The Bridesmaid
"His daughter's maid of honor needs a ride home from the bachelorette party. She's drunk. She's gorgeous. And she's been 'like a second daughter' for far too long."
The call comes at 1 AM.
"Mr. Sullivan? It's Mia. I'm so sorry to bother you."
Mia. My daughter's best friend since kindergarten. Her maid of honor. The woman I've watched grow from pigtails and braces into something that makes me deeply uncomfortable.
"Mia. What's wrong?"
"The bachelorette party got... messy." She laughs, slurring slightly. "Katie passed out, the other girls all went home with guys, and I'm stuck at this bar downtown with no way home."
"Where are you?"
She tells me. I'm already grabbing my keys.
"Stay there. I'm coming."
I've known Mia for twenty-two years.
She's twenty-seven now—the same age as Katie, my daughter. They've been inseparable since the day Mia's family moved in next door. Sleepovers, school plays, prom photos where Mia was always there, always in the background, always looking at me in a way I told myself I was imagining.
She grew up beautiful.
Five-ten, brunette, with curves that her mother's Mediterranean genes gifted her. She's not thin—never has been—but she carries her weight like a woman who knows exactly how good she looks. Heavy breasts, wide hips, thick thighs that make sundresses look like sin.
I've watched her become a woman.
And I've hated myself for noticing.
The bar is called The Velvet Room.
Mia is sitting on a bench outside, clutching her purse, still wearing the sash that says "Maid of Honor." She's in a black dress that barely covers anything, her dark hair tumbling over bare shoulders.
"Mr. Sullivan!" She stands too fast, wobbles, catches herself on my arm. "You're my hero."
"Let's get you home."
I help her to the car. She leans into me—warm, soft, smelling like tequila and something floral. Her breast presses against my arm.
"Thank you," she mumbles. "I didn't know who else to call."
"You can always call me."
She looks up at me. Her eyes are glassy but focused.
"Yeah," she says. "I know."
The drive should take twenty minutes.
Traffic is light. The roads are empty. But Mia wants to talk.
"Do you know how long I've had a crush on you?"
I keep my eyes on the road. "You're drunk."
"I'm tipsy. There's a difference." She shifts in her seat, turning toward me. "I've had a crush on you since I was sixteen. That summer you built the deck in your backyard. Shirtless. Sweating."
"Mia—"
"I used to watch from my window. Katie thought it was so funny—she had no idea I was looking at her dad."
"We shouldn't talk about this."
"Why not? I'm not sixteen anymore." Her hand lands on my thigh. "I'm a grown woman, Mr. Sullivan. And I know what I want."
I remove her hand.
"You're my daughter's best friend."
"I know."
"You're her maid of honor."
"I know that too."
"This can't happen."
She's quiet for a moment. Then:
"Pull over."
"What?"
"Pull. Over."
I don't know why I do it. But I find a side street, a dark stretch near a park, and I put the car in park.
"Mia—"
She unbuckles her seatbelt and climbs into my lap.
"I've waited eleven years," she breathes. "Eleven years of watching you at barbecues and Christmas dinners and Katie's birthday parties. Eleven years of wondering what you'd feel like."
"This is insane."
"Probably." She grinds against me. Even through my jeans, I can feel the heat of her. "But I can't wait anymore."
"The wedding is in three days."
"I know."
"Katie would never forgive—"
"Katie doesn't have to know." She cups my face. Forces me to look at her. "No one has to know. Just this once. Just to... to get it out of my system."
"That's not how it works."
"Maybe not." She leans forward. Her lips brush my ear. "But I'm going to kiss you now. And you can push me away, and I'll get back in my seat, and we'll never speak of this again. Or..."
"Or what?"
"Or you can give us both what we've wanted for eleven years."
She kisses me.
I should push her away.
I should be the adult. The father figure. The responsible one.
I kiss her back.
She moans into my mouth—relieved, hungry, the sound of years of wanting finally released. Her tongue slides against mine. Her hips roll, grinding against my hardening cock.
"I knew it," she gasps. "I knew you wanted me too—"
I grab her hips. So much flesh. So much softness. I pull her down harder, and she whimpers.
"Fuck the guilt," she breathes. "Just for tonight. Fuck the guilt."
I reach for the zipper of her dress.
She's not wearing a bra.
The dress falls away and her breasts spill free—heavy, full, tipped with dark nipples. I take one in my mouth, and she cries out.
"Yes—god, I've dreamed about this—"
I suck, bite, worship. She grinds against me, desperate and needy. I switch to the other breast, and she nearly screams.
"I need you inside me." She's fumbling with my belt. "I need—please—"
I lift her slightly. She yanks my cock free. Pulls her panties aside.
And then she's sinking onto me.
