(Briana's POV) She gives Richard what he wants (and maybe likes it a bit too much)

The words hang in the air like smoke, thick and suffocating. Get on your knees. My mind reels, a thousand thoughts crashing into each other at once. This isn't happening. This can't be happening. I came here to fix things, to smooth things over, to be the girlfriend who saves the day. Not this. Not this.

But my body is already moving.

I slide off the leather chair, the movement slow and dreamlike, as if I'm watching myself from somewhere far away. The hardwood floor is cold against my knees, and I feel the skirt of my costume ride up even higher, exposing the bare skin of my thighs. I don't pull it down. I don't look away from him.

Richard watches me with that same unreadable expression, his arms still crossed over his chest, his glass of whiskey abandoned on the desk behind him. He doesn't move. He doesn't speak. He just looks at me, and I feel the weight of his gaze like a physical thing, pressing down on my shoulders, my chest, the place between my legs that I refuse to acknowledge.

"There," I say, my voice steadier than I have any right to expect. "I'm on my knees. Happy now?"

His lips twitch—not quite a smile, but close. "Not yet."

He reaches down and unbuckles his belt. The sound of the leather sliding through the loops is obscenely loud in the quiet room. My heart slams against my ribs, and I feel a rush of heat between my legs that I hate myself for. This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong. But I don't look away. I don't move. I just watch his hands work the buckle, the button, the zipper.

"Your son," I whisper, but the words come out weak, half-hearted. "He's right down the hall."

"He's passed out on the couch," Richard says, his voice calm, almost bored. "He won't wake up for hours. And even if he did, he wouldn't come looking for you here." He pauses, his eyes meeting mine. "He trusts you too much for that."

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. He trusts you too much for that. It's true. My boyfriend trusts me completely, absolutely, without reservation. And I'm on my knees in front of his father, watching him pull out his cock, feeling the heat build between my legs.

It's thick. That's the first thing I notice. Thick and already half-hard, jutting out from a thatch of dark hair. He's bigger than my boyfriend—longer, heavier, with a prominent vein running along the underside. I stare at it, my mouth suddenly dry, my mind blank.

"I didn't say you could just look at it," Richard says, and there's a note of amusement in his voice. "Open your mouth."

I should say no. I should stand up and walk out and never look back. But my body doesn't listen. My lips part, and I lean forward, and I take him into my mouth.

The taste is salt and skin and something muskier underneath. He's warm against my tongue, soft at first but hardening fast, filling my mouth in a way that makes my jaw ache. I feel his hand come to rest on the back of my head, not pushing, just there, a reminder of who's in control.

"That's it," he murmurs, his voice low and rough. "Good girl."

The words send a jolt through me, hot and shameful. I should hate this. I should hate him. But instead, I feel myself getting wetter, my thighs pressing together under the ridiculous skirt, my nipples hardening against the inside of the bustier. I hate my body for betraying me. I hate the way my pulse quickens, the way my breath catches, the way I can feel the slick heat building between my legs.

This is for him, I tell myself. This is for my boyfriend. This is the only way to fix this.

I start to move, bobbing my head the way I know men like, the way I've done a hundred times before. But this is different. This isn't my boyfriend's cock, familiar and safe. This is his father's cock, thick and heavy and wrong in every possible way. And I'm sucking it like I have no choice, like this is just another chore, another thing I have to do to make the night right again.

"Look at me," Richard says.

I glance up, my mouth still full of him, and the sight of his face—calm, composed, utterly in control—makes something twist in my chest. He's not even breathing hard. He's just watching me, like I'm a performance he's evaluating, like he's deciding whether I'm worth the trouble.

"You're good at this," he says, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. "I'm not surprised. Pretty girl like you, you've had plenty of practice."

I make a sound—something between a moan and a protest—and he chuckles, low and dark.

"Don't stop," he says. "You wanted this. You came in here with your wine and your little costume and your big blue eyes, and you knew exactly what you were doing. Didn't you?"

I don't answer. I can't answer. My mouth is full of his cock, and my mind is full of static, and all I can think about is how much I want him to keep talking, keep telling me what I am, keep making this feel like something I chose instead of something that's happening to me.

No, I think, but the thought is weak, distant. I didn't want this. I'm doing this for him. Only for him.

He pushes deeper, and I feel him hit the back of my throat. I gag, my eyes watering, but I don't pull away. I take him deeper, breathing through my nose, letting him use my mouth the way he wants. His hand tightens in my hair, and I feel a surge of something dark and electric—fear, maybe, or arousal, or both. I refuse to name it. I refuse to acknowledge it.

"Your boyfriend," he says, his voice strained now, just slightly. "He's probably dreaming about you right now. Dreaming about taking that costume off you, about fucking you in his childhood bed." He pauses, and I feel his cock twitch against my tongue. "And you're down here, on your knees, choking on his father's cock."

The words are crude, filthy, and they make me moan around him. I hate myself for it. I hate the way my body responds, the way my hips rock forward, the way my clit throbs with every thrust of his cock into my mouth. But I keep my hands at my sides, my fingers digging into my own thighs, refusing to touch myself, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much this affects me.

This is an obligation, I tell myself. Nothing more. I'm doing this so he'll forgive my boyfriend. That's all.

