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And here I am, watching a tape of a rally race as I let my mind take every little sound and morph it into Murphy Moran. But even as I laugh at the instinct, something deep inside of me tightens, throbs, sings at me to pounce on him the first chance I get.
I push the laptop aside and let out a groan, closing my eyes as fantasies flood my mind.
I imagine myself stopping the car in a dark parking lot and then sliding into the back seat, into his lap.
And instead of pushing me away and snapping at me to remember I’m his employee as well as his best friend’s daughter, the muscular-as-a-god mob boss pulls me close to him and starts shifting his hips, driving his throbbing manhood against me, smoothing his hands up my hips and then to my breasts.
“I need to suck these needy fucking nipples,” I imagine him growling, as I slide my hand down my body, toward my aching sex, my lips screaming at me to rub them hard and fast until I’m simmering with the release.
I imagine him tearing open my shirt and burying his face in my breasts, growling with pleasure as he sucks one nipple and then the other…
My hand pauses on my belly when Dad knocks on the door.
“Yes?” I call out, voice wavering.
“Do you want any hot cocoa?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Okay. Let me know if you change your mind.”
I sigh and roll over, forcing my hand away from my sex and grabbing onto the sheets in big handfuls instead.
I slow my breathing down, trying to push away the vignettes that won’t stop surging into my mind.
Over and over, they attack me, as if that deep inside part of me is aiming them at me. For a crazy second, I think it’s my womb, a primal piece of me singing out with lust, with atavistic desire, as though we’ve gone back thousands of years and if I don’t get pregnant by this hulking man the predators might come for me in the dark.
I laugh again, but it’s forced. I don’t truly find it as ridiculous as I probably should.
I pick up my laptop and try to focus on the rally tape, but my vision keeps wavering, my concentration slipping as I try to impose some sort of control on myself.
My clit feels ultra sensitive, hot with friction every time I move even an inch, grinding hotly against my panties and making my hole tingle with the need for a release.
But I can’t let myself grind my hand up against my sex like I want to like I need to, because any second Dad might knock on the door again.
Already the deranged thought is lancing into my mind that Dad somehow knows how I feel about his best friend, that he’s just waiting for the right moment to roar at me for my dirty thoughts.
“What’s the matter with you?” I imagine him yelling. “Do you really think a man like Murphy would ever want you? You’re not his type, you silly stupid girl. You’re not the right shape. You’re too young. You’re experienced enough.”
I force this mind-made version of my Dad away. He’s never spoken to me so cruelly in real life, but it doesn’t seem to matter as my mind tosses up insult upon insult.
I grab the edge of the laptop and stare at the car, wishing I was on the track, surging around with only thoughts of the next turn in my mind. There’s nothing like racing to blot out all my other thoughts, to make it so I don’t have to think about how self-conscious and inadequate I am.
Because if I don’t focus when I’m on the track, I could slip on the dirt and go tipping end-over-end into oblivion, ruining everything.
I grimace when I realize that’s exactly the situation I’m in now with Murphy. If I don’t focus – if I don’t remind myself every moment that he’d never want me – I could crash and destroy my relationship with my dad, not to mention his relationship with his oldest friend in the worst possible way.
Chapter Eight
Murphy
I sit in the back of the car, my whole body feeling like it could ignite at any second.
It’s just the two of us again – I’m meeting Cillian at the office – and all I can think about is how badly I need her. Even after talking with her father last night, even after I promised myself I wouldn’t let my thoughts stray there, I can’t stop.
Her driver’s uniform may be stuffy, but it’s still easy to envision her curvy body beneath, the way her skin will tinge red when I grab her when I possessively place her in the positions I desire.
Her cheeks are dappled crimson and a few strands of her dark hair have come loose from her bun, spiraling from beneath her cap, making me want to tear the bun loose and free that wavy gorgeous hair.
