Pulling into the drive way Michael noticed nearly every light in the house was on, which was quite a feat, considering the amount of rooms. He braked outside the garage, staring at the house, wondering what was going on before he remembered Anna's Christmas party. He wasn't supposed to be home for it, but had flown back a day early from Berlin. It had been a disastrous romantic getaway, and one he was happy to cut short. Anna was sure to be disappointed that her dad was back to ruin the party and he briefly considered checking into a hotel for the night. But he was tired, too tired to take the thought seriously. His presence would hardly matter since he had every intention of going straight to his shower and then his bed.
Festive Christmas music was playing loudly, and he found Anna had noticed his arrival and was waiting for him by the door into the house from the garage. They were just off the kitchen. Anna was scowling, her arms crossed over her chest. "Dad, I thought you were in Russia still."
"Honey, Berlin is in Germany. The Berlin Wall? They don't teach common knowledge at your hippie school?"
Anna rolled her eyes. "Berkeley isn't a hippie school, Dad." She pouted prettily. "I told you I was having a party, did you come home early just to crash it?"
"No, Anna, I came home early because the trip was a disaster." Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Anna's best friend Jillian standing in the kitchen in the middle of a group of other college students, next to a young man whose hand was resting on the small of her back, but drifting down slowly toward her ass. She was wearing a short black dress adorned with intricate beading that hugged her in all the right places, and her hair was piled on top of her head, a messy bun so dark it was almost black. She had beautiful hair when it was down, long and wavy and thick. Michael was glad to see her; glad Anna had maintained this friendship though they were now on separate coasts. He was less glad to see some twit with his hand making it's way to her ass, he still thought of Anna and Jilly as the fourteen year olds who had sleepovers went to volleyball camp and fretted about Homecoming. Anna and Jilly. He called her JillyBean, a goofy and sweet name to match a goofy and sweet girl.
Anna had gone to school on the west coast and Jillian had chosen to stay in Boston, where the girls had graduated high school almost three years ago. They were halfway through their junior year now, very close to being done. He hoped.
"I promise I'll stay out of your way, Anna. I want you to have fun at your party," after seeing Jillian's dress he turned his attention to Anna and realized that she, too, was in a cocktail dress. The young men in the room were in suits. He smiled to himself, seeing a bunch of kids trying so hard to be grown ups.
"I'm going to go to my room now, would you mind brining me in a scotch in about 15 minutes?"
His attention was drawn again to Jillian, who was shifting on her feet. The young man next to her was leaning close to her ear, talking enthusiastically about something, but Jillian looked distracted, her chin tucked and her head turned slightly to the side, elongating a pale, smooth neck. He saw that she had pushed the young man's roaming hand away. Good girl. She had become a very beautiful girl in college, lost the baby fat and showed no signs of having gained weight the way some women do while at school. He hadn't realized before, how long her legs were, but then he had never seen her in a skirt so short.
"Okay, dad, I'll bring it," Anna said, looking disappointed still. He pecked her on the cheek and moved away, toward the other wing of the house, where his bedroom was calling to him. His carry-on was weighing on his shoulder, a weight he was tired of carrying, as he listened to his dress shoes click slightly on the marble floor.
The house was garish, and much too big, but he'd been so desperate to move out of the home he'd shared with his wife that he'd have bought a trailer in the woods just to be free from the memories. She'd died this time, four years ago. Four years ago tomorrow, killed in a car accident on her way home from a Christmas party. Michael had intended to be out of the country on the anniversary of her death this year, but couldn't have possibly spent another minute with the woman he'd brought with him overseas. The airline had refused to let him change his ticket; and he'd spent a fortune buying a ticket on such short notice. His escape would have been worth any cost. It had been stupid, trying to date again. It was too soon. He had sensed it was a mistake, didn't want anyone else. He'd spent the last two years burying himself in work, and it had been working fine.
Michael slipped into the master bedroom and closed the door behind him, shutting out only some of the sounds of the rowdy Christmas party. There were well over a hundred kids milling about. He pushed his way out of his coat and suit, leaving the items draped over a chair, and made his way into the bathroom. He hated the bathroom. There was more marble than he'd ever seen concentrated in such a small area, accented with gaudy gold fixtures.
