Owned By My Best Friend's Father

I’m sweating before I even step off the elevator.

Miami in July doesn’t care that I took two buses and walked six blocks in this dress. The heat clings like a second skin, making the thin white cotton stick to my ribs. My tote bag slaps against my hip—towel, dollar-store sunscreen, the dog-eared copy of Haunting Adeline I pretend I’m reading for the plot when really it’s for the smut.

Emily’s text lit up my phone at 2:14 p.m.: POOL DAY. NOW. Bring your cute ass and stop being boring. I rolled my eyes, but I came. I always come for Emily.

She’s the only person who can drag me out of my head when I’m drowning in it—Sophie’s science project half-done on the kitchen table, Mom’s latest text asking if I paid the electric bill, Victor my sperm donor calling from some bar in Hialeah demanding “just twenty bucks, baby girl, I swear I’ll pay you back help your dad out here.” I never have twenty bucks to spare, but I still feel guilty saying no. That’s the problem with being the responsible one in a family that never taught me how to stop.

 The doors slide open on the thirty-eighth floor, and the air changes cooler, cleaner, scented with money. Marble floors, glass walls, and an ocean view make my tiny apartment in Little Havana feel like a cardboard box. I step out, flip-flops squeaking, and freeze.

Damien Cross is standing there.

No shirt. Black gym shorts slung low on his hips, that dazzling V line in full display, a towel draped over one shoulder, skin still glistening like he just finished a workout.

He’s on the phone, voice low, “Fix it before the close of business, or I’ll fix it myself”—but the second he sees me, he ends the call. No goodbye. Just thumb on the screen and eyes on me.

“Leah.”

My name in his mouth always sounds different—lower, rougher, like he’s tasting it. I can never tell if it’s a warning or an invitation.

“Hi, Mr. Cross.” God, I hate how small my voice sounds.

He tilts his head, studying me. “You’re early.”

“Emily said to come now.” I shift my bag higher on my shoulder. “She’s… upstairs?”

“Changing. Or fighting with half her closet. You know how she gets.” His mouth curves— “You look flushed.”

“It’s hot outside.”

He steps closer. The space between us shrinks until I can smell him—cedar, clean sweat, something darker underneath. My pulse pikes

“You always walk here in that?” His eyes drop to my sundress—thin white cotton, spaghetti straps, hem hitting mid-thigh. It’s nothing special—five bucks at a thrift store on Calle Ocho. But the way he looks at it makes me feel naked.

“Bus broke down two stops early. Had to walk.” I shrug like it’s no big deal. “Not exactly rolling in Uber money.”

His jaw tightens. “You should’ve called. I would’ve sent a car.”

I laugh nervously. “I’m not your responsibility, Mr. Cross, please.”

Something flickers in his eyes—dark, unreadable. “No,” he says quietly. “You’re not.”

The elevator dings behind me. Doors are trying to close. He reaches past my shoulder, his arm brushing the side of my breast, and presses the hold button. His skin is warm. Too warm. My nipple tightens instantly under the cotton, and I pray the dress hides it.

He notices.

His gaze flicks down for half a second, then back to my face. The corner of his mouth lifts higher.

“You’re shaking,” he says.

“It’s the AC.” Lie.

“Is it?” His thumb grazes my lower lip—just once, feather-light. My breath catches. He doesn’t pull away. “Or is it me?”

I can’t speak. Can’t move. Heat pools low in my belly, my thighs pressing together on instinct. His eyes darken, pupils blown.

“Answer me, Leah.”

I swallow. “It’s you.”

His hand slides to my jaw. He tilts my face up so I have no choice but to look at him.

“Good girl.”

The words hit like a spark on gasoline. My knees nearly give out.

He leans in. Slow. Giving me time to pull away. I don’t.

His mouth is inches from mine. I can feel the heat of his breath on my lips. My eyes flutter closed.

Then—

“LEAH!”

Emily’s voice crashes down the hallway like a bucket of ice water.

Damien freezes. One heartbeat. Two. Then he steps back, like the last ten seconds never happened. His expression was blank.

 Emily bursts around the corner in a neon-green bikini, giant sunglasses pushed up on her head, rosé sloshing in her glass. “Finally! I was about to send Dad to drag you up here. Dad, stop being creepy and let her breathe.”

Damien doesn’t even blink. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says mildly, and walks toward the living room—towel over his shoulder, every muscle shifting under his skin.

Emily loops her arm through mine. “Come on, the water’s perfect. And I have tea. You’ve been weird lately—spill.”

“I’m not weird,” I mutter, my legs still unsteady.

