The Father

Chapter 8

Katherine's POV

I lean against the door frame and find myself smiling as I stare at him. We slept together for nearly three hours, it's pushing six now, and he's still fast asleep. I've made a pot of coffee, hold a mug of it in my hand, and really watch him.

He said he was exhausted and that's plain to see. He looks so peaceful, his lips are parted, and he takes slow breaths. Half his body is exposed for me to see, while the lower half is covered by the blanket. The skin below his neck is the slightest bit paler than his face and hands and I know it's because he wears a suit to work. He's really in terrific shape for a man his age, I know he has to take good care of himself. His stamina alone when we've made love makes that obvious. I ask myself again how his wife could refuse him.

Maybe there's more to it than he's let on. I don't really know him all that well, after all. I don't think he'd lie to me. But he is a man who's cheating on his wife. If he can do that, he can lie easily.

As I walk toward the bed I glance at the clock. It's exactly 6:15. The sky has cleared and is a bright blue, but the light no longer shines in here, but on the buildings across the street.

I sit down next to him, take another sip of my coffee, and smile. That mess of grey hair is truly that, a mess. From the pictures I had seen he kept it shaved on the back and sides, so I wonder if he just hasn't had time to get it cut recently. I push a stray piece off of his forehead, run the tip of my finger across the small wrinkles on his forehead, and sigh. The skin is soft, I trail my fingers down to the side of his face, and stop at his stubble. It's rough and coarse, a mixture of gray and black hairs. His jaw is strong, his nose is rather large and comes to a rounded end, and his lips are soft to the touch and thin.

Right now he looks perturbed, an expression he wears often, as if he's perpetually aggravated.

What if he was Max's biological father? That would certainly make this whole ordeal even more disgusting and abhorrent. But would they look even more alike than they already do? I just assumed he was his father, Max never said otherwise. It's like I'm fucking an older version of him. Max isn't bad in bed, but he's my age, and that says a lot for most guys. They fumble, they're nervous, they lack the confidence to just take control. I've been with a few my own age and each one has failed me. It's been getting better with Max, but that's only because I've kept him around and given him more than one chance to sleep with me. He's trying to learn me, trying his best, but he just isn't measuring up to this man who is sleeping soundly in my bed.

Maybe he's right. Maybe I should cut Max loose since I don't love him and he's said he loves me. It was quick, that proclamation of love, and unexpected. And I don't know why I said it back. On top of that, I'm sleeping with his father.

I suddenly feel like a whore and a slut. I'm a mistress. I'm someone's mistress.

I haven't given it much thought, I don't give much of anything a second thought, I just do what I want. But Max is nice. He works hard, he is more than sweet on me, and seems to be head over heels.

The smile that was on my face slowly fades into nothing.

Should I stop this? Or should I just break things off with Max?

I don't even know this guy in my bed. We've fucked. I knew him when I was a child, but I know Max much better. We were inseparable, best friends, and spent most of our days playing at his house. I'd stay there all day, it was my escape from home, from my father.

The frown deepens as I think of him, but I quickly force those memories down. I think of Michael. The memories I have of him are somewhat fuzzy, I'd blocked out so much of that time, and only remember the things I dredged up during my intensive therapy. He was an enigma, rarely seen by me, but his presence was always felt. In fact, I can only recall a handful of times when I did see him. It was usually in passing, he'd always say hello in that voice you reserve only for small children, but there were occasions when I'd stay for dinner and he would be there. He was a goof, always making some sort of joke, and even at such a young age I longed for a father like him. Does he remember these things? Surely he does. He knew who I was after only a moment of hesitation.