Falling For Dad's College Rival: A Steamy Standalone Instalove Romance Read online

A sensation I haven’t felt in a long, long time.

  I hope she sees it.

  I hope she can see my fat dick growing harder for her. Hope she can see what she’s doing to me.

  First things first. I need to introduce myself, and then I need to get her away from here as quickly as possible.

  A treasure like this, just roaming around and waiting to be plucked?

  No, no, no. I won’t have it.

  She’s mine and I want to take my present home, get to know her some before I unwrap her.

  I’m trying to act suave, casual. But my tongue’s stuck to the roof of my mouth and I can feel my jaw clamped so tight I must look like a lunatic.

  My eyes are sinking into hers, slowly moving away just long enough to take in more of her as I approach.

  I watch my hand moving to take hers, bending low to bring it to my lips.

  She smells like the sweetest thing on earth, and her hand in mine sends a jolt of electricity through my heart and straight down to my aching groin.

  Pressing my lips tenderly on the back of her hand, I look up, introducing myself.

  “And who might you be?” I hear a deep voice, smoky with desire asking her, taking me a full second to realize it’s my own voice.

  I’m actually speaking to her.

  She opens her mouth to say something, but nothing.

  Just an ‘O’ shape with her sweet lips. Another hole I can see needs exploring with my own mouth, but for now, I just want a name. A word to describe this feeling, a reason to explain all this.

  I’m about to ask if the cat’s got her tongue, when it occurs to me I might be making a fool of myself.

  She stammers and I try not to smile, noticing just how cute she is when she’s put on the spot.

  “I’m—” she finally manages, flushing a deep red when a familiar voice fills me in, a voice that sees her snatching her hand back too.

  “Brooke,” The voice snaps, and before I even look over I know it’s him.

  I keep Brooke’s eyes fixed on mine, and reaching out for her hand again, I give it another tender kiss, feeling her whole body tremble under my touch.

  “Well. I see you’ve met Mr. Latham,” Mike clips, trying not to snarl and avoiding my gaze when I finally turn to face him.

  “Mike,” I say absently, deadpan. “Call me Trent,” I inform Brooke, ignoring her father and hooking my arm around her waist, ushering her towards the bar.

  “Can I get you a mineral water, soda?” I ask, feeling like I need something myself if I’m gonna keep speaking.

  “Brooke, I think we should mingle. There are a few other people I’d like you to meet,” Mike butts in, moving closer but not daring to lay a hand on me, and with a single glance, his hand retreats when he’s about to grab hold of Brook.

  Brooke.

  I say her name what feels like a thousand times in my mind in a single second.

  It’s a sweet name, and one I look forward to saying over and over to maintain this feeling inside.

  “You wanna mingle, Brooke?” I ask her, cocking my brow and then pursing my lips a little, giving a skeptical glance that also tells her I’d be wounded if she did with anyone but me.

  “I’ll just grab us a drink, dad. You want something?” she asks Mike even though her body’s still sidled up to mine, but it’s my turn now to have trouble finding some words.

  Dad?

  Did she just say, ‘Dad’?

  It’s only a moment’s hesitation, but Mike Wheatley sees his chance and he grabs it, literally.

  In a split second, he’s got Brooke by the arm, telling her sharply in one ear that they can get their own damn drinks.

  My Brooke.

  Mine.

  But… Dad?

  By the time I recover from the shock, it’s too late to avoid making a scene if I try and play tug of war with the man for his daughter in a crowded room.

  I knew he’d had a daughter, heard it years ago.

  But there’s no way.

  She looks nothing like him.

  Snapping to attention, I realize what’s just happened, and daughter of his or not, there’s no way I’m letting Mike Wheatley just take Brooke away like that.

  I only just met her.

  Moving through the crowd, I watch them as they near the bar, reading his body language and her lips just fine from where I am, as well as if I was standing right beside them both.

