My jaw falls to the ground - so wide, and so heavy, and no sound comes out. I blink, trying my hardest not to stare at Theresa's pussy, at how moist and pink it looks. She stands with her hands at her back, watching me expectantly - the look in her eyes wild, feral, and observant.

"W-What are you doing, for Christ's sake?" I face palm, turning away. Doesn't she have any shame. Her father is downstairs! Also her little sister, Amelia.

"I don't care, Max," she rasps softly, taking a few steps to stand just behind me. I close my eyes and exhale as her long, thin hands wrap around my waist, as she hugs my back. "I've wanted this for weeks. Fuck, I've wanted this for months. I've wanted you from the first moment I laid my eyes on you. Don't resist."

"This is nonsense, Theresa," I say, but my heart is racing wildly, no longer because of fear, but of ecstasy. I'm glad to finally know that I'm not the only one having sleepless nights. Ever since Daniel brought his eldest daughter to my office to have me take a look at her injured leg one year ago, I've found it hard to stop thinking about her, even if it was for one minute only every day. At night, alone in my bed, my arms craved her. In the shower, every time, my cock hardens at the slightest thought of her.

But it is wrong.

Wanting her is wrong, because she's not only two decades younger, but her father's my best friend.

And the way the bro code goes - don't mess around with a best friend's sister.

Hell, Daniel will cut off my dick if he finds out I have as much as a sexual thought about Theresa.

"Theresa, this is wrong. This can't be."

"Why?" she asked, her tone forceful, desperate. "Why can't it be? I don't care that you're older. I don't care about my father!"

"But, I care. He's my best friend," I lower my voice, and look at the door frantically, expecting Daniel to be here any minute. Rushing to the side of the bed where the blanket is, I pick it up and throws it at her. "Wrap yourself up. Now."

"No," she says, tossing it aside again. I sigh, frustrated. "I'm serious, Max. I want you. You know that."

"I know nothing but the fact that you've gone nuts."

She gasps, her mouth open as though she's trying to say something, but then she closes it back and instead hit tears fall down her cheeks. Plopping down on the bed, she buried her face in her palms and cries softly. I'm too stunned to move at first, too guilty to even touch her.

Fuck me.

I knew I shouldn't have come here. I should have asked Max to bring them over to my office instead.

I go over to where she sits and wrap an arm around her back. Her body is warm, and her skin is so soft, just as I imagine every night. "Please don't cry."

I'm having a hard time suppressing my boner, and having her this close isn't doing me any good. She sobs quietly for a while, then looks up at me. "I'm so sorry, Doctor Storm."

I don't comment on back-to-my-official-name change, but wait patiently for her to continue. "I don't know what came over me. I thought... I thought... I thought I could seduce you. Make use of the opportunity of us alone to confess my feelings, and you'd be happy to hear about them. The truth is, I've wanted you from the first moment I saw you, and this is the best way I thought I could show it, and I'm sorry. Please don't tell my father about this."

Something shifts in my chest. Disappointment.

"I won't tell him," I manage to say, wondering how odd it is for Daniel not to have come up already to see how we're faring. It's very telling of how strong his trust in me has become, and it scares me. In so many ways. For so many reasons.

One of which is Theresa.

Sitting here, right next to her, my cock is hard as a rock. I've not been this hard ever since Adeline and I broke up seven years ago. Even while still in high school, none of the girls I dated or fucked ever got me this hard. The only thing holding me back right now is Daniel. We've been through so much together - childhood friends since we've been in diapers, same kindergarten, same middle school, same highschool, same everything. Also, I'm two decades older than Theresa. I know better.

I should know better.

But she's not making it easy. She's never made it easy.

"But..." I swallow, looking away from her teary big blue eyes. "You must promise to never try such a thing again. With me, or anyone else. I know you're nineteen now, and having all these...conflicted, foreign feelings which is normal for every new adults, but you must not let those feelings get into the way of better judgement. Besides, your father trusts me a great deal with you and Amelia. He won't be pleased if he finds out I'm... fucking his daughter."

She giggles. "But who is going to tell him, though?"

I give her a stern look. "Well, I will. If you try what you just did again."