He pulls out suddenly, and I gasp for air, a string of saliva connecting my lips to the head of his cock. He's fully hard now, glistening with my spit, and I can see the pulse of blood in the vein along the underside. I keep my eyes down, not meeting his gaze, trying to steady my breathing.

"Look at me," he says again, and this time there's an edge to his voice.

I lift my eyes, and he's staring down at me with that same cold, knowing expression. He takes himself in hand, stroking slowly, and I watch, transfixed, as he guides the head of his cock back to my lips.

"Open," he says.

I open my mouth automatically, and he slides inside, deeper this time, until I feel him at the back of my throat again. I close my eyes, trying to distance myself from the sensation, trying to pretend this is just a task, just a transaction, just something I have to get through.

But my body won't cooperate. The heat between my legs is unbearable now, and I can feel the dampness soaking through my panties, slick against my thighs. I press my legs together, trying to relieve the ache, but it only makes it worse.

"Hands on my thighs," he says. "Keep them there."

I do as I'm told, my palms flat against the expensive fabric of his trousers, my fingers digging into the muscle beneath. He starts to move, slow and deliberate, and I let him set the pace, let him use my mouth like it belongs to him.

The room is quiet except for the wet sounds of my mouth on his cock and the soft, rhythmic creak of the floorboards beneath us. I can hear my own heartbeat, feel the pulse in my throat, the ache between my legs. I'm so wet now that I can feel it on my thighs, slick and hot, and I wonder if he can smell it.

He can't know, I think desperately. He can't know how much this is affecting me. I have to stay in control. I have to pretend I don't want this.

But my body betrays me with every small sound, every involuntary movement, every shiver that runs through me when he hits the back of my throat. I can feel myself getting close to something—not an orgasm, not quite, but something dark and overwhelming that threatens to swallow me whole.

He pulls out again, and I gasp, my chest heaving, my hands still on his thighs. He grabs my hair, tilting my head back, and looks down at me with those cold, knowing eyes.

"You're enjoying this," he says, and it's not a question.

"No," I whisper, but the word comes out weak, unconvincing. "I'm not. I'm doing this for him. Only for him."

Richard smiles—a slow, predatory smile that makes my stomach flip. "Keep telling yourself that," he says. "But we both know the truth."

He guides his cock back to my lips, and I take him in again, deeper this time, my jaw aching, my throat working to accommodate his thickness. He starts to move faster, his hips snapping forward, and I can feel him getting close—the way his breathing changes, the way his muscles tense under my palms, the way his cock swells against my tongue.

"Swallow it," he says, his voice strained. "Every drop."

I moan around him, and that's all it takes. He comes with a low grunt, his cock pulsing in my mouth, flooding my tongue with hot, bitter liquid. I swallow, again and again, my throat working to take it all, and I feel a surge of something dark and shameful.

I did this. I made him lose control.

But underneath the shame, there's something else. Something hot and hungry that I refuse to name. I swallow the last of it, my throat working, and I tell myself it means nothing. It's just a bodily function. Just a task completed. Just another thing I've done for my boyfriend.

When he finally pulls away, I'm gasping, my lips swollen, my chin slick with spit and come. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and I keep my eyes down, not wanting to see the satisfaction on his face.

"Not bad," he says, tucking himself back into his trousers. "For a college girl."

I don't respond. I'm still on my knees, still trembling, still aching with unfulfilled need. I haven't come yet, and the heat between my legs is almost unbearable. But I won't touch myself. I won't give him that. I won't give him anything more than what he's already taken.

Richard walks back to his desk, picking up his glass of whiskey, and takes a long drink. He doesn't look at me. He just stands there, his back to me, and I feel the weight of what I've done settle over me like a shroud.

"Your boyfriend," he says finally, "is still on the couch. You should probably go check on him."

I stand, my legs shaky, and smooth down my skirt. My fingers are clumsy, and I fumble with the hem, my mind still reeling. I just sucked my boyfriend's father's cock. I just let him come in my mouth. And the worst part—the part that makes me want to crawl out of my own skin—is that I'm still wet. Still aching. Still wanting more.

No, I tell myself firmly. I don't want more. I did what I had to do. It's over now.

"What about the party?" I ask, my voice hoarse. "The damages?"

Richard turns, his expression unreadable. "We'll discuss that in the morning. For now, I think you've done enough."

The dismissal stings, but I don't argue. I smooth down my skirt, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and head for the door. But I pause with my hand on the knob, looking back at him over my shoulder.

"Mr. Hartley," I say, and he looks up. "This doesn't change anything. I still love your son. And I didn't want this. I did it for him."

He smiles—that same thin, knowing smile. "I know you did," he says. "That's what makes it so much fun."

I don't have a response to that. I just open the door and slip out into the hallway, my heart pounding, my body still humming with unfulfilled need.

The house is quiet. The party is over. And somewhere down the hall, my boyfriend is sleeping, blissfully unaware of what I've just done.

I lean against the wall, close my eyes, and try to remember how to breathe.

It's over, I tell myself. It's done. I fixed it. He'll forgive the party now. Everything will be fine.

But the ache between my legs doesn't go away. And the taste of Richard's come lingers on my tongue, bitter and salty and impossible to ignore.

I push off the wall and walk toward the living room, my legs unsteady, my mind a storm of shame and confusion and something else I refuse to name.