Chapter 9: Ripped By My Roommate’s Dad(9)

He cut me off with a kiss.

Like—an actual kiss kiss. Not a forehead brush or a goodbye peck or one of those rough, filthy mouth-fucks he gave me when I was bent over and begging. No. This wasn’t that. This was slower. Deeper. Scarier. It was the kind of kiss you feel in your f**king chest. The kind that makes your whole body ache because it means more than it should. It meant something I wasn’t ready to say out loud but couldn’t stop feeling and God help me, I leaned into it like I’d been starving for it my entire life.

His mouth crashed into mine, and everything just stopped.

Every thought.

Every panic.

Every fear about the test sitting right there on the sink, still screaming you’re pregnant in pink plastic letters.

It all vanished.

Because his hand was gripping the back of my head like he couldn’t let go. Because his mouth was on mine with so much hunger and weight and claiming in it that I couldn’t even move. I didn’t breathe. I just melted. My whole body went soft against the tile, legs folded under me, palms flat against the cool floor, lips parted like I was saying yes to everything without even meaning to.

And he kissed me like he needed it.

Not wanted.

Needed.

Like his life depended on it.

Like the only way to survive this moment was to taste the mess he made of me.

His tongue slid into my mouth, slow at first, almost teasing, almost gentle—but not really. Because nothing about Dean—Maddox—Daddy—nothing about him was ever gentle. Even his kisses felt like commands. Even his breath made my skin shiver. His tongue tangled with mine like it was trying to own the inside of my mouth. And I let him. I let him take it. I let him do whatever he wanted because I was already his.

I moaned.

Of course I moaned.

I was soaked. I was shaking. My thighs were pressed together and my heart was pounding and the second he sucked on my bottom lip I swear I could feel my pussy drip into a puddle on the floor.

And when he pulled back—when he finally f**king pulled back—there was this sound.

This wet, ruined, breathless click between our mouths, and I could feel the string of spit connecting us before it broke. My eyes fluttered open. My lips were swollen. My cheeks were red and my face was so hot I could’ve melted straight through the f**king tile.

“Don’t apologize,” he said, voice thick, thumb still stroking the side of my face like I wasn’t already coming apart. “Don’t explain. Don’t panic. You’re mine now. That’s all that matters.”

And I—I couldn’t speak.

I tried.

I opened my mouth to say something, anything, maybe another I’m sorry or I didn’t mean to or I’m scared or I don’t know what to do—but nothing came out.

Because all I could think about was how hard I was clenching.

How soaked I still was.

How my body, my mind, my heart were all screaming the same thing.

Do it again.

Kiss me again.

Touch me again.

Own me again.

And I didn’t say it out loud. I didn’t have to.

Because he was already leaning in.

Already dragging his hand down my throat, across my chest, slipping between my bare thighs like he wanted to touch exactly where his baby lived inside me.

And he whispered—

“You want me to kiss you like that again, kitten?”

And I gasped, nodded, whispered back—

“Yes, Daddy. Please. Kiss me like I belong to you.”

And he did.

And I melted.

And I knew right then and there—there was no going back.

His mouth crashed into mine again, and this time it wasn’t slow. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t anything sweet or cautious or remotely human. It was primal. Possessive. Wild. Like he was trying to drink every sound I made. Like he wanted to push the kiss down my throat and fuck it into my soul and tattoo it on my bones. He kissed me like he didn’t care if I could breathe. Like he didn’t need me to. Like the only thing he needed was my moan and my skin and my heat and my body wrapped around his like I wasn’t even real unless he had me shaking under his touch.

And oh my God, I was shaking.

I was trembling.

My legs were barely folded under me, but they were quivering like they couldn’t hold me anymore. My chest was heaving. My arms were clutching at his shoulders like I was falling and didn’t care if he let me hit the floor. His hands were already moving—one sliding up my back, pressing between my shoulder blades, the other slipping down between my thighs and cupping the mess there like it belonged to him.

Because it did.

It did.

I didn’t care anymore.

I was his.

Pregnant. Claimed. Bred.

Ruined.

And I f**king wanted it again.

I moaned into his mouth as his hand stroked over the slick heat between my legs, rubbing slow, heavy circles that made my whole body jerk. I was so sensitive it hurt. So wet I was embarrassed. I could still feel his cum inside me, still leaking from my core, and I was pretty sure it was mixing with more now because I was gushing all over again, soaking his fingers, whining like some pathetic little girl who didn’t even know how to stop needing.

“Look at you,” he breathed against my lips. “Still so wet for me. Even after everything. You’ve got my baby inside you and you’re still moaning like a whore.”

I whimpered.

I was panting now, my head falling back, my thighs opening wider like I didn’t even care about the bathroom floor or the lights or the fucking positive test sitting behind us.

“Because I am,” I whispered, eyes fluttering. “I’m your whore. I’m your slut. I’m your baby mama. I’m everything. You made me this. You did this to me.”

And then?

He lost it.