  He wants to leave already, but Brooke’s not having any of that.

  I can see her eyes scanning the crowd, looking for me when our eyes finally lock again.

  I shake my head a little and she smiles, stifling a giggle until I use my finger.

  Not motioning for her to turn for me so I can see her better. No.

  I use it slowly to motion her back to me, mouthing the words come here.

  Chapter Five

  Brooke

  The only thing worse than my dad’s timing is his attitude.

  I can see in an instant that there’s no real friendship between my dad and his old friend Trent anymore.

  I wonder what happened to make them hate each other so much.

  I’ve only just had Trent Latham himself take my hand to kiss it and although I screw up my own introduction, the charge I’m getting from his touch is like nothing I could have imagined.

  I’m still reeling from it. My whole body still tingling by the time my dad finally lets go of me, telling me he wants to go home.

  “What’s gotten into you, dad?” I ask him, wondering if he really is unwell.

  “I could ask you the same,” he replies hotly, calming himself as best he can once he sees the effect of his words.

  “I just don’t want you anywhere near that man, okay,” he says, forcing a smile that looks more like a crazed grimace as his eyes dart around the room, looking for the same person I am.

  “Brooke. I’m sorry,” he finally says, leaning in so I can hear him better. “This is just stressing me out, and the last person I expected to see you so close to was that guy. Trent Latham and me—” he starts, but we’re interrupted by something else.

  I can pretty much smell the words before I hear them, and there are murmurs from people around us.

  “Somebody’s had enough already…”

  “Ugh. Some people don’t change a bit…”

  A rough, sweaty hand tries to take mine, with another gripping my ass, which sees my own hand lash out to slap the face behind it all out of sheer reflex.

  It’s a man I’ve never seen before, and I’m equally shocked that all my dad can do is stand there, his mouth gaping wide.

  “How are ya, Mike? I never knew you were… married… A fine woman too,” the thick, booze-filled voice slurs.

  The slap to the face only registers a few seconds later, with the guy muttering something about women with spirit before a huge hand appears over my shoulder, lifting the man clean off the floor by his collar.

  The masculine, clean scent of Trent’s cologne cuts through the drunk’s hazy vapor, and without a word, he’s lifted him away from me and is carrying him to the door like a sack of garbage.

  More than one woman in the room makes a sound, but it’s nothing compared to the one I make. Nothing compared to how it makes me feel when Trent Latham steps in to save the day.

  “Are you alright, honey?” My dad stammers, finally getting himself together enough to actually do something. “Sorry about that,” he mumbles. “Butch Wilson… He used to beat me up. Looks like he never got over his drinking problem either,” he adds.

  “We can go if you want,” he says, looking drained, washed out.

  We’ve been here less than ten minutes and the whole room’s seen more drama than most of them probably have in twenty years by the looks.

  An official looking, older man is trotting after Trent, gushing apologies to people as he makes way, as Trent takes out the trash for the night.

  “Honey?” My dad asks me, tugging at my arm. Probably hearing my loud sigh as I watch Trent in motion.

  “We can go,” he says louder. Firmer, taking me by the wrist and tugging to leave by the other door.

  “I’m sure that’s all the excitement there’ll be, dad,” I tell him, collecting myself and letting him know I’m fine.

  “I went to college too dad, remember? And I’ve had more than one drunk guy grab my ass,” I lie.

  Hearing the word college from my own mouth always leaves a bad taste.

  I almost wish it was guys wanting to grab my ass all the time that was the problem.

  Almost.

  Most days it was only passing comments about the size of it though. And that was on a good day.

  “We just got here,” I remind my dad, trying to keep us here. Already searching the doorway for Trent’s return.

  My dad shifts nervously, fidgeting on his feet. The barman distracts us both, asking what we want to drink and I order two club sodas for us.

  Dad groans quietly as I hand him his drink, telling him it might help to settle his stomach a little.

