Daddy Alpha I’m In Heat (Lily and Connor) novel Chapter 3

~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 c**t.

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.

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.