10. Rule #10 When lusting after your friend’s daughter, it’s best to keep your distance.
Matis
My sleep is restless and sporadic. Every time I close my eyes, I hear myself.
Come for me, Amelia.
With each pass of that phrase through my mind, I let out an anguished groan and bury my face in my pillow. Merde…what am I doing?
Amelia?
My sweet, young Amelia.
So innocent. So pure. I entangled her in one of my perversions, and the poor thing had to witness it!
The look on her face afterward, the doe-eyed naivety. She didn’t know how to react to what I had done. Why was she in there? Why did she watch?
She could have come out at any moment and stopped the entire thing. If it truly was a mistake, she could have put an end to it, but she didn’t.
She watched.
Lying flat on my stomach against the mattress, my cock—still unsatisfied from that moment in the room—throbs from the thought alone of what Amelia could have seen.
I should be glad I said the wrong name, because at least it put an abrupt end to my rendezvous with Laura. It could have been so much worse.
Although I really didn’t want to, I know I would have fucked her. Just to try and get Amelia out of my system. Just to prove to myself that I’m not broken.
And yet here I am, feeling more fragmented than ever.
Hugging a pillow tight to my chest, I grind my cock against the mattress again. It throbs, in need of relief.
Reaching down, I wrap my hand around the rigid length and thrust into my fist. It’s painful and dry but at least it’s friction and pressure. Pain is what I deserve, honestly.
My mind races, searching for something to get the job done quickly.
Laura’s pussy against my fingers, wet and warm.
Her moans in my ear.
Amelia’s watchful eyes from across the room.
No. Not that.
I need another vision, so I search for a face or a body that sparks interest in my groin. When I find one, I focus on it. Recalling a beautiful body and supple breasts belonging to a nameless woman from my memory.
For a moment, it works. I thrust into my fist, finding a rhythm that feels good and brings me closer to release.
But the mind is a treacherous and untamed thing. Because it goes where it wants, not where it should go.
It finds her. It imagines what her delicate breasts would feel like in my hands. It imagines those soft thighs wrapped around my ears. It hears her calling my name in pleasure.
And I don’t stop it.
Because it’s working.
Rising onto my knees, I jerk frantically on my cock. Eyes closed, breathing hitched, heart pounding.
In my mind, I’m doing the unthinkable.
I’m fucking Amelia. I’m delighting in the exploration of her perfect body. The dripping heat of her cunt, the tender give of her ass in my ravenous hands, the tight muscle of her forbidden asshole.
In my mind, I roam every single inch of her.
I will hate myself when this is over, but it’s the only thing to fulfill this aching need.
The thought that finally gets me off, the one that sends me over the edge is that Amelia is a woman now with kinks and desires, and just imagining I could be the one to satisfy those needs—something that could never be a reality in this lifetime—sends me over the edge.
I come with a groaning, straining sound as shame-filled pleasure cascades through my body from my head to my toes. Filling my hand with thick ropes of cum, I imagine it’s her sweet, illicit womb I’m brimming.
When the orgasm dissolves, I am filled with indignity, as expected. This is a fantasy I will take with me to the grave and one that will certainly never come true.
Standing from the bed, I wash up in the bathroom, glancing at the man in the mirror. I hardly recognize myself anymore. Fifty-three and jacking off to a twenty-five-year-old like an old pervert. What is wrong with me?
Perhaps this dating scheme is a waste of time. I’ll never find anyone who could make me change my ways. I am who I am. A playboy who’s only good at one thing.
Who could ever love a man like me?
I don’t step foot near the club for the next four days. When Ronan texts me to ask if I’m coming to family dinner on Wednesday night, I pass, using a headache as an excuse.
I don’t open the dating app at all.
No sex. No friends. And certainly no Amelia for four days.
I don’t even visit my mother. I can’t look her in the eye after what I’ve done.
I fill my time with long workouts in my gym and planning a trip out of Paris. I need to get out of here. The city walls are closing in around me.
Late Wednesday night, I’m lying on my couch, reading a new mystery novel, when someone buzzes my apartment door. I didn’t order anything and I’m not expecting company, so when I walk over to the security panel and see Amelia standing on the mat, I let out a defeated sigh.
