Bringing Home Mr. Wrong (Bringing Home Trouble)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

John

The party is in full swing as I lean against the bar, whiskey in hand, trying to look interested in Frank's golf story for the dozenth time. My eyes wander the room and then I see her .

Camila.

My best friend's daughter, home from college for her dad's 50th.

She's radiant, her dark hair falling in soft waves, her lithe body moving gracefully through the crowd. It's been months since I've seen her, but something feels different this time. When her eyes meet mine across the room, I feel a jolt of electricity course through me.

I try to dismiss it, to remind myself she's far too young, that my feelings are wholly inappropriate. But I can't deny the spark between us, the way my heart pounds faster when she smiles in my direction. Shame burns through me as I recall the fantasies that fill my head late at night—her naked body against mine, her soft sighs and moans. I take a long swig of whiskey, welcoming the burn, trying to douse the desire smoldering inside me.

I try to ignore her presence, but that’s like trying to ignore the sun. Camila is a like a shining light in a sea of darkness. My eyes are constantly drawn to her.

Those beautiful fucking curves.

My cock twitches in my pants as I keep glancing at her. My palms itch to trace over that beautiful dip in her waist, those perfect hips, her perky little breasts.

I imagine kissing my way down the column of her throat. I imagine how her skin would taste beneath my tongue—salty and sweet, like forbidden fruit. My fingers twitch, aching to tangle in her chestnut tresses, to tug her head back and expose the smooth expanse of her neck to my hungry mouth.

God, the things I want to do to her. The way I want to worship every inch of her nubile body, bringing her to the brink of ecstasy again and again until she's trembling and spent in my arms. I want to hear my name fall from her lips like a prayer as I bury myself deep inside her.

My gaze lingers on her pert ass as she glides through the room, the clingy fabric of her dress highlighting every tantalizing curve. I imagine grabbing those firm cheeks, squeezing the flesh as I grind my hardness against her. I picture bending her over the kitchen counter, bunching that tight little dress up around her waist, and sinking into her sweet, virgin depths from behind.

Fuck. I'm going straight to hell for the depraved things I want to do to my best friend's baby girl.

I down the rest of my whiskey in one gulp, relishing the fiery trail it blazes down my throat. The burn is a welcome distraction from the desire coursing through my veins, from the sinful images flooding my mind.

I set the empty glass on the bar with a heavy clink, my fingers tightening around it briefly as if the action could somehow ground me, could tether me to some semblance of reason or propriety. But it's futile. I'm already lost, drowning in a sea of forbidden longing, consumed by the kind of hunger that could destroy everything in a second.

Camila

The party is too loud. There are too many people I barely know gushing over how grown up I look now. I slip into the kitchen, needing a moment away from the chatter and laughter filling the house.

My skin feels flushed, though whether it's from the wine or from the intensity of John's gaze, I can't be sure. I open the fridge, letting the cool air wash over me as I reach for a bottle of water.

"Needed a break from the crowd?" His deep voice startles me and I spin around. John is leaning against the doorframe, his blue eyes boring into mine.

"Yeah, it's a bit overwhelming," I manage, my voice coming out breathier than I intend. He takes a step closer and I flush.

What is wrong with me? This is just John, my dad’s best friend. I’ve been around him my whole life. Why is his presence unsettling me so tonight?

"You know me, I've never been one for big parties," I say, trying to steady the tremor in my voice. He moves closer and leans against the counter, his presence both unnerving and thrilling.

"Your dad sure knows how to draw a crowd though. Guess that's expected for the big 5-0." His voice is low and smooth, his eyes never leaving mine. "You look beautiful, by the way. Hard to believe you're the same little girl who used to put on puppet shows in my living room."

My face grows hot at the compliment even as I laugh at the memory. "I haven't been a little girl for a long time," I whisper, holding his gaze. The air between us is charged, electric, and I'm acutely aware of every inch of my body.

His hand reaches out, brushing a stray lock of hair from my face, his fingers grazing my cheek. It's the barest of touches but it ignites something deep within me, a longing I've never felt before.

He agrees, something heated simmering beneath his gaze, "You're not a little girl anymore, that's for sure. Your dad mentioned you're doing really well at college too."

Pride swells in my chest, but it's overshadowed by the tension crackling in the scant space between us, the way John's eyes keep dropping to my lips. I know I shouldn't be so hyperaware of him, that he's my dad's best friend and twice my age. But I can't deny how badly I want to close the distance and press my mouth to his.

There’s something about John. Truth be told, I’ve always had a little crush on him.

"I should go," he murmurs, but he makes no move to leave. We stand there, suspended in the moment, the distant laughter and music fading away until there is only the sound of our mingled breathing and the pounding of my heart.

Finally, he steps back, breaking the spell. "Goodnight, Camila," he says softly, before turning and disappearing down the hall.

I lean back against the cool metal of the fridge, my legs suddenly wobbly. I know I shouldn't want him, that it's wrong on so many levels.

I watch him go, unable to tear my eyes off his broad shoulders and trim waist. The man I've always looked up to as an uncle is now something else entirely—a tantalizing, forbidden desire I can't ignore any longer. I knew coming home would be a mistake. I just never thought it would be for this reason.