Page 9 of Her Father's Best Friend

"How do you know where I live?" I don't move from the doorway, don't invite her in. If she crosses my threshold, I'm lost.

"Dad has your address in his contacts." She takes a deliberate lick of the popsicle, her pink tongue swirling around the tip in a way that can't be accidental. "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

"Not a good idea." My voice comes out rougher than intended.

"Why not?" Another lick, slower this time. Red juice trails down her wrist, and she catches it with her tongue. "Afraid of what might happen if we're alone together again?"

Yes, is what I should say. Yes, because I can't trust myself around you. Yes, because every time I see you, I want things I have no right to want.

Instead, I step back, resignation and desire warring inside me. "Come in."

Her smile widens as she steps past me into the house. I close the door and lean against it, keeping distance between us. My house suddenly feels too small, too intimate with her in it. She glances around the living room, taking in the sparse furniture, the bookshelf in the corner, the absence of personal photographs.

"Nice place." She turns back to me, still working on that damn popsicle. "Very you. Practical. Solid."

"Delilah." Her name comes out like a warning. "Why are you here?"

She finishes the popsicle in one last, obscene suck, then tosses the stick onto the side table. Her lips are stained cherry-red, plump and wet. "You know why."

"We can't do this." The words sound hollow even to my own ears.

"We already did." She steps closer, fearless. "And then you ran away."

"I didn't run?—"

"Four days, Mitch." Another step. She's close enough now that I can smell her perfume—something sweet and floral that makes my head spin. "Four days of ignoring my texts. Four days of hiding from me. That's running."

"I was trying to do the right thing." My hands clench at my sides to keep from reaching for her.

"And how's that working out for you?" She tilts her head, studying me. "Because you look miserable."

I am miserable. Torn apart by wanting her and hating myself for it. "Your dad?—"

"Is an adult who doesn't control my life." Her eyes flash with frustration. "And I'm an adult who gets to choose who I want."

"It's not that simple."

"It is that simple." She moves closer still, until only inches separate us. "I want you. You want me. Everything else is just details."

"Details like the fact that your father would never speak to me again if he knew what happened in that basement?" The guilt resurfaces, sharp and bitter on my tongue.

"We didn't even have sex," she says bluntly. "We barely got started before Dad came home."

The reminder of how close we came to being caught makes my stomach clench. "That's not the point."

"What is the point, then?" Her hand lifts, hovers near my chest without touching. "That you're older? That you've known me since I was a kid? I'm not a kid anymore, Mitch."

"I know that." God, do I know it. Every curve of her body is a testament to that fact.

"Then what's stopping you?" Her fingers finally make contact, tracing a water droplet down my chest. "Because it's not me. I'm right here, telling you I want this."

Something inside me frays, the last thread of restraint stretching dangerously thin. "You don't know what you're asking for."

"Then tell me." Her palm flattens against my chest, right over my pounding heart. "What exactly am I asking for?"

The thread snaps. I grab her wrist, spinning us so she's the one with her back against the door. Her eyes widen, but there's no fear in them—only anticipation.

"You're asking for everything," I growl, pinning her wrist above her head. "Every dark, possessive thought I've been fighting since you showed up in those tiny shorts. You're asking me to throw away fifteen years of friendship with your father. You're asking me to risk everything I've built."

---