It starts slow.
Or maybe it starts fast and I'm just pretending it's slow to make myself feel less guilty.
The next morning there's a text waiting: Coffee order? I'm at that place near campus.
No context. Like we do this all the time.
How do you know I'm near campus?
Lucky guess. Coffee or no?
I should say no. I should establish boundaries.
Should remember he's Mara's dad and this is fucked up and I need to stop before it becomes something I can't take back.
Iced vanilla latte. Extra shot.
Twenty minutes later he's sitting across from me at a table outside the café, two coffees between us, looking unfairly good in dark jeans and a gray henley.
"You didn't have to do this," I say.
"I know." He slides my coffee across. "Wanted to."
"Why?"
He doesn't answer right away. Just watches me with those dark eyes that see too much.
"Because I can't stop thinking about you," he finally says. Quiet. Honest. "And I'm trying to figure out if talking to you in daylight will make it better or worse."
My stomach flips. "And?"
"Worse. Definitely worse."
I take a sip of coffee to hide my smile. "So why are you still here?"
"Because I'm apparently a masochist." He leans back in his chair. "Tell me something."
"Like what?"
"Anything. What do you want to do after graduation? Where do you want to be in five years? All that boring adult shit."
So I tell him.
About the marketing job I'm starting in two weeks.
About how I'm terrified I'm going to hate corporate life but I have student loans and can't afford to be picky. About how I want to travel but don't have the money. About how everyone expects me to have my life figured out but I barely know what I want for dinner most nights.
And he listens.
Really listens. Not like he's waiting for his turn to talk. Like he actually cares what I have to say.
"You're afraid of being ordinary," he says when I finish.
"What?"
"Everything you just said. It's all about expectations. What you should want. What makes sense. But you never said what you actually want."
The observation hits too close.
"Maybe I don't know what I want," I admit.
"Or maybe you do and you're scared to say it out loud."
"Okay Dr. Phil. What's your big psychological insight?"
He smiles. Small. Genuine. "You want permission to disappoint people. To choose yourself instead of the safe path."
Fuck.
He's right. Completely right.
"What about you?" I deflect. "You're back from Singapore. What happens now?"
"Work. Mara. Trying to figure out how to be a present parent after years of being absent."
"She doesn't seem mad at you."
"She should be. I missed a lot." Something shadows his expression. "Her mom—my ex—she did all the hard parts. School events. Breakups. Teaching her to drive. I was building hotels in Asia and telling myself it was for their future. But really I was just running."
"From what?"
"Failure. Intimacy. All the shit that terrifies me." He meets my eyes. "Still running, apparently."
"Doesn't seem like you're running right now."
"No," he says softly. "Right now I'm doing something much more stupid."
The air between us shifts. Charges.
Someone walks by with a dog. A car honks.
Normal Saturday morning sounds.
But we're locked in our own world.
"I should go," I say. Don't move.
"Yeah." Doesn't move either.
"Mara's probably awake. Wondering where I am."
"Probably."
"Kane..."
"Don't." He stands abruptly. "Don't say whatever you're about to say. Just... go home, Elena. Forget this happened."
"What if I don't want to forget?"
"Then we're both fucked."
He walks away.
Leaves me sitting there with half a coffee and a chest full of feelings I don't have names for.
My phone buzzes.
I'm sorry. That was unfair. You deserve better than my baggage.
I stare at the message. Type and delete three different responses.
Finally settle on: What if I want your baggage?
You don't know what you're saying.
Stop telling me what I want.
Elena.
Kane.
This time his response takes longer. I'm walking home—forty minutes across town because I need to clear my head, when he finally replies.
What are you doing tonight?
My heart stops.
Nothing. Why?
Come over. 8pm. Mara's going to her mom's for dinner.
This is it. The moment where I make a choice.
The smart choice: I can't.
The honest choice: Okay.
I send the honest one.
Door will be unlocked. Let yourself in.
I spend six hours spiraling.
Change outfits four times. Shave everything. Put on lingerie then take it off because that feels too presumptuous. Put it back on because fuck it, I know why I'm going over there.
Black lace. Matching set. Nothing too obvious under my jeans and t-shirt but there if things go where I think they're going.
Where I want them to go.
At 7:55 I'm parked outside his house. Hands shaking on the steering wheel.
I could leave. Could text him something came up. Could preserve the friendship with Mara and avoid the inevitable disaster this is going to become.
But I don't.
I walk up to his door at exactly 8pm.
It's unlocked like he said.
I let myself in.
The house is quiet. Lights dimmed. I can hear music playing somewhere deeper inside.
Something low. Blues maybe.
"Kane?" My voice sounds too loud in the silence.
"Kitchen."
