The one that separates my little twin suite from his king-sized, Alpha-scented den of temptation.
And I just stand there. Staring at it.
Like a crazy person. Like a virgin praying to the God of First Orgasms.
I walk toward it slowly, my heart pounding in my chest, my fingers twitching with need. I raise my hand and place it flat against the wood, and I swear to God, it feels warm. Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Like, physically warm. Like maybe he’s on the other side, sitting down, leaning back, reading a book, rolling his sleeves up, pouring himself a drink, flexing his abs, I don’t know. Breathing.
Existing.
And every single thing about that idea makes my c**t throb.
I sit down on the bed, cross my legs, and lean forward like I’m plotting a heist. Because I kind of am. I am plotting how to survive this night without humping the wall or sneaking into his room or leaving claw marks on his f*****g pillow from how bad I want it.
But deep down, I already know the truth.
I’m not going to survive this trip.
Like genuinely, truly, medically, I think my p***y is about to call an ambulance on me. I’m sitting here on this stupid, gorgeous bed in this stupid, perfect room with this thin-ass wall separating me from the man I’ve literally imagined sucking the soul out of my c**t, and all I can think is – why the f**k did I do this to myself?
I mean, I knew. I knew. The second Bella said, “Come on the cruise, it’ll be fun, my dad’s paying for everything,” I should’ve said no. I should’ve lied and said I had mono or rabies or some tragic, bikini-preventing allergic reaction to rich people air. But did I?
No. Because I’m a dumb, horny b***h with a death wish and a vaginal sixth sense for dangerous older men who could ruin me with a single grunt.
And now here I am. Sharing a floor with him. Connor. Her dad. The man who has no idea I spent half of last summer grinding against his bathroom towel while fantasizing about what he smells like fresh out of the shower. And now I’m assigned the room next to his. With like, one sad little wall between us.
I throw myself back onto the bed dramatically, arms flung out like I’m in a music video for emotionally unstable virgins.
“Okay, Lily. Let’s just walk this out real slow,” I say out loud because I talk to myself now. That’s who I am. “You are eighteen years old. You are not feral. You are not a w***e. You are a respectful young woman who is here to relax, swim, drink fruity cocktails, and not throw yourself at her best friend’s emotionally unavailable, painfully sexy, vein-handed Alpha daddy.”
I close my eyes.
His face flashes in my head.
His arms.
His jaw.
The way his shirt clung to his chest.
The way he said “Connor’s fine.”
I bolt upright.
“Nope. I lied. I’m a slut. I’m officially a slut. I’m going to jump that man’s bones and I don’t even care if I have to crawl across this damn boat in the middle of the night with a mouthful of lube and a prayer.”
I stand up and start pacing like I’m preparing for war, but instead of armor, I’m wearing a sundress that’s now soaked between the thighs and no bra because I wanted him to see my n*****s when I said his name. And now that he did? Now that he looked at them? I’m losing my f*****g mind.
“What if he heard me through the wall?” I ask the lamp. “What if he’s in there right now pacing too? What if he’s sitting there, rubbing his temples, thinking ‘What the f**k is wrong with me, I’m thinking about my daughter’s friend’s mouth around my c**k’? Because same, Connor. Same.”
I stop at the wall.
I press my hand to it.
I stare at it like it’s a f*****g portal to Narnia except instead of magical lions and talking animals, it’s just Connor lying on his king-size bed with his c**k resting heavy against his thigh and the most sinful expression on his face while he imagines bending me over the balcony and making me scream.
“Oh my God. I need to shut the f**k up. I need to calm down. I need a cold shower. I need to be arrested. Like, what is wrong with me? Is this a heat thing? Am I going into early heat? Is that what this is? Because my entire body feels like a vibrator left on high for six hours straight and no release in sight.”
I walk in circles.
I fan myself with a throw pillow.
I mutter to myself like a possessed orphan in a Victorian asylum.
And then I drop back onto the bed and say it. Really say it.
“I want him to f**k me.”
My voice is shaking. Not because I’m scared. But because saying it out loud makes it real.
“I want Connor Blackwood – my best friend’s ridiculously hot dad – to take that perfect, terrifying body of his and ruin me so bad I forget how to spell my own name.”
I lay back. I stare at the ceiling. I talk like I’m confessing to the Moon Goddess herself.
“I want him to grab me by the throat and say, ‘You asked for this, baby girl.’ I want him to slap my ass and make me say thank you. I want him to press my face into this pillow and hold me there while he knots me so deep I swear I’ll never be able to walk straight again.”
I slap a hand over my mouth and moan into it like a sick little virgin on the edge of death.
“Oh God, I’m going to hell.”
And I hope he’s there waiting.
**Connor**
The moment she stepped onto the deck, I knew I was f****d.
It was not the kind of reaction I could write off. My c**k didn’t just twitch. It surged. The thick pulse of blood that slammed into my groin was so immediate and intense I actually shifted my stance to hide the way my c**k pressed against my slacks.
I clenched my teeth, not out of pain, but from the force of control it took not to react. She wasn’t a little girl anymore.
That much was obvious the second her hips swayed onto my yacht like the goddess of temptation herself had decided to wear a summer dress and walk straight into my personal hell.
Lily was no longer the shy, lanky girl who used to follow my daughter around barefoot with chipped nail polish and glitter on her fingers. She was a full-grown Omega now. Eighteen. Legal. Untouched.
Her scent was unclaimed. Sweet and Pure. But there was something underneath it – a heat that hadn’t surfaced yet but was blooming. I could smell the first hints of it rising from her skin like a warning. Or maybe a threat.
Her t**s were the first thing I noticed. Not because I was looking for them, but because they were impossible to miss. Big. Juicy. Round and heavy with youth, barely restrained by the summer dress she wore without a bra.
I could see the way the fabric hugged them, the way her n*****s pressed against it with every step, tight and obvious and aching for attention.
The fullness of her chest made my mouth dry. They were the kind of t**s you dream about. The kind you hold while you f**k her from underneath and her hair sticks to her face while she whimpers and arches and begs for you to never stop.
I imagined the weight of them in my hands. The softness. The way her breath would hitch when I sucked one deep into my mouth and bit down until she cried.
My eyes drifted lower, not by choice, but because my instincts were already f*****g devouring her. Her waist was tiny.
That perfect dip beneath her ribs that looked like it was made to be wrapped in the grip of my hands while I took her from behind.
The kind of waist you hold onto when you’re f*****g an Omega so hard the sound of her ass clapping against your hips echoes through the room. And speaking of that ass-f**k me, it was unreal.
Her ass was thick. Round. Bouncy. So full it stretched the dress as she walked. The fabric clung to the swell of her cheeks like it wanted to hide her but couldn’t stop from showing just how fuckable she was.
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