Shameless Craving

~Siena~

My chest heaves. The ceiling fan spins above me in a lazy, rhythmic blur, but it does nothing to cool the fever burning beneath my skin. I know I sound crazy. Listen to me. I swear I have lost every ounce of self-control I ever possessed. My sanity is dead and buried. Tragic. Erotic. Gone.

If there is a special circle in werewolf hell for girls who moan their best friend’s dad’s name while fingering themselves in messy bedrooms, then I am already seated in the front row. VIP section. Permanent reservation with my name carved into the stone. There is no chance of redemption for me. I am going straight down there, soaked and smiling.

I do not even care anymore. I have judged myself so many times over the past two years that I have run out of shame. My conscience is empty. I already went through the whole agonizing phase of calling myself a dirty bitch. I already cried about burning in hell for my twisted desires. I went through that exact cycle of guilt three times today alone.

Do you want to know when? Right after each orgasm.

Because yes, I have been lying here on this mattress for over an hour now. My legs are spread wide open. My thin white tank top is rolled up and trapped under my breasts. My fingers are shiny with my own slick. My voice is a wrecked, raspy mess from screaming into my pillow. My thighs are sticky and trembling with aftershocks. I am panting like some unclaimed Omega plunging headfirst into a wild, feral heat, and all of it—all the moaning, the desperate trembling, the insane whimpers that sound like a demon leaving my body—has been for one specific man.

Vaughn Kensington.

Not just any random older man. My best friend’s father. Her Alpha dad.

Her six-foot-something, silver-eyed, veiny-handed, gravel-voiced, emotionally unavailable, broad-shouldered, grumpy daddy whose pure, concentrated scent alone makes my clit throb until I cannot see straight.

He is the kind of man who makes my stomach do violent flips and my cunt ache with a deep, hollow hunger just by existing in the same room as me. He does not even have to look at me. He just has to breathe, and my Omega instincts start screaming at me to drop to my knees. He is dangerous in ways my fragile teenage body does not want to survive.

He is pure temptation wrapped in raw muscle and effortless dominance. And if I could choose anyone in this massive, sprawling world to take my virginity, ruin my innocence, and fuck the soul right out of my body with nothing but his massive knot and his heavy hands bruising my hips—it would be him.

No protection. No mercy. No sweet, gentle romance. I do not want vanilla. I want full Alpha madness. I want to be split open. I want to be marked, filled, pinned down, and broken until I forget how to form coherent sentences.

I want his rough voice right against my ear. I want to feel the vibration of his chest when he claims me. I want him telling me I am his while I scream into the mattress and beg him not to stop. I want to belong to someone so deeply that I forget my own given name and start worshipping his instead.

And yes, I am eighteen. I have said it to myself once today, but I will say it again, out loud to the empty room, because it matters. I am legal. I am grown. I keep repeating those words over and over like some unholy prayer. I need the reassurance because I still do not feel very grown when I am soaking straight through my cotton panties just thinking about the exact shape of his mouth.

I lie here and picture him at the summer barbecue. I remember the exact way his lips looked wrapped around the edge of a cold amber beer bottle. The way his throat worked when he swallowed. The way his large, calloused thumb rubbed the condensation off the glass.

I do not feel grown when my mind drifts back to him climbing out of his backyard pool last July. The memory plays in my head like a high-definition movie. The sun was setting, casting a golden glow over his tan skin. Water dripped down his carved chest, trailing over the dark hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the low-slung waistband of his wet trunks. His dark hair was slicked back away from his face, exposing the sharp, unforgiving line of his jaw. His Alpha scent—a dark, intoxicating blend of cedar, spice, and pure, raw power—rolled off him in thick waves. It hit my nose and I almost passed out on the patio.

I stood there frozen by the sliding glass door. My thighs clamped together. My face burned red hot. My nipples puckered and turned to hard rocks against my bikini top. Every single microscopic cell in my biology was screaming at me to bare my neck and beg to be claimed.

And now, almost a year later, here I am. Three brutal orgasms down. Still soaking wet. Still desperate. Still trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. I feel like something wild and untamed has snapped inside my chest, and now all that is left behind is this gnawing hunger. I want him more than I have ever wanted anything in my miserable life, and the worst part of this entire situation is a simple, undeniable fact.

I have not even stepped foot on the yacht yet.

Yes. That is right. I am going on a luxury private cruise. The departure is in less than twenty-four hours. A massive, floating mansion on the water. Eight passengers. Expensive, catered food. Ridiculously rich, out-of-touch people. And one dangerously horny little Omega—me—who is just one strong whiff of Alpha scent away from collapsing into a full-blown, body-breaking, heat-fueled meltdown.

And guess who invited me on this trip?

Chloe. My sweet, oblivious best friend.

The girl who has zero idea that her smiling, innocent bestie has been soaking through her bedsheets for two entire years imagining what it would feel like to choke on her daddy’s knot.

