Because his hand rested on the small of my back, guiding me deeper into the dimly lit foyer.

“Where’s Elise?” I managed.

“Delayed flight,” he said.

Eyes on me. Not blinking. Not hiding.

“She won’t be here until tomorrow morning.”

Tomorrow.

Meaning…

Just him.

And me.

Alone.

My heartbeat went wild.

“That bothers you?” he asked.

I turned my head too quickly, almost bumping into his chest.

“No. Of course not. Why would it?”

One side of his lips lifted—dangerous, knowing, wicked.

“You tell me.”

He was too close.

Too intentional.

Too everything.

I moved away, desperate for space, but the heel of my boot slipped on the polished marble floor.

In a flash, his hand wrapped around my waist.

Iron strong.

Hot.

Possessive.

He pulled me into him, chest against mine, breath touching my cheek.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice a dark growl that slid through me like sin.

“I can’t have you getting hurt in my house.”

“I’m—I’m fine,” I whispered, barely able to breathe.

But he didn’t let go.

Not immediately.

Not until he felt how fast my heart was beating for him.

When he did release me, his hand lingered a moment too long.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he said softly.

But there was nothing soft in his eyes.

Only heat.

Only warning.

Only want.

As he walked away, I realized with a full-body shiver:

This holiday will ruin me.

Because my best friend’s father wasn’t just dangerous.

He wasn’t just taboo.

He wasn’t just the man I should avoid.

He was the man who looked at me like I was already his.

The guest room felt too warm, too quiet, too… dangerous.

Maybe because Lorenzo had carried my suitcase all the way upstairs—one hand gripping the handle, the other resting lightly on my lower back, as if guiding me was his right. As if touching me came naturally.

The moment the door closed behind him, I fell face-first into the bed and let out a muffled scream into the pillow.

Three days.

Three days alone in this house before Elise arrived.

I could survive that, right?

…Right?

A soft knock snapped me upright.

Before I could answer, the door opened a fraction.

“Aria?”

Lorenzo’s voice slid inside the room before he did—smooth, deep, impossibly warm.

“Dinner’s ready,” he said. “Come down whenever you’re comfortable.”

But he didn’t leave.

He lingered.

Like he wanted to say more.

Like he wanted to stay.

His gaze moved slowly over me—from my messy hair to my bare legs hanging off the edge of the bed.

He inhaled once, quietly.

As if he felt the effect too.

“I’ll be… right down,” I whispered.

His eyes held mine for a heartbeat too long.

Then he exhaled and stepped back.

“Don’t keep me waiting.”

The door closed softly.

My pulse didn’t.

---

The Dining Room

The chandelier cast golden light over the long wooden table, set perfectly for two.

Two.

I froze at the doorway.

He sat at the head of the table, sleeves rolled up, forearms flexing as he sliced into a piece of roast. He didn’t notice me at first—or pretended not to. But the moment I took a single step, his eyes lifted.

And pinned me.

Slowly, deliberately, he stood.

“Here,” he said, walking to the chair beside him—not across, not far.

Beside.

Close.

“I thought… I’d sit over there,” I said weakly.

“No,” he replied, low and final.

“I want you here.”

He pulled the chair out, waiting.

I sat because my legs didn’t trust me.

The air thickened.

His arm brushed mine as he reached for the wine.

A simple touch.

Barely a graze.

But my whole body reacted—sharp, electric, humiliatingly obvious.

He paused.

Then poured the wine very slowly, eyes on my face, watching every tiny shift in me.

“Are you nervous, Aria?”

“No.”

Lie.

And his smirk said he knew it.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he murmured.

I swallowed.

“I’m not afraid.”

He leaned closer, lips near my ear.

“Then what are you?”

My breath caught.

I didn’t answer.

I couldn’t.

---

After Dinner

Snow hammered the windows as the storm rolled in. The house hummed with heat and holiday lights, but all I felt was the pressure between us—thick, hot, dangerous.

I tried to escape—to run upstairs, lock myself in the guest room, breathe.

But as I turned the hallway corner, I collided with a hard chest.

His.

Lorenzo caught me by the waist instantly.

Again.

Always.

“Slow down,” he murmured.

“I—sorry. I was just going to my room.”

His hand stayed on my waist.

Warm.

Big.

Claiming.

My heartbeat jumped under his touch.

“You’ve been avoiding my eyes all night.”