She's tight.
Young and eager and gripping me like she's afraid I'll disappear. She takes me inch by inch, moaning the whole way, until I'm buried to the hilt.
"Fuck," she breathes. "You're so—I can't—"
She starts to move.
The car rocks. The windows fog. Mia bounces on my cock, her breasts swaying in my face, her thick thighs clamped around my hips. I grab her ass—one hand on each cheek, fingers sinking into soft flesh—and help her ride.
"I've wanted this," she pants. "Since that summer. Since the deck. Since you walked past me in your swim trunks and I felt—fuck—I felt something—"
"I tried not to look at you."
"I know." She clenches around me. "But you looked anyway. I saw you."
"I'm sorry—"
"Don't be sorry." She kisses me, deep and desperate. "Be here. Be with me. Just for tonight."
I thrust up into her. She screams.
We fuck in my car like teenagers.
Like I'm not fifty-two years old. Like she's not my daughter's best friend. Like the wedding isn't in three days and nothing matters except this—her body, her heat, the sounds she makes when I hit that spot inside her.
"I'm close," she gasps. "Mr. Sullivan—"
"Richard."
"Richard—I'm gonna—"
"Come for me, Mia."
She shatters.
Her pussy pulses around me, milking me. She buries her face in my neck and shakes, coming harder than I've ever felt anyone come. It pulls me over the edge.
"Inside," she begs, feeling me swell. "Please—I need—"
I bury myself deep and let go.
We sit in the dark.
Her head on my shoulder. My cock still inside her. The windows fogged and the street empty.
"That was..." She trails off.
"Yeah."
"Katie can never know."
"No."
"But I don't regret it."
I hold her tighter. This woman I've watched grow up. This woman I've denied myself for eleven years.
"Neither do I."
The wedding is beautiful.
Katie marries David under an arch of white roses. The vows are heartfelt. The reception is elegant. Everyone cries.
Mia gives a speech.
She talks about friendship, about loyalty, about watching Katie grow from a girl into a woman. She doesn't look at me while she speaks. Not once.
But when the dancing starts, she finds me at the edge of the floor.
"One dance," she says. "For old time's sake."
"People will see."
"I'm her maid of honor. You're her father. One dance is expected."
We dance.
She's warm in my arms. Soft. The same body I held three nights ago in my car. We move slowly, carefully, keeping distance between us.
"I can't stop thinking about it," she whispers.
"Mia—"
"I know. It was supposed to be once. Get it out of my system." She laughs, hollow. "Didn't work."
"We can't—"
"I know." She pulls back. Looks at me. "But I'll be at your door tomorrow night. After the honeymoon send-off. When the house is empty."
"And if I don't answer?"
"You'll answer."
She walks away.
I watch her go.
The Next Night
She knocks at 10 PM.
I open the door.
She's wearing a sundress. The same kind she's worn since she was sixteen, the kind that makes me forget how old I am.
"You answered."
"I always will."
She steps inside.
It becomes a pattern.
Tuesday nights when my ex-wife has book club. Sunday mornings when Katie and David are at church. Random afternoons when she invents reasons to drop by.
"This is wrong," I tell her, buried inside her on my living room floor.
"I know." She rolls her hips. "Does it feel wrong?"
"No."
"Then shut up and fuck me."
I do.
Six Months Later
Katie finds out.
She stops by unannounced. Finds Mia's car in the driveway. Finds us in the kitchen, Mia bent over the counter, my hands on her hips.
The screaming lasts an hour.
Katie doesn't speak to either of us for three months. The friendship is over. The trust is gone. I've destroyed something irreplaceable.
But Mia is still here.
Every night. Every morning. In my bed, in my life, in every space I have.
"Was it worth it?" she asks once. "Losing Katie's respect?"
I look at her. This woman I've wanted for eleven years. This woman who finally made me feel alive again.
"I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to her."
"And in the meantime?"
"In the meantime—" I pull her close. "I have you."
She smiles.
"Yeah," she says. "You do."
One Year Later
Katie comes to Christmas dinner.
It's awkward. Stiff. She barely looks at Mia. But she's here.
At the end of the night, she pulls me aside.
"I don't understand it," she says. "I probably never will."
"I know."
"But she's happy. You're happy." She exhales. "I guess that has to count for something."
"It does."
She hugs me. Brief, uncomfortable. But real.
Then she leaves.
Mia finds me in the kitchen.
"How did it go?"
"It's a start."
"That's all we can ask for." She wraps her arms around my neck. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Sullivan."
"Richard."
"Richard." She kisses me. "Merry Christmas."
In the house where I raised my daughter, with the woman who was like a second daughter for twenty-two years, I kiss her back.
It's wrong.
It's everything.
And I'm never letting go.