I give her everything. And by everything, I mean every position, every experience, like it’s my last chance to have Laila to myself. Desperate to give her all of her firsts.
I’m no idiot. I know she locked herself out of the hotel room on purpose. She wants this, whatever it is, as much as I do. I just wonder if she hates the idea of it ending as much as I do.
So we burn through three condoms before I notice that it’s almost four in the morning. I haven’t had this much stamina since my twenties, but this is what Laila does to me. As we collapse onto the bed, both exhausted and in a drunk, post-sex haze, I pull her body against my chest and cuddle her close with her cheek against my chest and my lips on her forehead. In a natural movement, she wraps her arms around my waist and slings a leg over mine. We don’t speak to avoid any awkward disagreements.
But reality is drawing nearer, and Laila and I are on the opposite sides of a major argument. And while I admit that my feelings for her are intense and sudden, I cannot let it cloud my judgement.
I shut down those thoughts when I feel her soften against my body. When I peer down at her, I realize she’s asleep. So I quiet my mind and close my eyes.
The first thing I hear that pulls me out of my slumber is the hotel door opening. Mostly it’s the loud motorized sound of the lock moving out of place, and I open my eyes to see that Laila is still sleeping peacefully in my arms. She’s splayed out on her back with her breasts exposed, and my hand resting comfortably with the right one in my palm.
“Dad?” It’s like ice cold water against my dick when I hear Kirsten’s voice travel through the room. Bolting upright, I look toward the door to notice that she’s only holding it open and speaking through it but not looking in my direction.
“Is Laila with you? I can’t find her, and she left her phone in my room.”
“Um…uh, what…” I stammer, covering Laila, who is still in a deep sleep.
“What’s going on?” Kirsten asks with sincere concern.
“She slept in here. Said she got locked out,” I reply, trying to wake my sleep-deprived brain. Shaking Laila’s body and trying to wake her discreetly, I keep my eyes on the door to make sure Kirsten doesn’t walk in.
“She slept in here with you?”
“Not with me,” I stammer, grimacing as I cover my face. This is humiliating.
“Well, we’re going to head to the chapel in an hour.” She drones on about the plans and how she’s going to send me the address of the chapel but she wants Laila to ride with her. Meanwhile I’m still trying to wake her best friend, lying naked in my bed.
Finally, she stirs, turning toward me and instantly reaching for my dick.
“Ready for round two?” Laila moans, interrupting my daughter still hiding behind the door.
“What was that?”
Laila’s eyes pop open and she looks toward the door and then to me with eyes wide. I hold up a finger to my lips to quiet her.
“Dad?”
“Yeah,” I stutter. “Sounds like a plan, Kirsten. I’ll wake Laila up and send her over in a minute. Then I’ll…uh, see you at the chapel.”
I cover my face with my hands, humiliation seeping deep into my bones. What kind of father am I? Hiding my daughter’s best friend in my bed after a night full of doing ungodly things to her body.
“Okay, see you then,” Kirsten answers with an uneasy quiver to her voice. Then the door closes and I breathe out a sigh of relief, collapsing on the bed next to Laila.
“There’s no way she bought that. You know that, right?” Laila whispers then bites her lip.
“I’m going to lie to myself and just pretend she did.”
“I guess I have to go then.” She pulls the blankets off, revealing her perfect pale body, and I realize that this is probably the last chance we’ll have together before all of this ends, and I snatch her up, burying my face in her neck and positioning myself between her legs.
“We have a few minutes,” I whisper.
She opens easily, melting into the bed as I ease myself inside her. A low, satisfied moan escapes her lips as we move in perfect harmony until we’re both shuddering out early morning orgasms.
Laila quickly dresses and slips out the door without much of a goodbye. She just gives me an uneasy glance before disappearing into the hallway. Neither of us really know where we stand or what will happen after this.
As I get into the shower, immediately remembering what it was like to have Laila’s legs wrapped around my waist, her back against the tile wall and her moans in my ear, I feel a tinge of regret. Kirsten is supposed to get married in just a couple hours, and I’ve pretty much wasted my chance of changing her mind because I was too busy fucking her best friend all night. Why? Because I’m a fucking idiot and I fell for this girl way too hard and way too fast.
What has gotten into me? I’m not normally this impulsive. Perhaps it’s the effects of living in America this past year. I’ve lost my common sense. Handed to the first young, beautiful girl to ask me for it. Now, I’m thinking about our future and imagining her in my life and wanting to spend every waking hour with her—and in her.
After I get out of the shower, I find a text from Kirsten with the chapel’s address and a reminder to be there in one hour. I wonder if Laila admitted what happened last night. How could Kirsten possibly believe that Laila and I are just friends, or less than friends, really? Does she honestly buy any of this shit about Laila needing to sleep in my room because she was locked out of hers? And if she did, would she believe we just slept next to each other and didn’t touch.
I hate Laila has to lie to her friend. I hate she has to keep this a secret, losing her virginity. I’m sure this is something they would share with each other, but now she’ll have to bury this deep down, never to admit who she really had sex with for the first time.
Looking up into the mirror, I let out a groan. I can’t even face myself.
An hour later, I drive up to the chapel with strict instructions to park down the street and enter through the side. It’s a small white chapel on the strip, the place where my baby girl will say her wedding vows. There is an Elvis impersonator at the door who greets me with a cringe-worthy impression of the king himself. Is this what she thinks of marriage? Like it’s just a souvenir from a wild city.
I would never marry Laila in a place like this
Where the fuck did that thought come from? I’m not exactly sure why that was my first rational reason to argue against this wedding, but it is. I would never marry anyone here, but now that I’ve grown so attached to Laila, I feel even more strongly if you truly love someone, you shouldn’t say your eternal vows in a rusty tourist trap on the strip. I’d want the works. Big white ballgown, a breathtaking venue, full of friends and family, and a night of celebration and very wild, nonstop sex.
I’m imagining Laila in that white gown, aren’t I?
Fuck, this is such a mess.