I know I should have declined the invitation. I should have been mature. I should have been responsible. I should have respected boundaries. I could have made up a million excuses. I should have told her I was busy working a summer job. I should have lied and said my grandma died again. I should have claimed I had a sudden, incurable allergy to yachts and ocean water.

But instead of doing the smart thing, I opened my mouth and said yes.

I said yes so fast I nearly screamed the word into the phone. The second we hung up, I ran straight to my closet and started pulling things off hangers. I went to the mall. I drained my meager savings account. I came home and packed every single slutty, skimpy, inappropriate thing I own into my expensive leather suitcase.

The crimson red lace panties. The sheer black matching sets. The tight little sundresses that barely cover my ass. The crotchless thongs I bought in secret, heart pounding in my chest at the lingerie store, even though I have never even kissed a guy before.

I folded them all. I packed every last one of them for him.

Because I want him to look at me this time. I want him to truly see me. I want his dark, silver eyes to lock onto mine and forget I was ever that awkward little girl doing homework at his kitchen island. I want his gaze to drop down to my mouth, down to my chest, down to my hips.

I want him to smell the heavy, sweet shift in my scent. I want him to freeze in his tracks when the pheromones hit him. I want his cock to twitch against his expensive tailored pants. I want his inner Alpha to rumble in his chest, to snap awake, to claw at the cage of his legendary self-control. I want him to lose his mind over me.

I roll off the bed, my legs shaky and weak, and stand in front of the full-length mirror attached to my closet door. I stare at my flushed reflection. I close my eyes and I can already see the future unfolding. I picture the wooden dock. The burning, relentless Spanish sun beating down on our shoulders. The blinding glint of the massive yacht waiting on the water. I hear Chloe squealing and running up the ramp. And then, in my mind, I turn around.

And there he is.

Vaughn Kensington.

He is standing there wearing crisp white linen pants. A dark, expensive button-down shirt, half unbuttoned to reveal the thick cut of his chest. Designer sunglasses pushed up into his dark hair. His thick arms crossed over his chest, muscles flexing under the fabric. That beautiful, cruel mouth set in a straight, unreadable line. That scent wrapping around my throat like a collar. That unyielding power.

Just him.

Maybe he will glance down at me. Maybe he will tilt his head. Maybe his gravelly voice will wrap around my name. Maybe he will just say, “Siena.”

And I will smile back at him. I will flutter my eyelashes. I will act like I am not soaking wet underneath my sundress. I will pretend like I have not been dreaming about this exact moment, with my slick fingers stuffed between my legs, since the day I turned sixteen.

I open my eyes and stare at myself in the mirror. I look like a total psycho. I have one hand resting on my curved hip, the other hand flailing dramatically in the air. I am standing in my bedroom, practicing how I will bend over in front of him without making it look like I am begging to get fucked.

I keep shifting my weight. I tilt my hips to the side. I arch my lower back until it aches. I angle my head just right, letting my hair cascade over my shoulder. I mouth silent words to my reflection.

Oops, I dropped my fruity little drink. Guess I will just bend down right here in front of your heavy cock and pretend this is a total accident.

That is the exact vibe I am going for. I do a test run. I bend my knees. My breasts bounce perfectly in the tight tank top. I check my profile. My ass looks phenomenal, lifted and round. My nipples are hard little peaks poking right through the thin cotton fabric, practically screaming at the glass to pick me, claim me, bite me.

Listen to me right now. Do not dare judge me. I know for an absolute fact I am not the only girl who has ever done this. Do not act high and mighty. I know you have stood in your room and arched your back in front of your crush, pretending you just happened to need a deep stretch right in his line of sight. I know you have accidentally dropped a pen or a notebook just to test the waters, just to see if his eyes would drag down your body when you bent over.

So do not look at me sideways. Do not roll your eyes at my desperation. I am just being brutally honest. I am just brave enough to say the quiet part out loud. I am willing to admit what your own slick little cunt already knows—we are all dirty, feral creatures the second the right man walks into the room.

I am mid-squat, holding the ridiculous pose. I am practicing how I will let out a breathy, fake little moan while pretending to pick up a tube of lip gloss from the floor.

Then, my phone buzzes violently against the mattress.

The screen lights up.

Chloe.

Oh. Fuck.

I break my pose. I scramble across the messy bedsheets, nearly tripping over my own tangled legs. I swipe the screen to answer and press the cool glass against my burning cheek.

I clear my throat, forcing my voice into a casual, bright tone. “Hello?”

Despite my best efforts, the word comes out breathy and weak.

Chloe’s voice blasts through the speaker, competing with the loud rushing of wind and the heavy slap of ocean water hitting a wooden dock. I can hear seagulls screaming in the background. Someone nearby pops a champagne cork, followed by a chorus of cheers. A massive yacht horn blares through the audio, loud and imposing, sounding almost like it is laughing at my pathetic situation.

“Where the hell are you?” Chloe shouts over the chaotic noise. “Siena, the captain is literally about to untie the mooring ropes! If you miss this cruise because you are sitting at home curling your eyelashes, I will kill you!”