“I haven’t,” I lied.

He angled my chin up with two fingers.

A soft touch.

A devastating one.

“Look at me.”

I did.

And it ruined me.

His eyes weren’t cold or distant—they were burning.

Focused.

On me.

“You feel it too,” Lorenzo said quietly.

I froze.

“What… what do you mean?”

He stepped closer; my back met the wall.

“I’ve been trying to ignore it,” he continued, voice dropping lower.

“But you make it very… difficult.”

His thumb brushed my jaw, slow, gentle, lethal.

“I shouldn’t want you,” he whispered.

My breath hitched.

“But God help me, Aria… I do.”

Lightning cracked outside.

Snow whirled violently.

The house felt too still.

His forehead nearly touched mine.

My lips parted.

A whisper escaped before I could stop it.

“Lorenzo…”

He inhaled sharply at the sound of his name on my lips.

Then—

He stepped back.

Fast.

Like he’d burned himself.

His jaw clenched, breath uneven.

“This is wrong,” he muttered.

“I’m your best friend’s father. I shouldn’t—”

He cut himself off, running a hand through his hair, pacing once.

“Go to your room,” he said finally, voice tight, strained.

Before I forget every reason I shouldn’t touch you.”

I stood frozen, trembling.

He didn’t look back.

He just walked away—shoulders stiff, fists clenched—like a man fighting a losing war with himself.

And God…

I was losing mine too.

The power went out just after midnight.

One sharp crack of thunder—

one blink—

and the entire mansion fell into darkness.

I jolted upright in bed, heart pounding, breath fogging the cold air. The heater stopped humming. Silence swallowed everything except the roar of the storm outside.

“Great,” I whispered. “Perfect.”

I grabbed my phone, but the screen was at 3%.

Dead any minute.

A knock hit my door—firm, controlled, unmistakable.

My pulse jumped.

“Aria.”

His voice.

Even in the dark, I felt it skim down my skin.

I opened the door, and there he stood—broad shoulders outlined by the faint glow of a flashlight, jaw sharp, expression unreadable.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

I nodded, though my hands trembled.

“The generator usually kicks in,” he continued, “but the storm’s too strong. Stay close to the heat source. Come downstairs.”

I didn’t question him.

Couldn’t.

Not when he said stay close to me without saying it.

---

The Living Room

The only light came from the massive fireplace where flames crackled violently against the cold.

Lorenzo knelt in front of it, feeding wood into the fire. The warm orange glow painted his skin—his shoulders, his arms, his throat. Shadows hugged every sharp angle of him.

Too beautiful.

Too dangerous.

“Come closer,” he said without looking back.

I obeyed, sitting on the thick fur rug spread in front of the hearth. Heat touched my face, soothing and sharp at the same time.

He finally turned around.

And paused.

His eyes swept over me slowly, drinking in the way the fire lit my bare legs, the oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder, the slight shiver running through me.

“You’re cold,” he murmured.

I opened my mouth to answer, but he was already moving.

He sat beside me—close enough that our knees touched—and wrapped the wool blanket around my shoulders, pulling it snug.

His hands lingered.

Large. Warm.

Stay-stay-stay.

My breath caught.

“You’re trembling,” he said.

“I’m… just not used to storms.”

He studied me for a full, devastating second.

“You’re lying.”

I forced a small laugh. “Why would I lie?”

His answer was a whisper that brushed my ear.

“Because you only shake like this when I’m too close.”

Heat shot through me.

My fingers tightened around the blanket.

“Lorenzo—”

He lifted my chin before I could finish.

Tell me to stop, his touch said.

Tell me to move away, his eyes challenged.

Tell me you don’t feel this.

But I couldn’t say any of it.

“You don’t understand,” I whispered.

His voice dropped.

“I understand more than you think.”

Lightning flashed behind him, illuminating the hunger etched over every inch of his face.

Not gentle.

Not confused.

Not fatherly.

Hunger.

Raw.

Pent-up.

Forbidden.

The kind that destroys whatever tries to stand in its way.

“I’ve tried to ignore it,” he said, each word low and rough.

“Tried to keep my distance. Tried to pretend you don’t affect me.”

My breath stuttered.

“But you walk into a room, Aria…”

His thumb brushed my lower lip, slow, curious, devastating.

“And everything in me reacts.”

The world blurred.

The storm, the fire, the darkness.

