Chapter 14
Nathan
A week later, I push open the door to the penthouse, shaking off the rain.
The smell of butter and caramel hits me immediately. There’s laughter too, high-pitched and unrestrained. Then I see them.
Jasmine and Sophie are curled up on the couch, blanket tangled around their legs, a bowl of popcorn balanced dangerously between them.
The glow of the TV flashes across their faces in jerky, stuttering light, the sound effects of some ridiculous horror movie filling the room with overdone screams and creaks.
Sophie spots me first. “Dad!” she calls, lifting a hand in a mock warning. “If you sneak up on us like that, you’re going to end up wearing this popcorn.”
Jasmine twists around, her hair sliding over her shoulder, and my chest pulls tight at the sight of her—lips glossy, eyes alight with mischief, cheeks flushed from laughing.
My heart squeezes in my ribs. Every time I see her like this—happy, at home, unguarded—I feel that dangerous swell in my chest.
Then my gaze shifts to Sophie.
The girl who made me a dad.
The scared little girl she’d been when I first married her mother comes rushing back to me—eyes shadowed with anxiety, chest rattling with wheezing breaths.
Asthma attacks kept her from sleepovers, from birthday parties, from being a carefree child. But now…
Her cheeks are rosy from laughter and there’s a brightness in her eyes I haven’t seen in years. She’s come into herself, steadied and bolstered by Jasmine’s companionship.
The latter has been her anchor, her constant. And seeing them like this—side by side, safe and strong—I feel the kind of peace most men never get.
“This is what you’re watching?” I ask, tugging off my jacket as I step closer. The screen flickers with an over-the-top ghost face, shrieking through tinny speakers. “That’s not horror, that’s comedy.”
“Shut up,” Sophie giggles, clutching the blanket higher. “It’s terrifying.”
“Terrifyingly bad,” Jasmine shoots back, smirking at me before scooping another handful of popcorn.
Sophie gasps in mock offense. “You were just squealing two minutes ago!”
“I wasn’t squealing,” Jasmine insists, tossing popcorn at her. “I was—startled. Big difference.”
Their laughter fills the room, and for a moment I just stand there, soaking it in. The house used to be cavernous, sterile. Now it smells of butter and vanilla candles, pillows are askew, books are stacked on side tables, half-finished mugs of cocoa forgotten on coasters.
Jasmine has made it a home, and Sophie has flourished in it. And without even knowing it, so have I.
Jasmine stands up, brushing crumbs from her lap. “Clearly we’re going to need reinforcements if Sophie’s going to keep hiding behind the blanket every time the music swells.”
As she passes by, I let my hand drift, just enough to brush against hers. The barest contact, hidden by the angle of the kitchen.
She slows down. My fingertips trace along her knuckles. Heat flares low in my chest when her breath stutters, when her fingers twitch like she almost wants to catch mine. But then she’s gone, swallowed by the warm light of the kitchen.
I walk fully into the living room and school my face as I lower myself onto the couch, pulse ringing at that simple contact.
Sophie eyes me, still smiling. I rest my hand lightly against her back, warm through the knit of her sweater. “You look different, Soph. Happy,” I say softly, not wanting to put pressure on her but needing to say it.
Her grin falters, just for a breath, before she nods. “Yeah, Dad. I’m happy.”
But the hesitation echoes in me long after she turns back to the screen. In my head, I still see the fragile child I swore I’d keep safe no matter what. That promise hasn’t changed.
And Jasmine is the pulse that keeps it all alive. With the two of them here, life is better than I ever thought it could be.
From the kitchen, she shouts, “You two look cozy.”
Sophie snorts, tossing popcorn at me and missing. “Not without you. Come on, Jazz, hurry up before Dad ruins the mood with his grumpy commentary.”
She returns with a bowl of pretzels and a crooked smile, then sinks down on the couch beside me, close enough that her thigh brushes mine under the blanket Sophie pulls over all three of us.
My hand twitches on the cushion, aching to lace my fingers through Jasmine’s. I don’t dare, with Sophie right there. But soon enough, I will tell her the truth.
That I’m in love with her best friend and that I’m going to make her mine forever. Ours forever.
Sophie adores Jasmine and there’s a tiny possibility that she might hate me for setting my sights on her young best friend. But a part of me hopes that she’ll see how much of a goner I am for Jasmine. That she’ll be happy for us.
I feel Jasmine’s warm curves against me, and for tonight, it’s enough.