There is no avoiding this conversation, I guess. I won’t send her away, especially since I’m sure she rode here alone on the Métro late at night.
After buzzing her in, I wait by my apartment door for her to take the elevator up to my flat. When the elevator chimes down the hall, she appears and everything between us feels different.
Maybe it’s just me. It could be because of the way I fantasized about her. It could be because I called her name out with another woman. Or it could be because she watched me in an intimate, private moment.
But Amelia is no longer just my best friend’s daughter.
She’s no longer just my goddaughter.
Our relationship has changed. Now we are two adults, still staggeringly off-limits but two adults just the same.
“Stop avoiding me,” she commands.
Against my better judgment, I crack a smile. I can’t help it. She’s just so cute when she tries to boss me around. With that adorable blond bob and pouty lips.
“Don’t you dare laugh at me!”
“I’m not laughing,” I reply with my hands up in surrender.
“You are avoiding me, and I can’t take it anymore,” she says before brushing past me and marching into my apartment.
The idea of being alone with her makes my body warm with desire, which is all the more reason I don’t want her here. I quickly stifle the arousal and follow her into my place, shutting the door behind me.
Standing in my apartment in her short plaid skirt, button-up blouse, and ankle boots, she looks so good it grates on my nerves. She won’t make this easy on me. That much is for certain.
“Let’s just talk about it and get it out of the way so we can go back to being us, please,” she begs.
With a groan, I go to the kitchen and pour us each a glass of wine. Alcohol probably isn’t the best idea at the moment, but one glass shouldn’t hurt. I need something to take the edge off.
Taking the wine back toward her, I gesture for her to sit. Then I take the farthest possible spot away from her.
“Amelia, I need to apologize.”
“You?” She gives me an astonished glance.
“Yes, me. Saying your name that night was a slip. It meant nothing. You and I had been spending a lot of time together, and when I should have said her name, yours was at the forefront of my mind.”
For some reason, she almost looks disappointed by this.
“It’s okay,” she mumbles sadly before taking a long sip of the wine. “Well, I’m sorry for being in that room.”
“It was a mistake, Trouble.”
Then it’s just sort of silent between us because neither of us know where to go from here. Can we just go back to the way things were before? Or is that version of us truly gone forever?
“So…I guess the date went well with Laura?” she asks. Kicking off her shoes, she pulls her legs up on my couch.
I roll my eyes at her question. “I wouldn’t say it was going well.”
“Do you think you would have seen her again? Even if you hadn’t…you know, said the wrong name?”
“No,” I answer with confidence. “The moment I decided to take her into the room, I knew I wouldn’t see her again after that night.”
She reclines her head back and stares at me as if I’m a science project she’s trying to understand. “Why do you sabotage yourself?”
A huff escapes my lips. “I wish I knew, Trouble.”
“You won’t let yourself be happy.”
“I used to be happy,” I say, running a hand over the stubble on my jaw.
“I wish you could be happy now,” she mumbles sweetly as she rests her head on her bent knees.
A smile curls on one side of my mouth.
It’s impossible to be unhappy around Amelia.
Relaxing deeper into my chair, I kick my feet up onto my ottoman. “So tell me again how you ended up in the voyeur room on a Saturday night.”
She covers her face with embarrassment. “The couch is comfortable in there.”
“I don’t have to remind you what people do on that couch,” I joke with a laugh.
Pointing a finger at me assertively, she adds, “Hey, we have an excellent cleaning crew.”
I laugh in earnest, my head hanging back as she giggles, and it feels so good.
This is what I’ve been missing these past few days.
I distanced myself from her and my other friends because I thought it was what I needed out of shame after what I did.
But it’s clear Amelia’s feelings for me are unconditional.
As a friend, I assume. Or as a godfather. I’m not sure how Amelia views me, honestly, but whatever it is, it’s genuine.
“I’m not sure I believe you, Trouble,” I say, taking a sip of my wine once our laughter has died.
She wipes at the tears leaking from her eyes. “What do you mean?”
“I think you were in there for a reason. Is it possible someone has a voyeuristic side?”
Instantly, she bites her bottom lip and looks away, stifling a smile.
