One night stand with my daddy's best friend

Six months ago he'd suffered through a very messy, very public divorce from his bitch of an ex-wife, Olivia, who was stupid enough to have an affair. It defied belief. How could anyone cheat on Matthew Banks, the hottest man alive? From the tidbits of gossip I got from my dad, the affair had been going on for years, and of all the people she had to blow her marriage vows on, it had to be her accountant, Simon Grenville, a sniveling dweeb about a quarter of Matthew's size.

Olivia was a cold woman, and no one believed she was in love with the guy. She had to want something from him. Something that was worth losing Matthew for. It was soon revealed Simon came from a long line of Grenvilles who oozed old money charm and had fingers in every political pie in the country and access to all the finery and elegance Olivia desired: memberships at prestigious country clubs and vast estates of ancient properties that sprawled the Massachusetts landscapes, to name a couple.

Simon had relatives that reached the higher echelons of the political stratosphere. Soon it became evident that with Matthew, Olivia could be rich and glamorous, but with Simon, she was one step closer to being First Lady. Still, I couldn't understand how she could have ruined what she had with Matthew. It just didn't compute in my head that she had been lucky enough to marry him and choose someone else instead.

She's insane, I decided. There can be no other reason.

"You're right," I said to Jane. "He makes Brad Pitt look like a homeless bum."

"Brad Pitt?" she laughed. "What is it with you talking about old dudes?""

"What can I say? I appreciate a mature gentleman."

Up ahead, the tra c finally began to move. Stepping on the accelerator, I willed the journey to end as soon as possible. It had been an arduous day, starting off at six am to pack the last of my belongings before saying goodbye to New York, the city that had been my home for four years and the place I thought was my future.

But what did my future hold now? I had no idea. All I knew was that after all this time being independent, I was moving back in with my dad.

"So you wanna hang out tonight?" she asked. "I dunno. I want to but I'm exhausted."

"No worries, we can get together tomorrow. We need to catch up, have some proper girly time together."

"Definitely."

"I can't wait! It's been so long since we've lived in the same town. It'll be just like back in the good old days. Just you and me, thick as thieves."

"And Harry," I trilled. It came out sounding more sarcastic than I meant and I worked to soften my tone. "I mean, I love Harry," I continued. "Couldn't imagine you without him."

"Me either," Jane swooned. "I feel so blessed having him. Like we were just meant to be together, like fate or some shit. We're actual soul mates."

Here we go again with the schmaltz.

"Yeah, you're a lucky girl," I said, changing lanes as I moved into the fast-flowing tra c of the highway. "So when do you think he'll propose?"

"Who knows. I've been dropping hints for months!

Sometimes I don't think we'll ever get married." "Don't stress about it. It's just a piece of paper."

"Just a piece of paper! Wow, you're such a romantic."

I laughed and accelerated along the outside lane, eager to reach home as quickly as possible. All I wanted was to crash on the couch with Dad. Job applications and unpacking could be worried about in the morning. "Anyway," she said, chewing again. "I gotta go. Harry will be home soon and I gotta put dinner on."

"You're such a dutiful little wifey," I laughed. "He better appreciate all you do for him."

"Oh, he knows how to say thank you once dessert's been served and..."

"Alright, spare the details. I'll call you in the morning." "You better. Love ya!"

"Love ya, too."

I reached over to switch off the hands free. The car was plunged into silence with only the sound of the wet asphalt beneath us as the tires drove through the rain.

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Just ten more minutes and I'll be home, I thought to myself as I yawned.

As I drove, I thought of Matthew again. What were the chances of getting to work for him? Minimal probably, but I could always dream. And I'd always dreamed about him. He was my first crush, the first guy I'd ever met who gave me that creamy tingling sensation between my legs.

I'd never forget the time in high school when our basketball coach broke his leg a month before the championship. Suddenly we went from being a team with a chance of winning it big time to being a team that would have to forfeit everything. Without a coach, we were nothing. But Matthew decided to step in. He knew all about the practices my dad used to drive me to and how hard I'd

worked. So when it looked as though our team wouldn't be able to compete, he decided the only way to save the day was to step in and coach us himself.