He walked past the massive bathtub he never used, and turned on the water in the shower stall. The flight had been long, the drive home exhausting, but he felt like he had sweat and dirt caked into his pores. As the shower heated he kicked off his briefs, only stepping into the spray when steam started to rise.
The shower felt amazing, and he stayed in longer than he needed to trying to wash away the trip. Finally, he was able to turn off the water and reach for a towel, pressing it against his face before wrapping it around his waist. He stopped in front of the mirror and pushed his hair around with his fingers, then decided it wasn't worth the effort and reached for his toothbrush. He was making his way out of the bathroom when he heard the bedroom door open. He looked up, expecting to see Anna. He saw Jillian with a bottle of scotch and two glasses on a tray.
Michael stopped abruptly; he was suddenly aware of his bare chest. The towel around his waist was his only cover. This girl had seen him less covered, in swim trunks at the pool, but still he felt exposed. Jillian closed the door without taking her eyes off of him, and moved in toward the bed and nightstand with the tray.
"Jillian, hello." He said. Her skirt was shorter than he realized when he saw her in the kitchen, her legs a little bit longer, and the heels a little bit higher. On her head she wore a bright red bow, which she hadn't been wearing before.
"Are you my present?" he was trying to make a joke. He didn't mean to sound like a dirty old man. He felt like a dirty old man.
She smiled elusively. "I asked Anna if I could bring in your scotch. I was curious how your trip went, Mr. C."
I think you can call me Michael now, JillyBean. We're all adults here."
One corner of her mouth lifted into a sexy smile, and it occurred to him JillyBean wasn't the name for an adult. He had known her for years, and had never seen that smile, and his body reacted in a way his body had never reacted to her before. "I'm glad that you agree."
Suddenly, he was uncomfortable. Something had shifted between them, and he got the feeling he was standing on a frozen lake, waiting for to ice to break beneath his feet. "I- of course, let me just—" but she had turned around and was walking back toward the door. The cut of the dress made her ass look amazing, and he thought about the young man in the kitchen who'd had a hand just above the enticing curve. The boyfriend?
Michael assumed she was leaving. He was wrong; she only turned the lock and came back, sitting on the edge of the bed. He wanted to ask why she locked the door, but was afraid to. She didn't volunteer her reasons.
"Let me just put on some clothes."
She ignored him. "I was disappointed when Anna said you wouldn't be here, but even more disappointed when she told me why—that you would be in Europe with someone...with a woman."
Reality started to sink in. He was barely dressed, in a locked bedroom, with a young woman half his age. A young woman he'd known since her freshman year in high school. His throat went dry as she stood again and moved back to the nightstand, bent over to reach for the bottle. The back of the dress stretched tight across her rear as she bent forward, the skirt lifting just enough that he saw the top of a thigh-high stocking, and the clasp attached which no doubt led to a garter belt. She poured two generous servings of scotch, and but only lifted one glass off the tray. She handed it to him.
He stared at her, dumbstruck, not sure if what he suspected was happening was really happening. But then her arms went behind her, and he heard a zipper. He made a noise in his throat, a small protest, which she also ignored. She pulled on shoulder out of her dress, then the other shoulder, and pushed the dress. It dropped to her ankles and revealed her lithe body, exposing full breasts in a red lace bra, nipple peeking out over the demi-cup, and a smooth taunt stomach.
He backed away, set the cup down on the nightstand before turning back to her, ready to set the record straight. "Jillian, I—"
She reached behind her and unclasped the bra, which fell to the ground. Her breasts were perfect, untouched by time, the skin smooth and supple. He felt his cock rapidly stiffening. Something was getting set straight, but it wasn't the record. Michael tried again.
"Jillian, this isn't-- Please get dressed."
She shook her head, ran a hand up her body, cupped a breast and pinched a perfect pink nipple. "I was disappointed because I waited for you. I waited all this time and you went off to Europe with somebody else."
"Jillian, this is not appropriate. I'm fifty years old."
It had been some time since he'd seen such smooth breasts, such flawless skin. He was fully erect beneath his towel, losing his resolve.
"It's okay. It's our little secret," she said, stepping closer. Michael was mesmerized. He wanted to step back, wanted to move, to stop the scene that was unfolding. But he couldn't. He couldn't move. The bed was directly behind him, but even if he hadn't been he was stuck. He could barely remember to breathe. Her fingers slid between his skin and the towel, his hands reflexively went to hers to stop her. "No."
