/Gerald/
Last night had been... unexpectedly great.
I hadn't planned it. Didn't go to that hotel looking for anything. Hell, I'd only gone to unwind after a week of board meetings and fake-ass handshakes. But then there she was sited by the bar. Sunshine. All curves and attitude, lips like sin, a mouth that didn't know how to behave.
And God, what a mouth it was.
I hadn't even fucked her. Just two fingers deep, and she came apart like I'd shattered her soul. The sound she made still echoed in my ears. Sweet, desperate little cries muffled by the my pillows. I'd meant to call her again. I really had.
I wanted to take my time next time taste every inch of her, ruin her properly, make her forget anyone else had ever touched her. I'd kept her number on that sticky note, planning to reach out today.
But then... fate decided to fuck me instead.
Because the second I stepped into that restaurant and saw her sitting across from my son smiling like a well-behaved fiancée, legs politely crossed like they hadn't been wide open for me twelve hours ago my cock went hard with rage and something much darker.
Sunshine.
My son's soon-to-be wife.
The woman I had every intention of bending over again.
She went pale the moment she saw me. Her eyes went wide. Her mouth slightly parted. And oh, how I remembered what that mouth felt like wrapped around my fingers. What it might look like wrapped around something else.
Still, I kept my composure. I had years of practice wearing masks.
"Esme," I said, offering my hand. "Pleasure to finally meet you."
I watched her hesitate, torn between horror and arousal. She slipped her hand into mine like it burned her, and I couldn't help it I let my thumb drag once, slow and knowing, across the back of her hand.
She flinched.
Perfect.
I sat down like this was just another brunch. Like I wasn't already hard beneath the table. Like I hadn't finger-fucked my future daughter-in-law into a shaking mess the night before.
I sipped my wine. Looked at her.
"So," I said, voice casual, "how did you two meet?"
I wasn't asking because I cared.
I was asking because I wanted to see her squirm.
She stiffened, shoulders tensing just slightly before she glanced at Dave, who started to answer.
"Oh, we met through mutual friends at a gallery showing downtown. Esme was helping curate an exhibit and I-"
But I wasn't listening to him.
I was watching her.
The way she wouldn't quite look me in the eye. The way her fingers curled tightly around her napkin like it might save her. The flush rising on her cheeks, delicate and damning.
Every expression was a gift.
My eyes dropped to her lips as she smiled nervously, nodding along with Dave's story. Those lips had trembled last night soft, parted, wet. I imagined them again now, wrapped around my cock, those pretty lashes fluttering as she gagged on me like a good girl.
I shifted slightly in my seat.
God, what a twisted little joke the universe had played. But I wasn't laughing.
I was imagining how she'd look kneeling at my feet in that same yellow sundress, choking on me while I told her what a dirty slut she was for letting her future father-in-law wreck her.
She crossed her legs under the table, clearly uncomfortable. And I knew it wasn't just guilt. She could still feel me. Her body remembered what my fingers did what my voice sounded like in the dark.
And I wasn't done. Not even close, she made the mistake of glancing at me.
I raised a brow, slowly, and gave her the smallest hint of a smile. Just enough to make her panic.
She looked away immediately. Beautiful.
So polite. So sweet. So utterly ruined inside.
And I hadn't even touched her properly yet.
Dave kept talking about the gallery, about how Esme had impressed him with her art knowledge, about how "different" she was from other women he'd dated.
I nodded, smiled like the proud father. Meanwhile, I was busy imagining what those "other women" might do if they knew Esme had moaned into my mouth before ever shaking my hand.
"She's brilliant," Dave said, eyes lit. "And she's got a heart. Not just the surface stuff, you know?"
Esme gave him a shy look, then peeked at me like she was trying to measure if I'd speak if I'd say anything that would give us away.
I didn't.
I just leaned forward slightly, resting my elbows on the table, watching her.
"You must have been quite the charmer to win her over," I said to Dave. Then I turned to her, deliberately slow. "He's not always this smooth."
Dave laughed. "Come on, Dad."
But Esme's throat bobbed. She wasn't laughing.
She knew what I was doing.
And I knew what I was doing.
"You're very beautiful," I said to her, letting the compliment hang just long enough. "Inside and out, I'm sure."
She blinked hard. "Thank you... Mr. Gerald."
"Gerald," I corrected softly. "We're going to be family, aren't we?"
I didn't miss the twitch in her jaw. She hated this. She loved it. She didn't know what the hell to feel and I was feeding on that confusion like a man starved.
God, she was gorgeous when flustered. Her thighs pressed together again under the table, and I knew exactly why.
She was wet.
Still aching for the man who had touched her in the dark and now sat before her in the light respectable, calm, and completely untouchable.
Except I wasn't.
And we both knew that.
I let the conversation die down for a moment, then swirled the wine in my glass, watching the blood-red liquid move. "You remind me of someone," I said lightly, eyes fixed on her.
Dave glanced at me. "Really?"
I didn't answer him.
I was still looking at Esme.
She stared back, lips parted just barely. Her breath quickened, nostrils flaring faintly.
She remembered my voice saying something similar in the hotel elevator. Before I kissed her. Before I lifted her against the wall and made her beg me with nothing but her body.
Dave laughed awkwardly, probably thinking it was just one of my weird moments. "My dad meets a lot of people," he said, sipping his drink. "His memory's freakishly good."
"Oh, I never forget a face," I murmured, eyes still locked on her. "Especially one that makes such a... lasting impression."
Her fork clattered softly against her plate. She dropped it.
"I'm sorry," she said quickly, leaning down to pick it up.
I beat her to it.
We both reached under the table at the same time. My fingers closed around the fork and around her hand.
I held it there for a second too long. Her eyes shot up to mine under the tablecloth, wide and drowning in panic. I brought the fork back up, set it neatly on her plate, and gave her the faintest smile.
She looked like she might faint. Good, she needed to remember who I was. What I was, what I could do to her again.
