Fumbled

*THIS STORY IS COMPLETE; I’M JUST IN THE PROCESS OF FINISHING POSTING ALL OF THE CHAPTERS!*

Sydney

The thing no one tells you about moving back in with your dad is how fast your sex life dies.

Not your actual sex life—because let’s be honest, I haven’t had one of those since my last almost-relationship imploded in a glorious trash fire. No, I’m talking about the solo kind. The kind that involves locking the door, lighting a candle I got on clearance at Target, and pretending for five minutes that I’m someone with a life.

Someone who isn’t living in a basement apartment under her dad’s house at twenty-five.

The candle’s flickering. My legs are spread. And my vibrator is currently doing God’s work between my thighs.

I exhale slowly, one hand palming my breast through the soft lace of my bralette while the other works the toy in slow, deliberate circles over my clit. My hips roll up instinctively, chasing that first spike of pleasure, my muscles already starting to tighten with the promise of—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

“SYDNEY!”

My whole body seizes like I’ve just been electrocuted.

“You’ve got five minutes!” my dad shouts through the door like we’re still living in the damn 90s and he hasn’t figured out texting yet. “We’re already late!”

Oh. My. God.

The orgasm I was about to have dies a tragic, whimpering death. I rip the vibrator away and flop onto my back, vibrating in all the wrong ways now, body buzzing with heat and irritation.

“COOL,” I yell, aiming my voice toward the ceiling. “LOVE THAT FOR ME.”

I smack the vibrator off and chuck it toward my pillow. It hits with a pathetic thunk. My thighs are slick. My cheeks are flushed. And my entire body is screaming why did you stop? like I just committed a crime against nature.

I sit up, panting, wiping the back of my hand across my face. My mascara’s probably smudged. My pulse is still hammering from the almost-release, which—by the way—is so much worse than no pleasure at all.

I glance at the clock. I was fine on time. I was going to come, take a leisurely shower, maybe even try to wing a fake smokey eye and look hot enough to survive tonight’s gala without dying of boredom.

Instead, I’m flustered, unfulfilled, and now I get to go socialize with a bunch of NFL royalty like I didn’t just try to orgasm in my childhood bed.

Flawless execution.

I peel off my underwear, toss them into the hamper, and grab a makeup wipe to do some damage control. My bralette stays—it’s cute, it matches my dress, and I’m too lazy to do straps right now.

My dress is already hanging on the closet door. It’s black, tight, and hits just above the knee—a classic “I have no energy to be interesting tonight” move. I shimmy it on, step into my heels, and pull my curls into place with a few finger twists and a desperate prayer to the humidity gods.

Final step: spray enough perfume to cover any lingering I just tried to get off and failed scent, then take one last look in the mirror.

I look fine. Hot, even. Not like a woman whose vibrator just got intercepted by her father’s voice. Yay me.

By the time I get upstairs, my dad’s already pacing by the front door, his phone in one hand, car keys in the other. He glances up and immediately frowns.

“That what you’re wearing?”

“Nice to see you too, Coach.” I grab my clutch off the table and shoot him a dry smile. “If you’re done judging, I’d love to go get this public humiliation over with.”

He grunts and jerks his head toward the door. “Car’s out front.”

Of course it is. Nothing says fun family bonding like riding to a glitzy black-tie NFL gala with your father-slash-legendary-defensive-coordinator, who treats every event like it’s third down in the red zone.

I slide into the SUV and cross my legs, trying not to wince at the fact that I’m still aching with unsatisfied tension. My thighs press together automatically. I shift, then shift again, trying to ignore the heat lingering under my skin.

The car smells like expensive leather and vanilla air freshener. It’s too quiet. I reach for my phone to check absolutely nothing of importance, mostly to distract myself from the fact that I’m still a little turned on and a lot annoyed.

My dad slips in beside me and shuts the door without a word.

“Excited?” I ask, voice dry.

“For the event?”

“No. For the part where I sit silently beside you while a dozen men with necks the size of tree trunks ask if I’m single.”

He sighs. “Just… be nice. Smile. Don’t start anything.”

“I never start anything.”

“You’re wearing combat boots to a gala.”

“They’re heels.”

“They have zippers.”

“They’re fashion-forward.”

He gives me a look that says you are why I drink, and turns back to his phone.

I stare out the window as we pull onto the highway, the city rising up in glass and steel, glowing against the evening sky.

The gala’s at some swanky hotel downtown, all crystal chandeliers and sports media, full of players and agents and families who pretend not to hate each other for the cameras.

It’s a whole world I’ve never felt at home in—even though I was practically raised in it.

I rest my head back and close my eyes.

One night.

That’s all I have to survive.

Then I can come home, pour a glass of wine, and actually finish what I started.

Assuming I don’t get propositioned by three linebackers and a retired tight end before the night is over.