I spin in a panicked circle, grabbing empty air as if the motion will magically teleport me closer to the marina. “I am on my way! I am five minutes out. Like, literally right around the corner.”

“That did not sound convincing.”

“Eight! Okay, maybe ten. But a really fast ten minutes. Like a horny ten minutes.”

Chloe groans loud enough for me to hear it over the seagulls, but a second later, she starts laughing. “You better move your slutty little ass right now. This is going to be the summer that changes everything. We are hitting Spain. We are sailing to France. Italy. Greece. Do you have any idea how many rich, hot guys are already walking around this boat?”

I force a laugh from my chest. It bypasses my throat and comes out sounding like a dying, pathetic whimper. “Oh, I am so ready.”

She giggles, clearly too distracted by the yacht party to notice my weird tone. “Good. The champagne is already flowing everywhere. Nobody brought any rules on this trip. My dad is the only actual adult on board, but he is so boring he does not even count as a chaperone. He is probably already locked away in a corner somewhere, glaring at the ocean with a glass of whiskey in one hand and a whole lifetime of trauma in the other.”

My whole body goes deathly still.

Her dad.

Vaughn.

Just hearing his name implies his presence. The thought of him standing on that deck, gripping a whiskey glass with his large, rough hands, makes fresh slick pool in my panties.

And then, casually, over the loud party noise, she drops the bomb that shatters my reality.

“Oh, by the way, I think Rose put you in the guest suite right next to his. So maybe try not to moan too loud when you are playing with yourself at night, yeah?”

My stomach drops into an endless abyss. My knees buckle instantly. My pussy clenches so hard and so violently that a sharp gasp rips past my lips. I fall back onto the edge of the mattress.

Her dad’s room is next to mine?

We will be sharing a wall.

I could actually die. My heart is hammering a frantic, erratic beat against my ribs. I might spontaneously combust. I might just melt into a pathetic puddle of slick, sinful thoughts, slide under the crack of his heavy oak door like some heat-struck ghost, and beg him on my hands and knees to touch me.

If I am next to him, I will hear him moving around. I will hear the shower running. The yacht's ventilation system will carry his dark, spicy Alpha scent straight into my room. I will breathe him in every single time I close my eyes.

“Siena?” Chloe’s voice cuts through the roaring static in my head, dragging me back to the present moment. “Are you okay?”

I swallow the thick lump of anticipation sitting in my throat. “Y-yeah. Just… processing.”

She cackles, the sound light and free. “Do not overthink the room arrangements. Just get here right now. This yacht is ridiculous. It has actual levels. Like, full upstairs-downstairs mansion levels. King-sized beds in every suite. Showers that could comfortably fit six people. Custom mood lighting. Honestly, this whole boat feels like it was engineered specifically for sex.”

I do not need to hear another word. I am already moving. I wedge the phone between my ear and my shoulder. I grab my overstuffed leather bag off the chair. I shove my bare feet into my strappy sandals. I yank my damp, lace panties back up my thighs, my fingers trembling so violently I can barely grip the delicate fabric.

“I am leaving the house right now.”

“Good,” she says, the smile evident in her voice. “Let’s make some sins we will never forget.”

The line goes dead. She hangs up.

I drop the phone into my purse. I stand there in the middle of my bedroom, staring at myself in the mirror one last time. My chest rises and falls in rapid, shallow bursts. I am shaking from the inside out. The tremor starts in my bones and vibrates through my flesh.

This is it. This is the exact moment my life fractures into a before and an after. The beginning of everything I have ever wanted. The summer that will finally destroy me in the best possible way.

Okay, wait.

Before I open this bedroom door. Before I walk out of this house. Before I see him standing on that deck again. Before I do the dumbest, filthiest, most reckless thing I have ever done in my short life—I need to say something.

To you.

Yeah, you.

The one sitting there reading this. The one with your thighs pressed tight together. The one biting your bottom lip so hard it is basically bruised. Do not even try to pretend you are not already wet. Do not lie to me. I know you are. You would not be sitting here reading this otherwise.

Welcome to my beautiful disaster.

No, scratch that. Let's call it what it really is.

Welcome to my dirty, unholy, pussy-throbbing descent into pure, feral madness.

Because I need you to understand what is coming. This journey? It is not cute. It is not some sweet, teasing slow-burn. It is definitely not a gentle romance where we hold hands and talk about our feelings under the moonlight.

This is something dark. This is something visceral. This is something you have not read before.

You better have your toy fully charged. The real one. Not the weak one you keep for quick fixes. The heavy one. The one that vibrates so hard it does not let you stop until you are crying, breathless, and begging the empty room for mercy.

Because this story?

It is not for the soft-hearted. It is not for the easily offended. It is for the ones who crave the dark. It is for the ones who love the filth.

So be a good little slut.

Flip the page.

And do not ever say I did not warn you.