Oops, Dad… I Fell for Your Best Friend

Blair pov The elevator doors slide open, and my heart slams so hard against my ribs that I'm sure he can hear it from across the foyer. Alexander King. There he stands, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows that drown his penthouse in gold. The city sprawls beneath him like a kingdom he owns, and maybe he does. He looks exactly like my dreams carved him: tailored charcoal suit, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms that haunt my late nights, dark hair swept back with that effortless arrogance I've been obsessed with since I was fifteen. He tilts his head, and the corner of his mouth curves. Not quite a smile. It's more like amusement he's trying to hide. "Blair." My name rolls off his tongue like warm whiskey. "Look at you. Last time I saw you, you barely reached my shoulder." I want to say something witty. Something that proves I'm not the same little girl he remembers. But all I can manage is breathless, "Hi, Alex." His eyes flicker just a fraction at the nickname. His nickname. The one only his closest friends use. My father calls him Alex, so why shouldn't I? Except the way it leaves, my lips feel heavier. Intimate. I watch him register that weight, and I smile inside when he clears his throat. "Your parents called ahead." He steps aside, gesturing me in. "The guest room is ready. I had my assistant stock the fridge with whatever you like." I walk past him, close enough that my arm almost brushes his chest. The scent of him,cedar and something darker, something I can't name.. wraps around me like silk. My thighs clench without permission. I've been wet for this man since I learned what the feeling meant. "Whatever I like?" I echo, turning to face him. I let my gaze drag down his torso, slow and deliberate. "That's a dangerous offer, Alex." Something shifts behind his eyes. A flash of heat, gone before I can savor it. He's good at this,the gentleman mask. But I've been studying him for a decade. I know the tiny tells. The way his jaw tightens. The way his fingers curl against his thigh, like he's physically stopping himself from reaching for something. Me. He wants to reach for me. "Blair." My name again, lower this time. Almost a warning. "You're twenty-two. I'm forty-four. I changed your diapers." "And you've been in my dreams every night for as long as I can remember." I shrug, letting my jacket slip off one shoulder. "So we're even." His laugh is rough, cut short. He runs a hand through his hair and turns toward the kitchen island, where a decanter of amber liquid catches the dying sun. He pours himself a glass,no, two glasses. He slides one toward the empty stool across from him. "Come. Sit." He gestures. "We need to talk about the rules." I perch on the stool, letting my legs cross slowly. The skirt I chose rides up. I see his gaze dip for half a second before it snaps back to my face. Gotcha. "Rules?" I wrap my fingers around the glass. Our knuckles are almost touch. "I'm not a teenager, Alex. I can handle myself." "Your father asked me to keep you out of trouble." He takes a long sip, and I watch his throat move. "That means no clubs, no late nights without telling me where you are, and—" "No men?" I finish sweetly. His grip on the glass tightens. White knuckles. Just like I imagined. "That too," he says quietly. "What if I don't plan on seeing other men this summer?" I lean forward, letting the neckline of my top gape just slightly. "What if I already know exactly who I want?" The silence stretches between us. Thick. Suffocating. I can hear my own pulse hammering. He sets his glass down. Slow. Controlled. Then he looks at me,really looks, like he's seeing me for the first time. His eyes travel from my lips down to where my fingers rest on the marble counter, then back up again. When he speaks, his voice is barely above a growl. "Don't play games with me, Blair." "Who said I'm playing?" He stands abruptly. His chair scrapes against the floor, and he rounds the island until he's standing right in front of me. Close. Too close. I can feel the heat radiating off his chest, smell that dark, addictive scent. He places a hand on the counter beside me, caging me in. "Listen carefully." His breath ghosts over my forehead. "I promised your father I'd protect you. That means protecting you from myself, too. So whatever little fantasy you've got spinning in that pretty head—" "Pretty?" I interrupt, my voice coming out breathier than I want. "You think I'm pretty, Alex?" His jaw locks. The muscle in his cheek pulses. "I think you're a walking disaster," he says, but his eyes betray him. They're dark, dilated, trailing down to my lips like he's starving. "Then stop me." I tilt my chin up, challenge blazing in my chest. "If you really don't want this, push me away. Walk to your bedroom. Lock the door." He doesn't move. "Tell me you don't feel this," I whisper. "Tell me you haven't thought about bending me over this counter every night since I walked through that door." His hand shoots up, fingers wrapping around my throat. Not hard enough to hurt,just enough to hold me still. To show me he's in control. The touch sends a lightning bolt straight between my legs, and I gasp. "You have no idea what you're asking for," he murmurs, his lips so close to mine I can almost taste the whiskey. "Then show me." For a long, agonizing moment, I think he'll cave. I feel his grip tighten, his body lean closer, his breath stutter against my mouth. Then he drops his hand. Steps back. He picks up his glass and downs the rest in one swallow. "Guest room." His voice is hoarse. "Down the hall, third door on the left. Get some sleep, Blair. We start fresh tomorrow." I slide off the stool, my thighs slick, my body buzzing with unspent electricity. I walk toward the hallway, but I pause at the entrance, looking back over my shoulder. "Sweet dreams, Alex," I say, letting my smile turn wicked. "Try not to think about me too much. It's bad for your control." His only response is the sound of the decanter hitting the counter harder than necessary. I find the guest room, close the door, and press my back against it. One night. I've been here for three hours, and I already know. He's going to break before the week is out. And I'll be right there, legs open, ready to catch him. I slide my hand down my stomach, past the waistband of my skirt, and close my eyes. Tonight, I'll dream of him again. But tomorrow? Tomorrow, I make those dreams real.