I find him leaning against the counter. Whiskey in hand. Changed into dark jeans and a black t-shirt that makes him look even bigger somehow.
He doesn't say anything. Just looks at me.
And I realize he's giving me a chance to run. To change my mind before we cross a line we can't uncross.
"I'm here," I say stupidly. Like he can't see that.
"I can see that." He sets down his drink. "Last chance, Elena. You can walk out right now. We'll forget this. Pretend it never happened."
"I don't want to forget."
"You should."
"Why do you keep telling me what I should want?"
"Because someone needs to be the adult here."
"We're both adults."
"I'm forty-five. You're twenty-two. That's not..."
"I don't care about the age difference."
"You will. Eventually you'll realize I'm too old, too damaged, too..."
"Kane." I step closer. "Shut up."
His jaw tightens. "Don't tell me to..."
I kiss him.
Just—reach up and press my mouth to his before my brain can catch up and stop me.
For a second he freezes. Doesn't kiss back.
Doesn't move.
And I think I've fucked up. Misread everything. Made a complete fool of myself.
Then his hand is in my hair.
Gripping. Tilting my head back.
And he's kissing me back.
Hard.
It's not soft. Not gentle. Not the kind of first kiss you tell your friends about later.
It's consuming. Possessive. His tongue sweeping past my lips like he's claiming territory. His other hand gripping my hip hard enough to bruise.
I make a sound. Embarrassing. Needy.
He swallows it. Walks me backward until my back hits the wall.
And then he's everywhere. Mouth on my neck.
Hands under my shirt. Breathing hard against my skin like he's barely holding himself back.
"Fuck," he growls. "Fuck, Elena, we can't..."
"We can." My hands find his belt. Start unbuckling.
"We are."
He catches my wrists. Pins them above my head with one hand.
And the casual display of strength makes my knees weak.
"Listen to me," he says. Voice rough.
Commanding. "If we do this, there's no going back.
You understand? No pretending it didn't happen. No regrets."
"I understand."
"You're Mara's best friend."
"I know."
"This is going to complicate everything."
"I don't care."
His eyes search mine. Looking for doubt.
Hesitation.
He won't find any.
I've never been more sure of anything.
"Say it," he demands. "Say you want this."
"I want this."
"Say my name."
"Kane—"
"Not that." His grip tightens on my wrists. "You know what I want to hear."
Oh.
Oh.
Heat floods through me. Embarrassment. Desire. Something darker.
"I want this," I whisper. "Want you. Please, Daddy."
Something breaks in him.
He makes a sound low in his throat—almost a growl—and then his mouth is on mine again and his free hand is yanking down my jeans and I'm arching into him like I've been starving my whole life and he's the first real meal I've ever had.
My jeans hit the floor. His hand slides between my thighs. Finds the wet lace there.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You wore these for me?"
"Yes."
"Good girl." He rubs over the fabric. Teasing. "So wet already. Were you thinking about this all day?"
"Yes. God yes."
"Thinking about me touching you like this?"
"Yes."
"Thinking about Daddy making you cum?"
The word sends electricity straight through me.
"Please," I gasp.
He pulls my panties to the side. Slides one thick finger inside me.
I make an embarrassing noise. Half moan half whimper.
"So tight," he murmurs. Pumps slowly. Watching my face. "When's the last time someone touched you, baby girl?"
"I don't—months—please—"
He adds a second finger. Curls them just right.
And I'm already so close it's humiliating.
"You gonna cum for Daddy already?" Amusement in his voice. "Haven't even gotten you to bed yet."
"I can't help it—feels so good—"
"Then cum. Let me feel it."
His thumb finds my clit. Circles once.
I shatter.
The orgasm hits hard. My whole body shaking.
Gasping his name—no, not his name—
"Daddy. Oh God. Daddy—"
He works me through it. Fingers still pumping.
Murmuring praise I can barely hear over my own heartbeat.
"That's it. Good girl. So pretty when you cum."
When I finally cum down he pulls his fingers out.
Brings them to his mouth.
Sucks them clean while maintaining eye contact.
Fuck.
"Bedroom," he says. "Now."
I follow on shaking legs.
His bedroom is masculine. Dark furniture. Neat. Smells like him.
And I'm suddenly nervous. Suddenly aware this is real. This is happening.
He must see it on my face because he stops. Cups my cheek.
"We can stop," he says gently. "Right now. No judgment."
"I don't want to stop."
"You're shaking."
"Because I want you so badly I can barely think."
Something softens in his expression. "Come here."
He pulls me onto the bed. Lays me down carefully.
Kisses me slow this time. Sweet.
"We're going to take this slow," he murmurs between kisses. "I'm going to take care of you.
Okay?"
"Okay."