“I knew it,” I reply with a laugh. “So you were in there on purpose.”
Her jaw drops. “I was not! I would never…”
“Sure,” I tease.
“Come on, Matis. That would be a major violation of privacy. You think I would do that on purpose?”
“But you did like it,” I say, and just like that, the humor in her expression vanishes.
The room grows feverish as we stare at each other, and I realize that I am stepping over the line again. These lines I use to categorize Amelia as a woman, my friend, my goddaughter, and my best friend’s child are growing blurrier by the second.
“I did,” she whispers, turning her gaze down as she fiddles with the gold jewelry around her ankle.
I lean forward a bit. It occurs to me that Amelia isn’t telling me this to be flirty or cute. She seems just as surprised by this discovery as I am.
She needs someone she trusts to confide in. Someone to guide her.
“Is that the first time you’ve watched someone else?”
“Yes,” she replies emphatically with a nod. Still not looking at me.
“How did it make you feel?” I ask, my voice careful and low, just above a whisper. I want her to know I’m not teasing her or trying to take advantage of her.
She swallows, the muscles in her body visibly tightening.
“It was like…all the noise just went away. I wasn’t thinking about anything else. It made me feel…in control.”
“Do you normally feel in control during sex?”
She squirms in her seat, looking everywhere around the room but at me. Which is fine. If that’s what she has to do to feel comfortable, I understand.
Then she shakes her head. “No.”
My spine stiffens, and my heart begins to hammer in my chest. I refuse to acknowledge the growing warmth in my cock because this isn’t about me.
“Voyeurism is a perfectly normal kink, Amelia. It’s okay if that’s what you like. If that’s what arouses you.”
She smirks. “Doesn’t everyone get aroused by watching people have sex?”
“Was it the sex that aroused you? Or the watching?”
She tenses. Then, for the first time since we started the conversation, she lifts her eyes to meet mine. The room grows at least ten degrees balmier.
With astonishment on her parted lips, she murmurs, “The watching.”
I want to move to the couch and sit next to her so much it aches in my bones. I don’t want anything inappropriate; well, technically, I do, but that’s not why I want to be near her. I only want to comfort her. Hold her hand. Settle her racing mind. Let her know she’s not alone.
But I stay put. Even when she glances at the seat next to her. It would be far too dangerous to give in to those thoughts.
“You have nothing to be ashamed of, Amelia. You know that, I hope.”
She nods. “And what do I do now?”
Regardless of all the turmoil of desire and conflict swirling inside me, I smile at her. “You work in a sex club, Amelia. Have you ever allowed yourself to just watch before?”
“No,” she replies with a shake of her head. “It feels…wrong to use the members of the club that way.”
“You’re not using anyone,” I say. “You’re simply discovering yourself. Next time you are there, try to just…watch. See how it makes you feel. Maybe you will find someone else who likes to just watch. Or be watched. And then you can discover it together.”
She huffs with laughter. “You won’t let me meet anyone, remember?”
I chuckle. “That’s right. I remember.”
“What about you?” she asks, and it’s as if the pounding in my chest comes to a sudden and abrupt stop.
“What about me?”
“I mean…what do you like? Do you like to watch too?”
It’s not remotely an innocent question, but the way she asks it is. To which I snicker as I take another sip of wine. “I’ve practically lived in a sex club for thirty years. There’s not much I don’t like.”
She squirms again, this time holding my gaze. We are treading awfully close to forbidden territory—or maybe it’s all in my head. It’s possible that to Amelia, this is normal friendly conversation. To me…all I can think about is my filthy fantasy four days ago. And what a creep I am.
“Someone asked for my number,” she says out of nowhere.
“What?”
Looking a bit sheepish, she continues. “I met him in Geo’s bar. He’s cute. My age.”
I stiffen, a sick feeling flooding my stomach at that last part. Her age.
Age is a chasm between me and Amelia, but it’s not the only one. It’s only deepened by the fact that I’ve known her all her life. And widened by the fact that her father is my best friend and trusts me to always protect her.
Her meeting a young man her age is exactly what I should want for her. Anything to distract me from this sudden and insufferable infatuation with her.
It’s what I should want.
But I don’t. Not at all.