  “Do we have to stay? I mean really,” he mumbles to himself. But with no sign of Trent, after a few minutes, he seems to have relaxed enough to agree to stay.

  I wonder why Trent would call me over, rescue me from some random drunk, and then vanish. It doesn’t make sense but begs the question, maybe he was signaling someone else?

  I mean, get real Brooke. Would Trent Latham really be calling you over to him after finding out you’re the only daughter of his ex-best friend?

  No. I didn’t think so.

  Just as my dad’s spirits seem to have lifted, I feel my own sinking to new pits of despair.

  I feel stupid.

  Overdressed and overweight in what’s essentially a cocktail dress that I can already feel star
ting to pinch in places I don’t even wanna think about.

  Plus, if this is a sit down dinner thing?

  I never even tried sitting down in this dress.

  I’ve spent half the time here so far sucking my gut in so I don’t tear it at the seams.

  Glancing around I can see a room full of people old enough to be my parents or grandparents. All talking about the past as if it’s something great or the worst thing that ever happened to them.

  I want Trent back. I want him holding my hand, telling me I look nice or something.

  Telling me anything.

  But he’s gone and the more seconds that tick by, the easier it is to convince myself I probably misread the whole situation.

  He was probably just being nice to the only young adult in the room.

  He was probably—

  Oh. My. God.

  I suddenly do see Trent coming back in through the main doorway, and he does seem to be looking around, but it’s who he has on his arm that proves my whole point.

  It looks like the most attractive man in the building stepped out to go down to the local slut store to get himself a life-sized version of the Malibu-Barbie-ruins-everything-for-Brooke doll.

  I knew it was too good to be true.

  The woman clinging to him must be a size zero and looks like she needs help to hold herself up on those six inch heels too.

  Not sure which looks heavier on her either, her obviously fake chest or the huge shock of peroxide blond on her head.

  Almost every man in her vicinity turns to look at her as she passes.

  She’s older than me, how much I’m not sure with all that makeup.

  She’s what every guy wants. Nobody wants a short thick girl with a chest as big as her ass.

  I turn to tell my dad maybe we should leave after all, but he’s got someone leaning in close to talk to him as well.

  From what I can overhear, she’s telling him she used to have a crush on him, which I guess is reunion speak for ‘do you wanna ask me out?’

  My dad’s had about the same romantic action as I have in the past twenty years, as far as I know so I’m not gonna be the one to get between him and whatever chance he might have there.

  He looks pretty interested and casting a glance back at Trent I can see he looks like he has his hands full too, so it’s time for this ugly duckling to exit stage left.

  My dad has the car keys, but I tell myself I’ll text him to let him know I’ve left rather than interrupt his big chance.

  Making my way out, I fight the urge to look out for Trent again, but I can’t help it.

  I scan the room one more time, but I don’t see him or Reunion Dinner Barbie.

  Maybe they deserve each other.

  I decide I can get an Uber home, or maybe I’ll just walk for a while.

  Suddenly I don’t feel like doing much of anything except going home and trying to forget any of tonight even happened.

  Try to forget about Trent Latham too, that’s for sure.

  I mean… Maybe dad was right. Maybe he is just an asshole.

  But that feeling. He was summoning you over to him with that huge finger of his.

  I’ve had lots of ‘feelings’ in this life and most of them are pretty awful, I don’t see how this should pan out any different.

  The stuffy doorman sniffs down his nose at me, barely caring as I leave and don’t plan on coming back.

  As if on cue, the moment I step outside, there’s a crash of thunder and it starts to rain.

  Great.

  I get about halfway to where we left the car, resigning myself to walk straight past it, when I hear a car horn honk, startling me.

  It’s a cab, and the driver asks if I need a ride.

  “I just dropped a couple off at the reunion. You need a ride someplace?” he asks, looking up at the sky and then letting his eyes travel down my already soaked outfit.

  “I can put a towel down,” he adds, making perfect sense.

