My Best Friend's Dad - Flora Ferrari Page 0,16

on.

His eyes locked on me as I adjusted it on the way here.

Fine, maybe I did it on purpose.

Maybe I’m playing the same game like he is if he’s playing one if this isn’t all some invented ploy.

We’re both basically half-dressed, no buttons to fumble with, no clasps or zips, nothing to get in the way if we fall upon each other, hands exploring.

Then what, Sadie? Do you really think you’ll be able to please this man? You better hope you’re wrong. Because the second he touches you, really touches you, he’ll realize just how inexperienced you are.

Anxiety lances up my spine.

“Let’s find you a ride,” he says.

Together we move to the Go-Karts, walking shoulder to shoulder, or more like arm and shoulder, almost touching.

I try to picture Fiona out with her hometown friends.

I try to make rise some anger toward her, as though that will justify this blazing madness that won’t sputter out inside of me. I tell myself it’s not fair, how she left me here, how she abandoned me when we’re supposed to be besties.

But of course, that’s just juvenile nonsense. She invited me and I declined and this isn’t first freaking grade. We’re allowed to have other friends.

The truth is there’s no excuse.

“What do you think?” he asks, as we walk up and down in front of the Go-Karts.

I swallow as I glance at them, a nasty thought knifing into my mind.

“Um, do the seats adjust?” I murmur, my cheeks already flushing red.

He studies me closely, eyes narrowed, as though trying to divine the source of my blushing.

“Are you okay?” he asks a moment later.

“Yeah,” I lie. “Just wondering.”

“They adjust,” he growls. “They’ll have to if they’re gonna fit those perfect goddamn hips. And that fine ass.”

Oh. My. God.

My heart hammers and my sex goes tight, literally warms and tightens up in a split second after the comment. My clit grinds against my panties and I feel my lips tingle just as much.

He smirks and raises his eyebrows, a challenge.

If anybody else said something like that, it’d be way too forward.

But with Saul Sykes staring at me with his black iron peppered hair, his square jaw, his pin-me-in-place eyes, I shiver, inwardly, outwardly, everywhere.

I shiver under his dominator’s gaze.

“So … they do adjust then?” I murmur weakly, barely even able to get those words out, his comment so unexpected.

“Yes, Sparkplug,” he smirks. “They adjust. But you can always sit in my lap if you want.”

“You’re very bold all of a sudden,” I say, lips dry.

“Are you complaining?” he snarls, the cars still between us, the only thing stopping us from moving this beyond words.

Fiona, Fiona, Fiona.

I repeat her name.

A mantra at the back of my mind.

I’m not sure it’s working.

“No,” I whisper. “I don’t think I am, Saul.”

“Good,” he growls. “Now pick a car. I want to see what you’ve got.”

Why do I feel like you’re talking about more than the race, hmm?

That’s is what I want to say. That’s the sort of feisty response I always think of saying, but then I debate saying it, the pros and cons, and the moment passes.

I walk over to the red car and nod down at it, conscious of how sweaty my palms are, and how wet other places are, too, to such an extent that I’m wondering if it’ll mark my clothes and he’ll notice.

Would he be disgusted?

Or something else?

Fine ass, he said. Sit in his lap.

A fantasy coming true never happens in real life.

But what if it could?

Saul wanders over and leans down, casually adjusting the seat. Then he reaches over and offers me his hands. I take them, willing myself to stop the tremoring in my hands as we make contact again.

Fireworks explode at our touch.

I glance down and oh, Jesus, I see him outlined in the light fabric shorts, a massive fleshy pole of manhood so evident that I feel like screaming.

He lowers me into the seat and then kneels down, leaning closer than he needs to for the seatbelt, his solid arm brushing against my breast. He flattens my nipple with his bicep, just for a moment. It sparks and feels like it vibrates, and then he stands up, smirk shaky, to go to his own car.

I can read the fight in his expression, too.

He knows it’s just as wrong as I do.

“No gears,” he calls from behind me. “Just go and stop, nice and easy.”

“So we just go now?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he replies. “I’ll stay behind you for a little bit. Give