"You tell me if anything doesn't feel good. If you want to stop. Promise me."
"I promise."
"Good girl."
He strips off my shirt. My bra. Takes his time looking at me.
And I should feel self-conscious. Should worry about my body. My scars. All the things I usually obsess over.
But the way he's looking at me, like I'm something precious—makes all of that disappear.
"You're perfect," he says quietly.
"I'm not..."
"Don't argue with me." His mouth closes over my nipple. Teasing. "You're perfect. Say it."
"I'm—oh God—I'm perfect."
"Good girl."
He works his way down. Kissing. Tasting. Learning what makes me gasp.
When he settles between my thighs I nearly cum apart just from anticipation.
"Please," I whisper.
"Please what?"
"Please Daddy. Need your mouth."
He groans. "You're going to ruin me, baby girl."
Then his tongue is on me and I forget how to breathe.
He's methodical. Thorough. Listens to every sound I make and adjusts accordingly.
And when I'm close—trembling and begging, he slides three fingers inside me and I come so hard I see stars.
"Perfect," he murmurs against my thigh. "So fucking perfect."
I'm still trembling when he strips off his clothes.
And—
Oh.
He's big. Thick. Pierced.
My eyes must go wide because he laughs softly.
"Too much?" he asks.
"I don't—I've never..."
"We'll go slow." He rolls on a condom. Settles over me. "You tell me if it's too much."
He pushes in slowly.
The stretch is intense. Bordering on painful.
But also the best thing I've ever felt.
"Breathe," he urges. "Relax for me."
I try. Focus on breathing. On the way he's holding himself so carefully. Like I might break.
When he's fully seated he stops. Lets me adjust.
"Okay?" he asks.
"Okay. God. So full."
"Good. You feel incredible." He starts moving.
Slow. Deep. "Taking Daddy so well."
The praise makes me clench around him.
He groans. "Fuck. Do that again."
I do.
His control fractures. Just slightly.
His rhythm increases. Still careful. But harder.
More desperate.
And I'm climbing again. Impossibly.
"Can't—I can't—already came twice—"
"You can." His hand slides between us. Finds my clit. "One more, baby girl. Give Daddy one more."
"I can't..."
"You can. Cum for me."
The orgasm builds different this time. Deeper. Starting somewhere in my spine and spreading.
When it hits I'm crying. Actually crying from how intense it is.
"That's it," he breathes. "Good girl. So good."
His rhythm stutters. He's close.
"Cum inside me," I beg. "Please Daddy. Want to feel it."
"Fuck—Elena—"
He buries himself deep. Groaning my name as he comes.
And we stay like that. Connected. Breathing hard.
Eventually he pulls out. Disposes of the condom. Comes back with a warm washcloth.
Cleans me gently. Carefully.
Then pulls me against his chest.
"You okay?" he murmurs.
"More than okay."
"Not too rough?"
"Perfect. It was perfect."
His arms tighten around me. "Yeah. It really was."
We lie there in silence. His hand stroking my hair.
And I know I should feel guilty. Should be thinking about Mara. About consequences.
But right now I just feel safe.
Complete.
Like I finally found something I didn't know I was looking for.
"Stay tonight," Kane says quietly.
"I can't. Mara will..."
"I know. But stay anyway. Just a few more hours. Please."
The please gets me.
"Okay," I whisper. "Just a few hours."
We both know it's already more than that.
Already something we can't take back.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Mara.
Where are you?? Thought you were coming over for movies?
Guilt slams into me.
Kane reads over my shoulder. Tenses.
"You should go," he says.
"Yeah."
Neither of us moves.
"Elena. This is... we need to talk about what this means. What we're doing."
"I know."
"Mara can never find out."
The words hurt even though they're true.
"I know."
"I'm serious. This stays between us. No one can know."
"Okay."
"And if you want to stop. If this is too much. You tell me. We stop. No hard feelings."
I turn to face him. "Do you want to stop?"
"No. God no. But I'm trying to be responsible here."
"Stop trying to be responsible. Just tell me what you want."
His eyes darken. "I want you in my bed every night.
Want to wake up with you every morning. Want to mark every inch of your skin so everyone knows you're mine."
My breath catches.
"But?" I prompt.
"But you're twenty-two. And you're Mara's best friend. And this is going to blow up in our faces eventually."
"So we're careful. We're discreet."
"Elena—"
"Kane. I'm not walking away. Not unless you tell me you don't want this."
Silence.
Then: "I want this. Want you. More than I should."
"Then that's all that matters."
I kiss him. Soft. Sweet.
And pretend I believe it.
Pretend the guilt isn't already eating me alive.
Pretend this isn't going to destroy everything when the truth comes out.
Which it will.
Eventually.
It always does.