The second movie is already rolling when I blink awake, the flicker from the plasma screen painting the room in sharp, jagged light. Sophie’s gone—her blanket folded on the armchair, her bedroom door down the hall shut.
But Jasmine’s still here.
She’s curled into my side, cheek pressed warm against my chest, her breath fanning through my shirt. My arm is heavy around her shoulders, like it’s belonged there all along.
For a moment, I just breathe her in. Vanilla shampoo, warm skin, the faint sweetness that clings to her. Then the actress on-screen lets out a scream, long and high-pitched—but hell if it sounds scared.
Jasmine stirs, lashes fluttering as she blinks up at me. Perfect timing.
“Hello, sweetheart,” I say, the sight of her sleep-mussed eyes and her parting lips turning me on. Fuck, this girl revs me up faster than a shot of adrenaline.
“Hi, Mr. Grayson,” she whispers, voice husky. Her eyes search the room, then come back to me. The sudden hitch of her breath as her gaze lingers on my lips, I know that my filthy girl is right where I am.
I lower my mouth to her ear, my lips brushing her hair. My voice is a low rumble as I nod at the screen. “Tell me I’m not the only one who thinks she sounds more turned on than terrified. Maybe she’s in the wrong kind of movie.”
Her cheeks flush pink even in the shifting light, and she hides her face against me. Then she whispers, husky, “Or maybe she’s one of those girls who’s spent years having wet dreams about the villain. Or a man she shouldn’t want.”
My cock twitches at that, hard and instant. Jesus.
The next scream from the speakers slices through the quiet, shadows cutting jagged across her face. The blanket is still bunched over our laps from earlier, and now it feels like cover. An invitation to act out my filthy desires right there in the living room.
I slip my hand under it, finding the bare line of her thigh. The thin cotton of her shorts gives me nothing, no barrier at all. I groan and whisper. “Wearing those short shorts again like the perfect little slut, are you, baby girl? So convenient and perfect since Daddy wants a snack.”
Her legs shift restlessly, her chest twisting and pressing into my side. The drag of her pert nipples turns my cock into steel.
“Yes, Daddy. So that you can access this pussy whenever you want. Like a free-use slut, just for you.”
My curse is soft and dirty. My fingertips graze higher, and heat blooms under my palm, damp and slick.
“You’re wet already,” I murmur against her hair.
My teeth graze her temple as my fingers stroke through her folds.
“What a little slut you are. Falling asleep and rubbing that tight little body against your boss, your best friend’s dad. Driving me crazy.”
She shivers, nails sinking lightly into my forearm as if she can steady herself. It only makes her tremble harder.
I circle her again, slower this time, until her head tips back, lips parting on a gasp.
“Quiet,” I warn, capturing the sound with my mouth before it escapes. She tastes sweet and hot, her muffled moan humming into me as I slide two fingers inside her, curling until she clenches tight around me.
The surround sound blares—another shriek, another crash—and the movie’s light flickers over her face. Her eyes are wide, glazed, her body quaking against me as she tries to grind down harder on my hand. I hold her still, working her slow and deep, savoring every twitch.
Then her small palm slips beneath the blanket, fumbling at my zipper. My cock plops into her soft hand, eager and desperate. Her fingers wrap around me tight, and it nearly drags a groan out of me right there.
“I want you to come too,” she breathes, so quiet I almost miss it under the movie. “On my stomach. On my pussy. Get me all dirty, Daddy, so that I can fall asleep with your cum all over me.”
“Christ, baby girl.” My head drops, forehead to hers. Her hand strokes me under the blanket, and I pump my fingers in time, every nerve pulled taut. “Good girl. Just like that. Keep squeezing me as hard as you can.”
The couch creaks under us. The blanket hides us.
The movie blares on, and we unravel together in silence.
Her tight cunt squeezes my fingers, her body quaking as she comes apart, and I spill in her hand, over her lower belly and watch it drip down to her bare pussy, muffling the sound in the curve of her neck.
When the shuddering eases, when all that’s left is the hammering of our hearts, she lets out a shaky laugh.
Then, she delves her fingers between her folds, pushes strings of my cum inside her hole, and pulls her shorts up.
The rest, she licks it off her finger. “You’re right, Daddy. I did need a midnight snack.”
My laughter is rough as I drag her to me and kiss her filthy mouth. I taste myself on her tongue and I know, as sure as her pulse racing under my palm, that I want this every day, every night for the rest of my life.