All of it vanished beneath the weight of his gaze.

“You’re Elise’s father,” I whispered, more to myself than to him.

He closed his eyes—pain, conflict, desire twisting through him—before meeting my gaze again.

“I know,” he said.

“And I’m still losing my mind over you.”

The confession hit me harder than the thunder.

I leaned back, heart slamming.

“This is wrong,” I breathed.

He moved closer.

“So wrong,” he agreed, voice shaking with restraint.

“But tell me you don’t want me to cross that line.”

Silence.

A trembling inhale.

A truth I couldn’t hide.

“I can’t,” I whispered.

Lorenzo’s jaw tensed.

His hand slid from my chin down to my waist, pulling me closer, making my breath shatter.

“Say it,” he murmured.

“Say you want me.”

The fire cracked violently behind us.

Heat crawled under my skin.

My pulse thundered.

I didn’t look away.

“I want you,” I whispered.

Everything in him snapped.

His fist tightened in the blanket.

His breath hitched.

His control—his legendary, ruthless control—shattered into dust.

He leaned in.

Slow.

Predatory.

Inevitable.

His forehead touched mine, breaths mixing, lips almost brushing.

“Then God forgive me,” he growled softly,

“because I’m about to stop pretending.”

Both Aria and Lorenzo are fully consenting adults.

---

The moment his forehead touched mine, the world stopped breathing.

The fire crackled low, a slow, hungry burn—mirroring the heat tightening between us. Snow pounded the windows harder, as if the storm outside understood something unstoppable was about to break inside this room.

His hand slid to the back of my neck, large and warm, guiding me closer until our lips were a breath apart.

“Aria…” he whispered, voice raw.

“Last chance. Tell me to walk away.”

I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

“I don’t want you to,” I breathed.

That was it.

The final thread of his restraint snapped with a low, guttural sound from deep in his chest.

Lorenzo’s lips crashed into mine—slow at first, like he’d been starving too long and wanted to savor every second. His hand cupped my jaw, thumb stroking my cheek as if committing the shape of me to memory.

But the kiss deepened fast.

Too fast.

Too intense.

He pulled me fully into his lap, my knees straddling his thighs, his hands gripping my waist with a possessive urgency he could no longer hide.

“God, Aria…” he whispered against my mouth.

“You have no idea what you do to me.”

I felt it—every inch of tension he’d been fighting since the moment I stepped into his home. His breath was rough, hot, desperate. His hands roamed up my back, slow and reverent, as though touching me was something he’d dreamed about far too many nights.

“I shouldn’t want you,” he said, voice breaking as his lips moved to my neck.

“But I do. I want you so damn much.”

I tangled my fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, unafraid now of the truth pouring out of both of us.

The storm raged harder, wind howling around the house like it wanted to tear the world apart—but inside, all I felt was his warmth, his strength, his need wrapping around me completely.

His mouth returned to mine, deeper, hotter, filled with every moment he’d held back.

No turning back.

No pretending.

No denying.

“Lorenzo…” I whispered against his lips.

He froze—not to pull away, but to look at me.

Really look.

Eyes burning with something more dangerous than desire.

Something deeper.

“Tell me,” he whispered.

“Tell me this means something to you.”

My heart pounded so hard it hurt.

“It does,” I said, voice trembling. “More than I want to admit.”

His exhale shuddered out of him—relief, hunger, surrender.

He pulled me tighter, kissing me again, slower now, like he finally allowed himself to have what he’d forbidden for too long.

Minutes—or hours—passed in a blur of heat and breath and whispered names. The fire dimmed into glowing embers. The storm softened into gentle flakes tapping the windows.

And when he finally rested his forehead against mine again, both of us panting, flushed, undone—Lorenzo brushed his thumb over my swollen lower lip.

“This…” he murmured, voice hoarse,

“…this doesn’t end tonight.”

I blinked, chest rising and falling.

“What happens now?”

He lifted my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.

“I stop pretending you’re just my daughter’s best friend,” he said softly.

“And you stop pretending you don’t want to be mine.”

My breath caught.

He kissed me one last time—slow, deep, claiming.

Then he whispered against my mouth:

“Tomorrow… we’ll deal with everything else.

But tonight, Aria…

you’re staying right here with me.”

Outside, the storm finally broke.

Inside, so did we.

But in a way we could never take back—

and never wanted to.