"Alright, fine. I've heard you," she grumbles.

I beam. "Good girl. So does that mean your fall was...fake?"

She avoids my eyes. "It wasn't. Can we just pretend everything didn't happen? I'm too embarrassed."

True enough, her cheeks are flushed, making me chuckle. I shake my head as I stand, heading for the door. "Put some clothes on now. And be a good girl."

I can't even begin to describe how ashamed I feel after Doctor Storm leaves.

Dad takes Amelia to school, and tries to coerce me to go too, but I tell him I need more rest. The truth is, I'm so disgusted with myself, and I need proper time to heal from the shame I feel. Doctor Storm rejected me. I stood right there, naked, pulsing, yet he wouldn't even touch me with a ten-foot pole.

As much as I hate to admit it, it puts a lot of things into perspective. Nothing between us might work out, and I've spent all this time pinning for the wrong man. It made me mad as hell, and deeply sad. I want him so bad. I want him, I want him, I want him!

Two days later which was a Saturday, Dad walks in that morning to announce that Doctor Storm would be joining us for dinner. "He declined, but I persuaded him anyway. Get dressed. We're going shopping."

In truth, I've given up on Doctor Storm, and I'm much too comfortable, catching an hour more of sleep to care about him coming over for dinner. But Dad is giving me this suspicious look, and I didn't want him to sense that something was wrong.

"I'll be down in an hour," I sulk.

"You're not excited," he points out, his eyes crinkling. "Did something happen a few days back with Max?"

"What?" I mock-gasped, giving him a death stare. "Dad, what are you implying here?"

He raises his hands innocently. "I'm just..." he sighs and gestures to the door. "I'm sorry. I'll wait downstairs for you."

"Good."

When we get back from shopping, Dad forces me to help him out in the kitchen. We're just about to cut the chicken stripes when we hear Amelia squeal out excitedly. "Doctor Storm!"

My stomach drops as Dad and I share a look. He beams, while I swallow painfully.

He's here.

---------------------

Dinner is a battle.

I've never felt so awkward in my entire life, and what makes it worse is Dad asking me politely to sit next to Doctor Storm, so Amelia won't disturb him so much. Doctor Storm avoids my eyes for most of the time, until Dad asks me to pour him more wine.

"More wine, Max? Theresa, please help him."

I remove the cover from the wine bottle and pour until Doctor Storm says it's enough.

"Thank you, Theresa," he says, meeting my eyes for the first time this evening.

We have never been this formal. Never. And it's hard to tell if Dad notices the tension at all. He's so engrossed in telling Doctor Storm about his bank job and the crazy shenanigans that go on there. When he reveals how he caught his manager making out aggressively with a security man, how he wouldn't even blame her because she was almost forty and recently divorced and needed the rebound, I just about face plant in my casserole.

Dr Storm pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I, um. I got the marks back for that essay, Dad." Need a subject change, STAT. "The one about Ancient Rome?"

"Oh, yeah? How'd you do, pumpkin?"

"Good! Good, I..."

I ramble on about my coursework, but my voice is fuzzy in my own ears, because every time Doctor Storm and I make eye contact accidentally, my whole body perks up and warmth pools low in my belly. My breaths come faster, my cheeks flush. And he knows. A faint smile plays around his mouth for the whole freaking dinner, the jerk.

I love it, though.

I do?

I'm still salty about our last encounter but I can't keep being annoyed with him. I love this. Love him. And it's definitely me that he's been distracted by lately, not some other woman-I'm sure of it. The second I felt his hungry eyes on me, all that earlier anger evaporated like a fine mist.

We've been on a collision course for a long time now.

I hope he's ready.

Because I'm not giving up on him that easily.

By the time I tuck Amelia into bed and go back down to the den to watch a movie, I'm slick and aching beneath my shorts. Is this how I normally walk? What do I normally do with my arms? Ugh. I'm like an alien in a skinsuit, trying to get all my limbs to function.

Lord, help me.

"Hey, you know what I found in a drawer the other day?" Dad wanders to the bookshelves lining the den walls. This room is where he keeps all the mint-condition comics and first edition paperbacks that he loves, and that my mother used to shame him for before she left us. Good riddance.