We'd all been standing outside the girls' locker room commiserating on the fate of the team when he appeared at the end of the hall with the assistant coach we loved but who didn't really know anything about basketball. Carrying a sack of basketballs, Matthew arrived like a guardian angel in tight fitting shorts and a tank top that showed off his bulging muscles.

For a second, all the girls just stared, shocked into silence, then one by one they began to blush and giggle. But I'd kept my cool and just nodded to him, trying to look as nonchalant as possible even though my insides were melting. "Sup?" I'd said as he approached me. "So my old man told you about the team."

"He told me everything. Thought I'd get you to the championship myself."

All the girls on the team were staring at me with their eyes like saucers. I knew what they were all thinking. How the hell does she know him? I pretended it was no big deal.

He fit into the slot of coach easily, and for the first time in the team's history, every single player turned up to every single practice session, and they were even early. In fact, practice began earlier and earlier every day as people practically sprinted from their last class to get to Matthew's sessions.

And something else unusual started to happen. The girls' moms started to tag along just to watch. They'd stand up on the bleachers pretending they were there to support their little girls. But we all knew they just wanted to see Matthew running around getting all sweaty. And who could blame them?

On the day of the championship game, the place was packed. You would have thought LeBron James himself was playing. But as I dribbled down the court, I became aware that no one was watching me because all eyes were on Matthew. We'd sailed through the final and become state champions. After bringing us to victory, Matthew left his post as substitute and a few months later, our old coach, who had the charm, looks, and personality of a potato in comparison, returned. Half the girls quit the team, and the school hadn't won the state championship again.

But for me, the real joy didn't come from winning, although I had loved seeing my hard work pay off. It had come from going home and dreaming of him, of thinking of all the multiple ways we could become even closer. I used to make excuses to not shower at school so I could go home and run the hottest bath to have even hotter dreams. As the steam rose in the room, I'd sink my fingers between my legs and imagine Matthew's strong body.

He'd built his wealth on being able to sculpt people's bodies into perfection, but his was the most perfect of all. There wasn't an inch of fat anywhere on him, and his skin was the color of caramel. Then there was his face. Square-jawed and blue eyed with cheekbones that could cut glass. He could make a gal flood her panties with just a look. Not that he ever looked at me as anything more than the daughter of his best friend. No matter how much I stared at him and willed him to notice me, he didn't so much as glance in my direction unless it was to give me advice on my dribbling.

But he didn't look at any of the girls or their mothers. He was a one-woman guy, and although people gossiped and imagined what a little extra coaching from him would be like, he couldn't have been more respectful to any of us. Despite being surrounded by a team of girls, he behaved like a saint.

But I didn't want a saint. I wanted him to be bad, and I couldn't stop the rampant fantasies about him in my mind. As I lay in the bath, I'd fantasize about him taking me to the side during practice with one of his strong hands gripping my wrist. "You need some extra practice," he'd tell me in his gruff, low voice. "It looks like I'll have to give you some one-on-one drills after the rest of the team leaves."

The thought sent me reeling as I imagined the court emptying, leaving just the two of us. But soon, thoughts of basketball would disappear, and he'd be sliding his hands down my sides and pulling me toward him.

"I can teach you things," he'd murmur before pushing his lips against mine.

The fantasy always ended the same way, with him taking my hand and leading me into the empty locker room where he'd lift me in his strong arms and press me up against the wall. With my legs around his waist, he'd fuck me slowly and lovingly, but firmly. He would take control and dominate me, but his eyes would always be fixed on mine.

I'd had my first orgasm to this, then my second and third and hundredth.

Even when I grew older and moved away to college, where I met boys my own age and started to date, my mind always drifted back to him. Nobody ever came close to him, and as short-lived relationships blossomed and dwindled, one after the other, I came to the realization that subconsciously, I was holding out for him. Always hoping that somehow, at some point, he would be the one I ended up with.

But I knew how ridiculous that was. He would never be interested in someone like me. He probably still remembered

me as the snotty nosed tomboy who used to run around the yard playing ball with all the neighborhood kids.

Back then, I was indistinguishable from most of the boys on the block. I loved sports, never wore pretty dresses or makeup and my idea of a good weekend was getting muddy and running around with the dogs. I was nothing compared to Olivia. But then again, I wouldn't want to be.

At last, just as my eyelids grew heavy, I could see the roof of my dad's house as I turned into the street.

"Jesus..."