Daddy Alpha, I’m In Heat

You Have Got To Be Kidding Me

~Lily~

I don’t even remember how I made it up the stairs. Like, I know my legs moved, because I’m physically standing here on the upper deck with Bella, and the sun is shining, and the wind is doing that sexy little ocean whip thing to her hair — but my brain? Still stuck back on the dock. Still watching Connor’s mouth move when he said my name.

Still screaming that I just called him Connor and didn’t immediately die.

Still short-circuiting from the fact that he looked at me like I was a whole damn snack he wanted to eat standing up, one leg over his shoulder, dress bunched at my waist, knot swelling inside me while I sob through it like a ruined little virgin.

So yeah. I might be walking. I might be nodding and smiling and trying to listen to Bella rant about her boyfriend’s tight swim trunks and how she’s already planning to lose her bikini top “accidentally” at the first stop in France. But mentally?

I’m on my knees.

In his room.

Begging to be claimed.

I keep glancing over my shoulder like a little freak, hoping he’ll follow us. Just to look. Just to see my ass sway in this stupid sundress that’s riding a little too high because I wanted it to.

Just to breathe me in. Just to notice me again. But when I look back, he’s gone. Still on the dock. Talking to the captain or giving orders or whatever powerful Alpha dads do when they’re not busy starring in their daughter’s best friend’s wettest dreams.

And then suddenly.

Click. Click. Click.

Heels.

Fast, sharp, confident heels across the deck.

Bella and I both turn at the same time, and there she is — Rose.

The stewardess.

And when I say stewardess, I don’t mean flight attendant vibes. I mean ex-Victoria’s Secret model in all white linen with cheekbones carved by the Goddess herself and a clipboard that looks like it holds the secrets of everyone who’s ever sinned aboard this yacht.

“Ladies,” she says in this gorgeous, clipped, vaguely French voice. “Cabin assignments are ready. Follow me.”

Bella grins like she’s about to be escorted to her bridal suite. I follow her because I physically have no other option.

My legs move, my brain lags, and my p***y is already anticipating the walls. Like, literally. I’m walking down this gold-detailed hallway wondering how soundproof the walls are, whether I’ll be able to hear him grunting in his sleep, and what I’ll do when I catch the scent of his skin on the sheets. Because I know I will. I know his room will smell like power and danger and the cologne that ruined my life last summer.

Rose taps her clipboard and starts assigning the couples first. “Daphne and Elia — Lower Deck, Room One.”

They shuffle off like they’re already ready to f**k.

“Courtney and Chase — Lower Deck, Room Two.”

Bella leans over and whispers, “They break up twice a day but they f**k like porn stars. Just wait. You’ll hear them.”

I nod. I smile. I try to laugh like I’m not already soaking through my underwear.

“Tyler and Bella — Lower Deck, Room Three.”

Bella claps her hands. “Oh my God, I’m gonna get laid on Italian silk. Bless this boat.”

And then Rose looks up at me.

And I swear, her eyes glint. Just a little.

“Lily Vale,” she says, with that smooth, neutral voice that makes me feel like I’m about to be sacrificed to something expensive and sinful. “You’re in the Upper Deck Twin Suite. Second cabin on the right. You’ll have that half of the level to yourself.”

My heart skips.

Wait.

What?

That can’t be right.

Everyone else is on the lower deck.

Why would I—?

Then she adds, “Except for the Master Suite. That’s occupied by Mr. Blackwood.”

Mr. Blackwood.

Connor.

Connor.

Her words hit me like a goddamn bullet to the clit.

I’m on the upper deck. With him. The two of us. Alone. Sharing air. Sharing proximity. Sharing a hallway. Sharing a f*****g wall.

I can’t breathe.

I actually can’t breathe.

Bella doesn’t say a word. She’s too busy texting her boyfriend about room service lube or whatever. Everyone else is already dragging bags and making plans for drinks. But me?

I am having a full-blown s****l identity crisis on this yacht because I just got assigned the room next to the man I have literally m*********d to in three different positions in my dreams this week.

Rose doesn’t wait for a reaction. She simply turns and walks.

So I follow.

And every step I take toward that suite feels like I’m marching into my own personal dungeon. My n*****s are hard.

My throat is dry. I swear I can already smell him through the walls. That intoxicating blend of woods, leather, and that low masculine scent that just clings to him like he was born to leave women wet and trembling in his wake.

Rose opens the door. My door.

It’s perfect. Clean. White sheets. A mirror. A window view of the ocean. Luxurious without being too try-hard. The kind of room where you either sleep like royalty or get f****d like a dirty little slut who should’ve stayed home.

“I’ll give you a moment to unpack,” she says. “Drinks will be served shortly.”

I nod. I say thank you. I barely remember closing the door.

And then I turn to face the wall.

The wall.

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 clit 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 clit, 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.