When he spins around and waves a battered old stethoscope, I choke back a groan. Not here. We can't play those games here.

...Can we?

"Remember when you wanted to be a doctor, pumpkin? So you could work with Max all the time?"

"Sure." I cross to my dad and pluck the stethoscope from his hand. There's a heavy silence behind us as Max sets up the movie. "I was a kid, though. As soon as I realized how crazy the Doc's job is, I changed my mind."

"Smart girl," the man in question says quietly. I don't turn around to check his expression. I can't.

Instead, I pop the stethoscope in my ears. "Think I still remember this, though. Picked up a few tricks of the trade. Come here, Dad."

There's a steady woomf... woomf... woomf... through the cotton of my father's shirt. When he chortles, it echoes weirdly in my ears.

With the movie playing, we drift to our usual spots: Dad takes his armchair, a mug of decaf on the little table beside him and a blanket thrown across his lap, and Dr Storm and I sink onto the sofa. As always, Dad rambles on and on about his college days, and the number of girls who swooned over him, while Dr Storm listened attentively. We sit at opposite ends, with miles and miles of respectable wilderness between us. Soon Dad begins to doze off, and I tap him to go inside and sleep.

He wishes us a good night and heads upstairs.

Alone with Doctor Storm for the second time in a week. This time, there is radio silence.

"Um," the words come out of his mouth slowly. "About last time, Theresa..."

I don't want to hear a thing. "It's fine, Max. I'm..." the tears escape my eyes before I can help it, and through my peripheral vision, I can tell he's stunned. "I dont know what came over me, and I sincerely apologize..."

"No, no, no. It's fine." Strong hands grip my hips, and I muffle a squeak as he tips me into his lap. I can't believe this is happening. He wipes my eyes with his hand, eyes burning, and he's so big. He takes up half the sofa-and all the air in the room. "I was harsh, I realized. I've never had a woman want me...want me so badly. And you're so...young."

"You think I don't know what I want, do you?"

He shakes his head. "I know you're nineteen, and you're a legal adult who can decide things for herself, but Theresa...your father. He's my best friend."

"I don't care," I exhale. "I want you."

He sighs. "You're so stubborn. Want to play a game?"

I shrug. "Was waiting for you to finally admit that the movie was boring anyway."

He guffaws as the movie flares back at full volume. My breath catches as I squirm in his lap, and he tugs the blanket out from under me, then tosses it over both of us.

The soft lighting of the den goes hazy. He's solid, surrounding me.

Is this real? Fuck.

Max's thighs are so solid, and his body is so warm. How many times have I pictured this? How many times have I wondered how he'd feel, how he'd smell?

The other day upstairs, I couldn't get enough of his cologne. It haunts my dreams. Smells like chocolate, and roses, and a lavender dream.

"The rules go like this...first, we establish a baseline." His words are like quiet music, soft, melodious against my temple, barely audible over the movie. But his voice is ragged; his chest heaves. The metal disc of the stethoscope is cool through my thin black t-shirt, and I arch automatically into the touch. "Good girl. That's it. Alright, your heart rate is a little elevated."

No shit.

Glass shatters in the movie. Bullets pop, and upstairs Dad and Amelia must be in Dreamland.

Is this really happening? But yes-I can feel my heart racing faster, gathering speed the longer the doctor touches me.

"Now, let's discuss your shorts." A big hand slips under the blanket and glides down my knees to my innermost thighs, a finger finding my pussy, and sinking in. He jerks my hips forward by an inch, and my gasp cuts through the air, my throat dry, breathing ragged. "You are a naughty, naughty girl. Did you wear this to torture me? Answer me."

"Yes," I manage after two gulped breaths. "I wore it for you." With no panties. Never said I wouldn't play dirty.

And though Dr Storm's expression is hard, his green eyes narrowed, he loves this too. I know he does. I know this man better than I know myself, and besides-there's a giant clue digging into my butt cheek.

A boner.

"You want me that bad, Theresa? You want me worked up, right? Feral, agitated, hopelessly turned on, huh?"

My lips part as he shifts the stethoscope, listening to my heart pound as I answer. As if I'd lie right now. "Y-yes."

