I BELONG TO MY DAD’S BEST FRIEND

I’m NOT a Kid.

ISLA’S POV ~

Caspian cursed under his breath and finally stepped back, snatching the towel from the floor in one fluid motion. He wrapped it around his hips just as a housekeeper appeared in the doorway, carrying fresh linens.

Her eyes widened for a split second at the scene—me flushed and disheveled against the couch, Caspian still breathing hard, water still glistening on his skin.

“Sir, I—” she started, then quickly averted her gaze. “I’ll come back later.”

She vanished before either of us could speak.

The silence that followed felt heavier than before. Caspian ran a hand through his damp hair, jaw tight. His eyes flicked over me once more, lingering on the way my dress clung to my breasts, the rapid rise and fall of my chest.

For one heart-stopping second, I thought he would do it…shove the silk aside and thrust that massive c**k inside me right there, ruining me while my father’s voice still echoed in the room. My inner walls clenched around nothing, aching for it.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he exhaled a sharp, tortured sound that was half growl, half Russian curse, then forced himself back. The sudden cold rush of air against my soaked core felt like punishment all on its own. I whimpered at the loss, hips twitching helplessly toward where he’d been.

“You don’t move from this position until I’m completely out of the room,” he ordered, voice dark and strained.

“Or what?” The words came out shaky, breathless, but I couldn’t kill the spark of defiance that flared through the haze of need.

Caspian’s eyes raked over me one last time, slow, scorching, drinking in my flushed cheeks, hard n*****s straining against wet silk, the way my thighs pressed together trying to ease the ache. His jaw flexed.

“Go upstairs,” he said finally, voice clipped. “Third door on the left. Your room is ready. We’ll talk in the morning.”

He turned to leave, but paused at the edge of the room. Without looking back, he added softly, “And Isla… lock the door tonight.”

I stood there long after his footsteps faded, legs shaky, skin still burning where he’d touched me. The fortune cookie slip in my bra suddenly felt like a cruel joke.

Better days?

Or the start of something that would ruin me far worse than Tyler ever could?

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving me trembling, thighs slick, heart racing with equal parts shame and dark, dangerous excitement.

I wandered the house on unsteady legs until I found what had to be my room.

Soft pink walls, a ridiculous pile of stuffed animals on the massive bed, childish trinkets that screamed “sixteen-year-old Isla.” A framed photo on the nightstand showed the three of us; me at seventeen, smiling between my father and Caspian like the world was simpler than it actually is.

He still saw me as a child.

The realization stung sharper than it should have. I was twenty-three, for f**k’s sake!

A grown woman who had just survived public humiliation and still managed to stand.

“How pathetic,” I muttered, lips twitching as I peeled a glittery Barbie poster from the wall. Still… the consideration behind it softened something in my chest. I must say, I do applaud the effort.

I peel off the ruined silk slip, freshen up in the attached bathroom, and dig through the closet. Rows of clothes hung in there, soft, expensive, way more polished than anything I usually wear. Probably not bought for me.

Doesn’t matter. They’re in my room, so they’re mine now.

I choose something random to wear, his scent still clinging to the fabric somehow and then I crawl under the covers. My whole body is still humming, still aching, still replaying every second of him pressed against me: the heat of his c**k so close, his fingers on my throat, that rough whisper calling me a bad girl

I squeeze my eyes shut and beg my brain to shut off.

Every time I closed my eyes, the scene replayed in vivid, merciless detail…the heavy weight of his c**k so close, the possessive grip on my ass, the rough whisper branding me a bad girl while my father listened unknowingly on the line.

My thighs clenched. Heat pooled low again.

One hand drifted downward almost without permission, fingers slipping beneath the oversized sweater to circle my swollen c**t. A soft gasp escaped as I imagined it was his thick fingers instead.

STROKING, teasing, punishing.

Just once. Just to take the edge off.

But deep down I already knew the truth.

One touch would never be enough.

Not when the man capable of ruining me in every filthy, devastating way was somewhere under the same roof, fighting the same dangerous hunger I was.

And not when that forbidden spark in his eyes had promised that the real storm between us was only just beginning.