Sleeping with my Best Friend's Father

003

Amara

The next day passed in a blur of heat and denial and the kind of tension that made my skin feel too tight to live in. It was Christmas Eve, though nothing about the house had suggested it, not until Lucien let me talk him into setting up a tiny corner of holiday decoration in the living room.

Calling it “letting me” was generous.

He had stood there with his arms crossed, black sweater clinging to shoulders that had no right being that broad, and watching me untangle lights like I’d personally offended him.

Then, with a low breath, he’d stepped closer, brushing my fingers when he took the tangled string out of my hands.

The touch was nothing short of a brush, a whisper, a moment, but I felt it. A shiver shot through me so violently I almost dropped an ornament.

His eyes had softened, or darkened, I couldn’t tell which, as if he’d seen the tremor ripple through me. As if he knew exactly what it meant, and then he helped me.

Lucien Navarro. Helping decorate a Christmas corner because I wanted it.

Oh teenage me, would have died of a heart attack and resurrected again.

Lucien never commented on how I kept stealing glances at him, or how his presence seemed to thicken the air around me. Or how every time he reached up to adjust something, my eyes trailed the exposed strip of skin at his wrist like it held answers to all my sins.

By the time the sun dipped behind the snowy treeline, my chest was tight and my thoughts were filthier than they had any right to be.

Now it was night.

The living room was warm, lit by soft white fairy lights and a small Christmas tree that smelled faintly of pine and guilt.

I was alone. Lucien had excused himself earlier, something about a work call, and I’d taken the chance to call Lila.

It did not go gently.

“Why didn’t you tell me you wouldn’t be home?” I hissed the moment she picked up.

“Oh,” she’d said casually, chewing on something. “I thought I mentioned it.”

“You definitely didn’t mention it,” I snapped.

“Well… Merry Christmas?”

I hung up on her. I wasn't mad at her per say, and even if I was, we were bound to make up sooner of later. We always did.

Now, alone with the tiny twinkling lights and a tree I’d decorated mostly just to have something to do, my mind drifted right back to where it shouldn’t.

Him.

Lucien’s voice, deep enough to scrape down my spine. His hands, no, no, I shouldn’t think of his hands. His scent, warm and dark and male. His eyes when he’d leaned over me earlier, guiding my hands on the garland like I was something delicate.

“Relax your fingers, sweetheart.” He hadn’t said it to tease, but God, it had wrecked me anyway.

Thinking about that moment now, my n*****s hardened beneath my tank so sharply I sucked in a breath. My thighs pressed together automatically, heat rushing to my core.

“Get a grip,” I whispered to myself, placing the last ornament on the tree.

Except I couldn’t. Not with the memory of his breath brushing my cheek, not with the way my stomach had clenched watching his forearms flex while he reached up to the top of the bookshelf, not with the way I kept imagining what his voice would sound like if he ever stopped being careful with me.

I stepped back from the tree, admiring my work, my heartbeat uneven because it was time for Lucien to give the verdict.

“Lucien?” I called out softly. “Are you still on that call?”

Silence. Silence was all I got, so I tried again, louder.

“Lucien?” Nothing.

A strange pull worked its way through my chest, part disappointment, part curiosity, and part something else entirely.

Slowly, I left the warm glow of the living room, stepping into the hallway. The house hummed quietly, its long halls dim and echoing. The warmth shifted around me as I walked, passing framed art, smooth hardwood floors, and soft rugs that silenced my steps.

The further I went, the more it felt like intruding on something sacred.

In no time, I found myself outside his study. The door was wide open, lights on, but it was empty.

“Lucien?” I murmured, stepping inside.

The room smelled like cedar and ink, with dark wood shelves lining the walls. His desk was neat, organized, controlled, everything like him, but he wasn't here.

I was just about to leave when something caught my eye.

A doorway. Half-hidden behind a tall shelf, but barely noticeable unless you were really looking. A door cracked open just enough to reveal light inside.

Curiosity tugged harder than common sense, and I slipped toward it, my heart thumping.

The room beyond was cooler and quieter, but I stepped inside and froze.

Paintings lined the walls, charcoal sketches scattered on a table, and canvases were stacked against one another, but that wasn't the surprising part.

Lucien painted. I’d known that vaguely, from childhood visits, but I had never seen this.

I turned in a slow circle, breath thinning, and then I saw her.

Me. Or rather… many versions of me..Me sitting on a chair, my head turned, with my lips parted. Me lying back on a bed of shadows, my bare shoulders exposed..Me with my hair down, eyes half closed, as if caught in the moment before a kiss. Me in poses so intimate I felt my knees weaken and my p***y throb in want.

I was all nude, all vulnerable and the attention to detail made it all undeniably me.

My mouth opened but nothing came out. Heat flashed through me in waves of humiliation, shock, and a deep, sinful pull that throbbed low in my belly.

I stepped closer to one, fingertips trembling as I hovered over the painted curve of my hip. I had barely leaned in, when I felt a presence behind me.

My pulse stuttered as I caught a shadow stretching long across the floor from the corner of my eye.

“Lucien?” I whispered.

“Amara.” His voice came from behind me, rich and quiet and devastating. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

I jolted, stumbling back and right into him. His hands caught my arms instantly, and I hated and loved how firm and warm he felt.

“W..what is this?” My breath came uneven. “Why..why would you…? These are… God, they’re, Lucien, they’re me.”

“I know,” he said simply.

He turned me gently, his hands still on me, guiding me to face him. He wasn’t pretending anymore. He wasn't calm, he wasn't distant, neither was he careful.

His eyes were dark, possessively dark, and s thrill down my spine at the thought that I just might have awakened something.

“You’ve been pretending,” he murmured, stepping closer until my back brushed a canvas behind me. “Pretending you don’t look at me the way you do. Pretending you don’t feel what hits you every time I touch you.”

“I don’t.. I never…” My denial died on my tongue at the sight of his Adam's apple bobbing..

“Look at the walls, Amara.”He reached up and touched my chin, tilting my face toward his.

I swallowed hard, but did so anyway. He leaned closer, his breath ghosting my lips.

“Tell me you didn’t feel anything,” he said softly. “Tell me every time you flushed, every time you trembled, every time your breath hitched when I stood too close, tell me it meant nothing.”

I couldn’t. God help me, I couldn’t.

“It wasn’t nothing,” My voice cracked when it finally left me. I whispered. “I can’t… pretend anymore.”

“Good,” His eyes hooded, desire hardening the line of his jaw as he murmured. “I’m done pretending too.”

My entire body shivered, because Lucien was brushing his thumb along my jaw, slow and claiming.

“Do you want a Christmas miracle, sweetheart?” he whispered, voice deep enough to drown me.

My breath trembled. I nodded, and that was all he needed. In the blink of an eye, Lucien slammed his mouth to mine.

Everything inside me detonated at once, heat, hunger, and pure forbidden want. His hand slid to the back of my neck, pulling me closer, his lips moving against mine with a force that made my knees buckle.

I whimpered into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound..His other hand cupped my waist, dragging me flush against him.

I felt everything. Every inch of his c**k poking at my bare legs through his shorts. Every intention he’d been burying, and God, I kissed him back like I’d been starving for this moment without even knowing it.

“Merry Christmas, Amara.” When he finally broke the kiss, breath harsh against my lips, he whispered. “Do you perhaps want to take this Christmas miracle a little further?”