"Say it. I want to hear every word."

"I wore shorts to turn you on, Dr Storm. Every time." Excitement flourishes in my stomach, and I ride it like a tidal wave. "I wore it so you could..."

He waits, bristling with impatience as I trail off. A muscle leaps in his jaw, and his whole sculpted body is tense beneath me. "So I could what, Theresa? So I could what?"

The silence is so loud, the tension so thick, his eyes so intense, so needy to hear the words, I feel my toes curl.

"So, you could put your hand up there, Dr Storm. So, you could touch me."

The movie goes quiet, and we sit together in stunned silence, my dad snoring softly in his armchair. We did it; we finally crossed the line and admitted it out loud. There's no way of explaining those words away; no laughing this off as an innocent game.

No pretending this never happened. No turning back.

The quiet drags on, and the longer it lasts, the colder I go, shrinking into myself on his lap. Has he changed his mind already? Did I go too far? I'll die if he regrets this. If he rejects me again.

But then Dr Storm inhales deeply through his nose, gripping my hip tightly beneath the blanket. The soundtrack blares again from the TV screen. His gaze roams over my face, my lips, my body, and his expression is so possessive that I can't breathe. Can't breathe.

This is it. With his hands on me... his eyes on me... it's finally happening. At last.

"Well, then," my father's best friend rasps, and the roughness of his voice makes my nipples press against my t-shirt. "Let's move to the next phase."

I'm a very disgusting man.

Thinking about my best friend's daughter was never enough.

Lusting over her body - her perfect-sized boobs, her perfect sturdy legs, her prim-shaped ass and big smile, and eventually jerking over to her pictures which I have saved on my phone every fucking night.

It was never enough.

And now I'm here, pawing at her while he snores loudly upstairs.

Grinding her perfect ass into my lap. Playing messed up games with a stethoscope?

I should be ashamed of myself.

I am ashamed of myself.

Don't know how I'll ever look in a mirror again after this.

Theresa may be nineteen, a legal adult, and has already given me her consent.

But she's way too young for me; way too off limits.

I'll be fucking forty in a few months' time.

Sadly, it's not enough to stop me, though. Not when I've been dreaming of her every night for months. Not when I barely managed to shrug her off a few days ago.

"Let's go on to the next phase, Theresa." Her throat shifts as she swallows, her breaths coming fast and shallow. She's practically panting, squirming on my thighs, and the sight of her chest rising and falling like that is hypnotic.

Goosebumps prickle over her skin as I place the stethoscope on her chest, right above her neckline. Woomf, woomf, woomf, her heart goes, pounding out an erratic rhythm.

When I rock up beneath her, rubbing our bodies together, her heart skips a beat. Christ.

"You like that," I grit out, my head swimming with triumph. She really wants this? She wants me the same way I want her? "Be honest, Theresa. I can hear it. Your heartbeat. Your body gives you away."

Just like mine is announcing my interest, loud and proud, prodding up beneath her like I might skewer through her clothes. No spare brain cells to be embarrassed right now.

"There are more signs than that, Doc," she whispers, and her cheeks are so bright. She's burning up, lit only by a few dim lamps and the flickering light of the TV screen. "If you go looking for them."

Fuck.

The blanket brushes against my knuckles as I shift my hand beneath the fabric. Soft thighs part, welcoming me in between.

"This is wrong," I mutter, and Theresa rolls her eyes. Twitches her hips.

"I don't care. It doesn't feel wrong."

Yes, it does. Deliciously, perfectly wrong. And it's so messed up, but when I glance over her shoulder to look towards the stairs, the reminder that her father is asleep probing my skin once again, my cock throbs with how badly I want this.

My fingertips trail along silky skin. So warm. Butter-soft.

The damn stethoscope is still in my ears. Theresa takes the end and presses it harder against her chest, slipping it under the neckline of her shirt.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

My middle finger brushes against damp cotton panties, and her gasp echoes through the den.

Thud-thud-thud-

I yank the stethoscope out of my ears and toss it to the sofa. Need both hands for this; need to focus.