  “Sure,” I murmur. “Why not.”

  I almost hope the rain on my face is disguising the mascara and tears I can feel starting to run, but after a few minutes, I couldn’t care less.

  Chapter Six

  Trent

  I don’t expect Mike Wheatley to be over the moon to see me, but snatching Brooke away so soon isn’t playing fair.

  It is supposed to be a social event after all.

  Signaling her from a distance, I feel relief when she smiles. Receptive to the feeling I’m broadcasting, and if it’s anything like how I feel from her touch, I know I’m not imagining things.

  But nothing worth having is easy to come by.

  It’s in that same moment I’m beckoning her back over to me with my finger, that some drunk idiot almost falls over her, hands where they should never be.

  That’s my cue to step in.

  Her old man taking her to one side, maybe. But another man trying to lay a hand on what’s mine? No fucking way.

  I recognize Butch Wilson long before I reach him.

  He used to beat kids up and tell everyone it was me, which didn’t do anything for my image in high school and later in college.

  He looks worse for wear, and not just from tonight’s drinks. He looks like a guy who’s fallen on hard times because of it, but it’s no excuse for acting like a sleaze.

  In a single movement, I have him by the scruff and am helping him outside when the Dean is suddenly beside me, begging me to be discreet.

  “You mean, don’t break his hands?” I growl, still mad that anyone would do something so stupid, but to Brooke especially.

  “Precisely,” Dean Chambers grovels, making apologies to his fellow guests as they move aside.

  “For the sake of our overseas friends too,” he adds, reminding me quietly that if he does well, I do well.

  That old backscratching favor is like a god damned tattoo.

  Very hard to erase once it’s applied.

  By the time I get Butch outside, he’s flaked out anyway. Sitting him on a bench under some cover, I ask Dean Chambers if he can arrange a cab or have someone drive him home.

  “I’ll have it seen to,” he clips and moves back inside, looking more like he’d rather deal with his conscious crowd than one drunk almost ruining the whole party.

  Some lightning flashes silently and I observe the chill in the air before figuring old Butch Wilson isn’t going to bother anyone else tonight, so I head back in myself.

  My eyes peeled as I look out for Brooke.

  But the gods of test and challenge aren’t done with me yet.

  I hear a whining, nasally voice followed by a high-pitched cackle.

  Then I get a face full of way too much drug store perfume, followed by the icy claws of a stranger’s acrylic nails digging into my arm.

  Looking down, I figure this might be the second drunk of the night, but no. She seems sober as a judge, which is frightening in itself.

  I try to disengage from her, pulling my arm back. But she has a grip like iron.

  “I’ve been waiting for you, Trent Latham,” she coos, making my skin crawl at the fact this person even knows who I am.

  I’m sure she’s a nice enough person, despite the fact she looks like something that has a nozzle somewhere to inflate it.

  But apart from really not being the kind of woman I’d like to have hanging off me on a good day, right now I have somewhere else I’d like to be.

  With someone else.

  “Look,” I tell her, stopping just long enough to try and ease her hands off me one more time.

  “I’m really in a rush to meet someone else,” I tell her. “And I’m sorry, but I really don’t know who you are,” I add truthfully.

  Most everyone else here I probably could recognize at fifty paces, even after twenty years.

  “Oh now, Trent. Don’t be playing shy with me,” The woman drawls, showing no sign of letting go of me.

  “It’s me. Ellen?” she says matter of fact, looking hurt when it registers that I still have no idea who she is.

  “I had a little work done,” she blushes, rolling her eyes and letting one hand off me just long enough to squeeze half her own chest.

  I furrow my brows, shaking my head in the negative. I move my eyes back to the crowded room, eager to find Brooke but at the same time wanting to get free of this harpy from the past.

  “I really don’t remember you,” I tell her firmly, and using just enough friendly pressure, I free her hands from my sleeve, telling her I really have to go.