Chapter 1: Ripped By My Roommate’s Dad(1)

~Maya~

I swear I didn’t mean to do it. I didn’t mean to end up in that hallway with nothing but a tiny towel that barely fit over my ass.

I didn’t mean to be dripping all over the floor, walking around like I didn’t live under someone else’s roof, like I didn’t know damn well that my best friend’s father was home from his trip and already upstairs showering.

I was just hot, okay? I was sweating through my skin and the air conditioning was broken and Tessa said I could always use their bathroom when hers was full, and I wasn’t thinking because the water was running and I thought it would be empty.

I didn’t knock. I didn’t even hesitate. I just opened the door, stepped inside, and walked into a goddamn trap. Because there he was. Mr. Maddox. Kayla’s dad.

The man I should not even be looking at. The man I’d been dreaming about every single night since I moved in. Standing there in the mirror, soaking wet, steam curling around him like it wanted to keep him hidden just for me, towel hanging low on his hips like it didn’t care how hard it was to look away from the thick, dangerous bulge pressing against it.

I froze.

I didn’t breathe.

Didn’t move.

I just stood there like an idiot, like a horny little girl who never learned how to look away from the monster under her bed.

Because that’s what he looked like. Big and hard and scarred and mean. He had muscles everywhere. Thick arms, broad shoulders, abs that looked like bricks stacked under skin, and those veins that ran down into the V at his hips, leading lower to where the towel barely held on.

He didn’t cover himself. He didn’t shout or panic or even flinch. He just turned his head, eyes cutting to me like a fucking knife, and stared.

And that stare? It made my knees shake. It made my nipples harden and my thighs go sticky, because it wasn’t just the kind of stare a dad gives a girl.

It wasn’t even the kind of stare a man gives a woman. It was the kind of stare a wolf gives his prey right before he takes a bite.

“You lost?” he asked, and his voice was so deep, so rough and dry like it hadn’t been used in hours, that I nearly whimpered.

I couldn’t answer. My throat locked up. I was staring too hard, biting my lip too hard, feeling too much. I wanted to run. I wanted to stay.

I wanted to drop my towel and crawl to him on my knees and beg him to do all the things I knew he’d never admit he thought about. My lips parted. My breath came in short, shameful pants.

And then his gaze dropped to my towel, to the part of me barely covered, to the droplets clinging to my collarbone, the shape of my tits pushing up underneath the edge.

And he smiled.

Not a nice smile. Not a friendly one. It was cruel. Knowing. Dangerous. A smile that made me want to scream.

Then he stepped forward. Just one step. I backed up immediately, hitting the wall with my spine, pressing my thighs together like it would stop anything from happening.

But it didn’t. I was wet. Soaked. Not from the shower. From the stare. From the sound of his voice. From the tension thickening the air like something dirty was about to explode.

“You walk around like that and expect me not to notice?” he asked. He was so close now. I could smell his body wash, the heat of his skin, the sex in his scent. “You think I haven’t seen how you look at me when you think I’m not watching?”

My throat worked. I tried to speak, but all that came out was a pathetic noise. My towel shifted. His eyes dropped to my cleavage again. And then he reached out, fast, rough, no warning — and he ripped it off.

He just tore it from my body like it was nothing. Like I was nothing but something to be unwrapped.

I gasped.

My hands flew to cover myself, but it was too late. He saw everything. My full breasts. My pierced nipples. My soft belly. The thick curve of my thighs and the glistening mess between them. I was exposed. Naked. Caught.

And I’d never felt so wet in my life.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You really are soaked, aren’t you?”

I didn’t move. I couldn’t. My thighs trembled. My core pulsed. I felt the heat rolling off my skin like I was going to melt into the damn wall.

And when he stepped closer, when he touched my chin with one rough hand and tilted my face up to meet his eyes, I almost cried.

Because I could see it in him. The hunger. The filth. The fact that he’d been waiting for this just as long as I had.

“You want this,” he said. “Say it.”

“I want it,” I whispered. My voice was so small, but so fucking loud in the silence.

“Say it right.”