My Best Friend's Dad - Flora Ferrari Page 0,4

flames instead of looking at my best friend.

This. Is. Wrong.

An absurd part of me debates voicing my attraction. Perhaps we’ll laugh about it. But reason tells me that what’s most likely to happen is Fiona will be completely freaked out and she’ll tell me that she can’t be friends with me anymore, that the thought of being like sisters with somebody who would fantasize about her father when she’s sitting right there makes her sick.

And she’d have every right to.

“Goldilocks?” Fiona says.

“Yeah?” I say, forcing my gaze to her, glad for the crackling closeness of the fire, because then at least I have some excuse for this blush spreading across my cheeks.

“I asked if you wanted some cocoa,” she says.

“Oh.” I force a smile. “Sure, that’d be nice.”

She leaves the room and Jasper rises up and yawns, stretching out his black spotted white body, and then he curls up again and starts snoring softly. I try to focus on how cute and majestic he is, but Saul keeps intruding on my mind.

Please stop, I tell whatever force inside of me is propelling the lust filled vignettes. This isn’t right.

And yet even as I turn back to the fire, the flames dance and contort into shapes of Saul. I see his fiery gaze searing into me as I lie on my back, waiting for him, his jaw tight with impossible desire now instead of rage.

“I’m going to fuck you raw and hard,” he warns me, his hand trailing slowly up my thigh, tickling as he gets closer and closer to my eager sex. “I’m going to pound you until you start squirting all over my cock. Is that what you want, Sadie? Say it.”

My mind flashes – the flames dance – and then I’m bent over the chair I’m sitting on.

I imagine myself looking over my shoulder to see him stroking his manhood, which is massive in my illicit fantasy, a huge throbbing length of flesh he brings to my naked sex. He strokes it up and down, teasing me. I feel his precome smearing across my goose-pimpled flesh and then—

“Sadie?” Fiona says, tugging me from my thoughts.

I look up and she’s standing over me, offering me a mug.

“Oh, thanks,” I say, taking it from her.

She returns to her chair and folds herself into a cross-legged position, her black hair falling down to her shoulders. She tilts her head at me in that perceptive way she has. That look is part of the reason we became so close so quickly, I think, the way we’re able to push aside all the awkwardness and just click.

And now what? Do I think I’m going to click with her father?

I tell myself firmly no, just because these crazy thoughts and instincts are flurrying around inside of me, doesn’t mean I have to act on them. Maybe this is one scenario where my natural shyness with boys – men – will act to my advantage. Because I’d never, in a million years, approach Saul and try anything with him.

“Are you alright?” Fiona asks.

Beneath her voice, I can hear the subtle intonation that tells me she’s asking about my parents’ deaths. They died around this time of year and she knows I can get emotional about it.

“I’m fine,” I say. I lie. “I guess I’m just tired.”

“Yeah, me too,” Fiona says, still with that look aimed at me. “Shall we head up?”

“Sure, sounds good to me.”

Fiona kills the fire and then we head upstairs, Jasper loping behind Fiona as she casually strokes him behind the ears.

I can’t help but feel awed by the majesty of this property. It seems every wall holds a gorgeous painting, a suit of armor, or some other artifact—a Viking-style shield, countless swords and daggers and maces and other types of old-timey weapons whose names I don’t know.

I want to ask Fiona why he’s decorated the house like this, but the idea that she’ll be able to see through my question to the traitorous lust beneath stops me. Instead, we say our goodnights and I walk into the room I will be staying in for the duration of our winter break.

I gaze around it, the awed feeling not waning even for a moment.

The room is huge, with a high ceiling and a four poster bed. Tapestries hang from the walls, catching the imitation-fire lights that flood every corner with their soft orange glow. The French windows look out upon the garden, crusted with snow and ice. Even the radiators look ancient, big