My Best Friend's Dad - Flora Ferrari Page 0,6
at me with an atavistic desire to claim her before the dark comes, before the wolves and the fire and the danger.
Claim her. Put a child in her belly before it’s too late.
“I’m sorry,” she says, after a pause during which we just gaze at each other.
Does she feel the same?
I don’t know.
All I know is that if given the chance I’d make her feel more than she’s ever felt before. I’d slide my finger into the wetness of her slit, push past one knuckle and then the other, pin her against the wall, and with my other hand claim her golden hair in my fist.
“Cream for me,” I’d growl, close to her ear. “Until I see your luscious cream squirting all over my hand, we’re going to stay like this. I don’t care how long it takes. A minute, an hour, all night. Cream for me, Sadie.”
I walk toward her, realizing I haven’t said anything, that I’m just staring at her like a wild, patient beast.
“No need to apologize,” I grunt.
“This place is amazing,” she says. “The whole house is.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, as we both walk closer, and closer, until we’re inches from each other and I can smell her perfume and her scent and her just-Sadie tanginess.
Her womb.
God, I can smell the neediness of her.
“What are these, all your old cars?”
“Yep,” I say, forcibly unclenching my fists, trying to project the image that I’m Fiona’s father and nothing more, that there isn’t a maelstrom of desire and compulsion swirling through my very soul.
“Well, they look pretty awesome,” she says.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice stilted as a thousand unsaid things writhe beneath the surface.
We stare at each other.
Who are you, Sadie? Tell me everything about you. It’s only fitting that a man knows everything about the future mother of his children.
“The house, too,” she goes on, swallowing so that her throat shifts, her cheeks blazing an even firmer red. “I wanted to ask … why all the old-timey stuff? The shields and the suits of armor and the tapestries?”
I find myself moving closer, dangerously – the door open behind us – but even so, I move until we’re almost touching. I can feel her breath pick up, feel it against my neck. I can see her eyes grow wide and she bites her lip in a way that sends savage certainty to my manhood.
“I guess some dreams never die,” I murmur. “When I was a kid, I had a dream that I’d be able to fill a house with all the things from the stories I was obsessed with. And then when I was wealthy enough to do it, I thought … fuck it, why the hell not?”
Why the hell not … does she know that I’m talking about more than my decorative choices?
“What about you?” I go on, unable to stop myself. My voice taking on a husky quality.
“What about me?” she whispers, staring back up at me with a gaze that sends signals right to the ancient part of me, the pre-civilization part.
What are you waiting for? Take her. Take her NOW.
“Well…” I find myself smirking as I burn my gaze into hers. “What are your dreams, Sadie?”
She blinks, as though expecting any moment to wake and find out that this has all been a dream. Perhaps that would be for the best, because then we could do anything we wanted without causing Fiona any heartache, without betraying her in a vicious way.
“Do you really care?” she says, a note of sassiness in her voice.
I step away with a shrug, pretending that I don’t care where in fact I care about nothing else at this moment.
Just her. Just my woman.
“I was just making conversation, Sparkplug.”
Now her smile is glorious, spreading across her lips, her kissable, fuckable lips.
“I’m sorry, but what the heck did you just call me?”
“Did I stutter?” I banter right back. “I called you Sparkplug because you seem to ignite pretty damn easy. All I did was ask you a question and you got all fiery.”
She giggles, the sound like music. I find myself smirking more than I have in years as she rolls her eyes and then aims pouting lips at me. That pout causes the base of my manhood to throb, my manhood that is already tense and solid at the sight of her, almost painful as it presses against the prison of my underwear.
“That’s not fair,” she says.
“What isn’t?” I retort.
“Well, if you’re going to give me a nickname, I