"Theresa," I growl, so quiet that she leans forward, straining to hear. Her hips shift restlessly, chasing my featherlight touch, and her legs part wider as I slip one finger inside her panties.

She groans, then claps a hand over her mouth, but it was loud. Too loud.

We both freeze, staring at the armchair together. Two actors argue on screen, and a clock ticks on the wall.

Upstairs, not a single soul stirs.

Christ, Daniel sleeps like a fucking horse. The heavy snore reverberates throughout the house, music to my ears. I sag with relief, a bead of sweat trickling down my spine, and when we turn back to our game, this time our hands are rougher. Desperate.

The blanket rustles, one end slipping onto the floor. So much intensity. So much passion.

In all of my almost forty years.

"Fuck, Theresa." I don't recognize myself as I grit the words against her hair. As I roam beneath her skirt, touching with greedy fingers. "Look at you. All soaked for Daddy. So wet and needy. So ready. So perfect. Tell Daddy what you want. Come on, tell me."

I shouldn't talk like this. Shouldn't stroke between her legs. What the hell has come over me?

Whatever it is, Theresa is in its grip too, because she nods feverishly, scrabbling at my shoulders, lip drawn between her teeth. Her hips rock against my hand, urging me on. My fingers skate across her slick heat, the sounds faint beneath the blanket.

We're breathing hard together, sucking down air. "This is mine," I hear myself say, the words dredged up from deep in my chest. One hand cups her pussy, and I squeeze until she whimpers. "This is mine, Theresa. Do you understand?"

"Holy shit," she mumbles, and I'll take that as a yes. When I press two fingers inside her, Theresa tips back her head, lips parting on a silent cry.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

The word pulses in my ears.

Her body grips me tightly, and a faint warning bell clangs in the back of my mind. The way she's strangling my fingers, the hazy shock in her eyes... she has done this before, right? Because if she hasn't...

Well. I'm more of a bastard than I realized.

"Theresa," I say slowly, fingers pumping between her legs. Dread crawls up my throat. "Are you...? Have you ever...?"

Fingers tighten where they grip my collar, and her blonde hair is in disarray. She won't look at me, but her words are firm. "Don't you dare, Dr Storm. Don't freak out on me now. I'll never forgive you."

Jesus Christ. My hand stops moving under the blanket.

My best friend's daughter. And she's-she was-thank god we didn't-

"Doc," Theresa hisses. "Don't you dare."

The snoring upstairs stops, and I want to kick my own ass. "You deserve so much better than this," I tell his daughter quietly. "Your first time... Jesus, Theresa."

"It's my decision," she says, scowling at my collarbone. "You're what I want, Dr Storm. You're still what I want, even if you're going to be a giant judgy walnut about it."

My surprised laugh turns into a cough. The snoring continues.

And my heart drums as slowly, so slowly, my hand starts moving again under the blanket. Fingertips slide through slick folds.

"Yes," Theresa whispers, eyes screwed shut as she rolls her hips. When she presses her face against my throat; when I feel the brush of lips, the scrape of teeth, I send up a fervent prayer to any deities who might be listening.

I know I don't deserve this, but I want her. No, I need her.

Theresa is my oxygen. I want every detail of this moment seared into my brain.

"That's it, darling girl. Ride my hand. Just like that."

She quakes and whimpers, and I fucking love it. There's another fight scene in the movie, with thuds and grunts floating from the screen.

"Do you feel what you do to me?" I rock up beneath her, tilting her in my lap, and Theresa clutches my shoulders for balance, still writhing against my hand. "Christ, I want you. Need to bury myself inside you, Theresa-"

Daniel suddenly coughs, sheets ruffling, and we both turn to stone. Her snug channel flutters around my fingers, her slickness is smeared down to my wrist, and we're both red-faced and disheveled. If he comes down now...

Holding my breath, I draw my hand from between his daughter's legs. She slithers off my lap to the side, silent except for the rustle of fabric, and leaves the blanket behind to hide my ruined state.

Theresa looks shell-shocked as she huddles at the end of the sofa.

She manages a wobbly smile, squeezing a cushion in her lap.

We don't look at each other for the rest of the movie, and when we say goodnight two hours later at her father's doorway, we're painfully formal.