Falling For My Father's Best friend

I sank into the leather chair across from him, pulse roaring in my ears. Mateo’s gaze swept over me, slow, deliberate, like he was cataloging every detail: the way my dress clung slightly from nerves, the faint tremble in my hands pressed flat against my thighs.

“Most employees start at nine and leave at five,” he said, voice low and even. “You? Ten to six. I don’t want you wandering the streets after dark.”

I managed a tight, polite smile and nodded. Ten to six. Safe hours. Protective. Almost fatherly.

Except nothing about the man in front of me felt fatherly.

I kept my eyes on the edge of his desk, terrified that if I looked too long he’d see the recognition flash in my own. The memory was still too fresh: his weight pinning me to silk sheets, the way he’d growled my name while he thrust into me, the way I’d begged without shame.

If he remembered—if he put it together—that one reckless night could ruin everything. My father’s oldest friendship. My fragile new job. My last shred of dignity.

Balls!

My father had already thrown me away. What was one more betrayal?

Mateo leaned back, fingers steepled. “Anything you want to say, Isabella?”

I shook my head quickly, lips pressed into what I hoped looked like a neutral smile.

“As my personal nurse, your office will be on the executive floor. Private. No mingling with the rest of the staff. You’re here for one reason only.” He paused, then rose.

He rounded the desk. Stopped right in front of me. Close enough that I could smell that same dark musk-and-leather cologne from the bar. From the penthouse.

My breath caught. Damn.

He looked down at me for a long beat, expression unreadable. Then he sighed—soft, almost regretful.

“I promised your father I’d look after you,” he said quietly. “So keep your head down. Do your job. Stay out of trouble. We’ll be fine.”

He returned to his chair. The moment stretched. I sat frozen, thighs clenched, trying desperately not to let my mind replay every filthy second of that night.

His voice alone was doing things to me. Deep. Commanding. The same timbre that had ordered me to look at him while he fucked me senseless.

I pictured it again—unbidden, unstoppable. Crawling to him on my knees. Fingers fumbling with his belt. Lips parting as I took him deep, tasting salt and heat, hearing him groan “good girl” while his hand fisted my hair. Then straddling him, sinking down slowly, arching so he could suck my nipples raw, biting just hard enough to make me cry out...

“Hey. Isabella.”

Three sharp claps snapped me back.

My face flamed. Heat pooled between my legs, wet, insistent, embarrassing. I squirmed in the seat, praying he couldn’t smell it. Don't know if it would be possible. But still. So he couldn’t see the way my chest rose and fell too fast.

“I’m sorry,” he said, softer now. “You just flew in yesterday. You must be exhausted.”

Before I could answer, his hand settled on the top of my head—gentle, almost tender. Fingers threaded lightly through my hair, massaging my scalp in slow circles.

A low, involuntary moan slipped past my lips.

I froze. Mortified.

His touch stilled. Then withdrew.

When I dared look up, his eyes had darkened—pupils blown, jaw tight. The same look he’d worn right before he pinned my wrists and told me he was going to ruin me.

“Go home,” he said abruptly.

Panic spiked through me. “Did I—did I do something wrong?”

Tears pricked hot and fast. If he fired me now—if I had to crawl back to New York with nothing—

He exhaled roughly. “No. You look like you haven’t eaten. Haven’t slept properly.” His voice gentled. “Have you had breakfast?”

I shook my head, wiping at my eyes.

He pulled out his wallet—thick, black leather—and peeled off several crisp fifty-euro notes. Pressed them into my palm.

“One of my drivers will take you back. I’ll have food sent over.” He held my gaze. “Take care of yourself, Isabella. I’ll check on you this evening.”

I left in a daze.

The chauffeur was silent the whole ride. I clutched the money like it might burn me.

Back in the apartment, I stripped and stepped into the shower. The hot water hit my skin and I sagged against the tile, fingers sliding down my stomach, between my thighs.

The memory flooded back: Mateo above me, eyes locked on mine, thrusting slow and deep while he whispered filthy promises. I circled my clit, whimpering, chasing the ghost of that stretch, that fullness—

The doorbell rang.

I yelped, grabbed a towel, wrapped it around myself. Hair dripping. Skin flushed. Thighs slick.

I opened the door expecting a delivery guy.

Mateo stood there. Dark suit. No tie. Eyes raking over me like he was starving.

“You said evening,” I blurted.

A slow, dangerous smile curved his mouth.

He stepped inside. Closed the door with a soft click. Reached out and brushed wet strands from my cheek.

“You’re soaked, Angioletto.”

My breath hitched. “I—I just showered.”

“How wet are you, Isabella?” His voice dropped to gravel.

I clutched the towel tighter. Legs trembling.

He crowded closer. One hand cupped my jaw, thumb brushing my lower lip. “When I ask you a question…”

He kissed me—soft at first. Then deeper. Hungrier.

The towel slipped. I tried to catch it. He caught my wrists instead. Pinned them gently behind me.

“Don’t hide from me,” he murmured against my mouth. “I want to see all of you. I want every fucking inch.”

He lifted me like I weighed nothing. Carried me to the bedroom. Laid me on the crisp sheets. Spread my thighs wide.

I whimpered when the cool air hit my soaked center.

“Look at you,” he rasped, eyes devouring me. “So pretty. So ready.”

He kissed down my stomach, my hips, inner thighs. Hot breath ghosting over my clit.

“We’re not fucking today,” he said, lips brushing my folds. “Not yet. I want you begging first. Desperate. Dripping. Saying my name like a prayer.”

Disappointment and need twisted inside me.

Then his tongue—flat, slow, deliberate—dragged up my slit.

I cried out. Back arching. Fingers fisting the sheets.

He ate me like he was making up for lost time. Sucking my clit. Thrusting two thick fingers inside. Curling. Pumping. Tongue flicking in relentless circles.

“Please—” I gasped. “Mateo—please fuck me—”

He only hummed against me. The vibration sent me spiraling.

My thighs shook. Stomach clenched. Walls fluttered around his fingers.

“Cum for me, Angioletto,” he growled against my pussy. “Let me taste how much you need this.”

I shattered.

Hard. Loud. Whole body jerking as pleasure ripped through me in violent waves.

He didn’t stop until I was boneless. Gasping. Tears leaking from the corners of my eyes.

Then he crawled up. Kissed me deep—letting me taste myself on his tongue.

“Sleep,” he whispered against my lips.

I did. Curled against his chest. His arms around me like they belonged there.

I didn’t know what this was.

I didn’t know how long it could last.

But right then, with his heartbeat steady under my cheek and the city lights bleeding through the curtains, I didn’t care.