Daddy's Best Friend, Billionaire In My Bed

Aria’s breath—fuck, it catches—right in her chest like she forgot how to breathe. Her bare feet smack against the marble as she just… stops. Right there in the doorway.

Adrian’s there. Standing like sin incarnate. Pool water dripping down that carved chest of his, towel slung low like it’s daring gravity. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just looks. Dead in her eyes. Like he sees straight through skin.

The air’s heavy. Not just with chlorine—something else. Sweat? Her own pulse? Grief still clinging to her like wet clothes from the funeral. Her towel slips. Barely an inch, but it’s enough. She doesn’t fix it. Doesn’t even move.

And he… he sure as hell doesn’t look away.

“Shit,” she mutters under her breath. Heart’s pounding so loud it’s all she can hear. That and—God—the silence. Heavy silence. That kind that clogs your ears. The kind after a gunshot or—

Stop. Don’t think about that.

Her thighs press together. Not from nerves. Not entirely. She’s… wet. Not just from the damn pool. And it’s wrong. Everything about this is wrong, but she can’t make herself stop wanting it. Him.

She’s nineteen. Barely holding it together. And Adrian fucking Cross—dad’s best friend, the man who taught her how to tie her skates and pour whiskey—is looking at her like he’s gonna tear her apart and love every second of it.

“Careful, Aria,” he says, voice low and rough. Like old gravel roads. Like secrets. “You’re not a kid anymore.”

Her stomach flips. Or caves. Or—she doesn’t know. It’s fear and something filthier. Something she’s not ready to name.

She should run. Run back to the guesthouse where her mom’s probably crying into another half-glass of red.

But her body’s not listening.

She’s tingling. All over. Her nipples push against the towel, tight and aching. Her skin’s too awake. Her brain’s too loud.

“I—I didn’t mean to…” Her voice’s all breath. All stupid. Fingers cling to the slipping towel. Slipping more now. Another inch. Her cheeks flame. But she still… doesn’t cover. Why the fuck isn’t she covering?

Adrian takes a step. Closer. Water beads down his arms. He’s so close she can see the scar on his left shoulder.

Forty-two. Broad as hell. Built like he could wreck her and probably would.

“You didn’t mean to what?” he asks, voice curling like smoke in her lungs. “Walk in? Drop that towel? Or stare at me like you want me to break you?”

She chokes on air. Words don’t come. Her mouth’s full of lies. I’m not—I don’t—but it’s all bullshit.

Her exes didn’t make her feel like this. Not even close. They were boys. Soft hands. Fumbling. Adrian is—

She blinks. The heat behind her eyes—panic? Lust? Guilt? All of it? It’s crawling.

She swallows. Hard. “I… I’m not…”

And nothing. Her voice cuts out. Her whole body’s sweat and confusion and—

He’s closer. Too close. She can smell him now. Not pool. Not cologne. Him.

Cedar. Skin. Want.

“Go back to your room, Aria.” His tone? Not a warning. A dare.

His eyes dip. Right where the towel’s holding on for dear life.

“Unless you wanna find out what happens when you stay.”

Her thighs press again. She shouldn’t want this. She shouldn’t want him. But she does. It’s clawing up her throat. Her whole body’s begging. Her brain? Screaming.

You’re a mess. You’re grieving. You’re disgusting.

But her body doesn’t give a fuck. It’s already his.

“You’re…” Her voice cracks. “You’re Dad’s friend.”

A stupid reminder. Useless. Weak. Like she’s trying to convince herself this matters. That it means something.

It doesn’t. Not right now.

Adrian’s jaw twitches. His voice drops, dangerous and low. “Yeah. I was. Now I’m the man who’s gonna ruin you… if you don’t walk away.”

Ruin. The word detonates.

Her knees wobble.

She’s not thinking about the casket. Or the gunshots. Or her mom’s mascara running down her cheeks.

She’s thinking about Adrian. His hands. His mouth.

She’s thinking about the vibrator that died mid-use last night and left her crying in the shower, whispering his name like a sick little—

“Aria.” His voice slices through. Sharp. Animal.

His hand moves—slow. Tracing her shoulder. The towel dips lower. Barely covering. Her breath hitches.

His fingers stay. Warm. Big. A little calloused. They trace her collarbone like they own it.

“Tell me to stop.”

She can’t.

She opens her mouth. Nothing comes but a whisper. “I… I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Honest. Ugly.

She’s trembling. Gut turning. Shame curling with heat between her thighs.

And he just—God, he just stares like he knows. Like he knew all along.

His hand moves. Knuckles graze her breast.

"You don’t need to know,” he says. “I do.”

And then—he’s on her.

Towel? Gone. Yanked like it never mattered. She’s bare. Cold marble hits her back.

His mouth—on hers. Crushing. Hot. Brutal.

She moans, shocked at how fast it hits. How hard.

He tastes like whiskey. Sin. Her undoing.

Her nails dig into his shoulders.

He groans. Deep. Like something unchained. Like he’s been holding this in for years.

“Fuck, Aria,” he mutters, lips dragging to her neck, teeth scraping. “You’re too sweet for this.”

His hand cups her breast. Thumb flicks—sharp, relentless. She gasps. Arches.

Other hand? Lower. Between her legs.

She yelps. Loud. No grace to it. Just raw sound.

His fingers slide over her—slick, soaked. She’s already drenched. Already undone.

“Adrian—oh God—”

She hates how needy she sounds. Hates that she can’t stop it.

Her hips grind against him. He doesn’t stop.

Circling. Pressing.

Precision. Like he studied her body in dreams.

“You’re gonna come for me.”

Two fingers—inside.

Stretching. Curling.

She cries out, helpless. She’s too tight. Too close.

And he’s fucking relentless.

“Say my name.”

She tries. Fails. Moans it instead. Screams it.

Her body fractures.

Orgasm hits her like a brick wall—shattering her.

Tears sting. Shame swells.

But she can’t stop shaking.

He strokes her through it. Gentle now. Kinda.

She’s a wreck. Barely holding herself up.

“Good girl.”

Two words. Filthy. Addictive.

He licks his fingers. Slow. Watching her the whole damn time.

Her knees buckle.

She crumples to the floor. Panting. Humiliated. Wanting more.

Adrian crouches. Lifts her chin. “This doesn’t stop here,” he whispers. “You’re mine now. And I don’t fucking share.”

She barely has time to catch a breath when—

Creeeak.

The pool house door swings.

Her mom’s voice—sharp.

“Aria? Are you in here?”

Adrian smiles. That smug, sinful smile.

And stands.

Leaving her—naked.

On the cold marble.

Shaking.

Dripping.

Utterly. Fucked.