“You’re totally weird,” she laughs. “But we’ll fix it with tequila and sun.”

We climbed the stairs to the rooftop. The pool glitters under the sun, Miami skyline shimmering in the heat haze. I drop my tote, kick off my flip-flops, and try to shake the ghost of his thumb on my lip.

I glance over the railing.

He’s standing at the glass wall below, looking straight up at me. Hands in his pockets. Watching.

Our eyes lock.

He doesn’t smile.

Emily splashes water on my legs. “Get in, loser!”

I jump.

The cold shocks my system.

But it doesn’t cool the fire he just lit inside me.

Not even close.

 The water’s cold, but it might as well be boiling for all the good it does.

I come up sputtering, hair in my eyes, trying to look like I’m not still replaying Damien’s thumb on my lip downstairs. Emily’s laughing somewhere to my left, doing a lazy backstroke while balancing her rosé glass like it’s a trophy.

“Told you it was perfect! You look like someone just stole your soul.”

I swipe water from my face and force a grin. “Maybe they did. You’re a terrible influence.”

She splashes me. “And proud of it. Now stop brooding and swim.”

I kick off the wall, gliding toward the deep end. The pool is massive—infinity edge overlooking the ocean, tiles glittering like shattered diamonds under the sun. I’m trying to focus on that, on the blue, on anything except the man who just walked out onto the terrace shirtless and is now dropping into a lounger like he owns the place. Well, he does.

He doesn’t join us right away; he watches. Legs spread, elbows on his knees, bottle of water dangling between his fingers. Sunglasses on now, so I can’t see his eyes, but I feel them. Heavy and Possessive. Like he’s already decided how this afternoon ends.

Emily notices him. “Dad! Get in! You’re being antisocial!”

He doesn’t answer her. He sets the bottle down, stands, and walks to the pool steps. Water rises around his calves, thighs, and hips. The black shorts darken as they soak, clinging to every ridge of muscle. Emily squeals when he dunks under, then pops up beside her. “Race you!”

 She takes off like a rocket. Damien doesn’t chase her; instead, he turns toward me.

I’m backed against the wall now, arms resting on the tile, chin on my forearms, pretending to watch the skyline. Pretending I don’t feel him coming closer.

 He stops right in front of me. Close enough that his knees brush my thighs under the water. The ripples from his movement lap against my stomach.

“Enjoying the view?” he asks, voice low enough that Emily, who's halfway across the pool, won’t hear.

I tilt my head. “The skyline’s nice.”

His lips twitch. “That’s not what I meant.”

I roll my eyes. “Then be specific, Mr. Cross. I’m not a mind reader.”

He moves closer. One hand plants on the tile beside my head. The other disappears under the surface.

I stop breathing.

His fingers find my hip—light at first. Then firmer. Thumb pressing into the soft skin just above my bikini line.

“You’re still flushed,” he murmurs. “Thought the water would help.”

“Maybe it’s not the water that’s the problem.” I lift my chin. “Maybe it’s you standing way too close again.”

His grip tightens, and I gasp. “Careful with that mouth, Leah.”

“Or what?” The words come out sharper than I intend. A challenge. Stupid. Reckless.

His eyes darken behind the sunglasses. He leans in, mouth near my ear. “Or I’ll find a better use for it.”

Heat floods me. My thighs press together under the water. He feels it—his knee nudges between them, forcing them apart just enough.

“Spread,” he orders. My heart slams. I should tell him to fuck off. Should kick him. Should do anything except what I do.

I spread my legs—barely an inch. Just enough.

His hand slides lower—over the curve of my ass, fingers tracing the edge of my bikini bottom. Not inside. Not yet. Just teasing the line.

“Good girl,” he breathes against my ear. “See how easy that was?”

My head tips back against the tile, eyes fluttering closed. A soft whimper slips out before I can stop it.

He chuckles. “That’s it. Let me hear how much you like being told what to do.”

Emily calls from the other side. “Dad! You’re losing!”

He doesn’t look away from me.

“Later,” he says. “Midnight. My office. Wear something easy to take off and don't be late.”

It’s not a question.

His fingers slip just under the elastic—barely an inch—then he retreats. He pushes off the wall, swims away as if nothing happened, leaving me trembling against the tile, core throbbing, breath ragged.

Emily swims back over, grinning. “You okay? You look like you’re about to faint.”

I force a laugh that came too high, too shaky. “Just… hot.”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s a pool, dummy.”

I know.

But the heat isn’t coming from the sun.

It’s coming from the man who just promised to ruin me at midnight.

And God help me—I’m already counting the hours.