Untamed Desires: Addictive Erotica Collection

Book 1: Daddy’s Bestfriend.

Mark Reynolds has wanted Lena for years. Her father’s best friend, freshly divorced and now living in their house, he’s impossible to ignore. Every glance sparks desire she shouldn’t feel. Her best friend envies her. His ex-wife plots, and every risk is hotter than the last—can Lena survive the fire she can’t resist?

LENA POV

“Fuuuck—ohhh!”

I moaned, my back arched against the sheets, fingers slippery as they circled my clit, the vibrator thrumming between my thighs. My free hand pinched a nipple through my thin tank, my breath coming in ragged gasps, the whole bed shaking with my movements.

“God… why do they make it look so damn easy in videos?” I muttered, lips parted, chasing the high that never seemed close enough.

It was always like this when I was alone: too much time, too many thoughts, and nothing but my own body to work out the frustration. Dad kept himself busy, drowning in his job, probably pretending the house wasn’t as empty as it was since Mom left.

She ran off years ago with some rich heartthrob she met at some fundraiser, leaving me and Dad to stitch together what was left. He never really bounced back. He threw himself into work. I threw myself into anything that could make me forget.

My head fell back, teeth biting down on my bottom lip, trying to keep the sounds in, but then a curse slipped out anyway, half-groaned, half-gasped.

And then — the booming voice that destroyed it all.

“Lena, darling! Come say hi to my friend!”

Dad.

I yanked the vibrator away so fast it made a wet pop, my whole body jolting like I’d been tasered.

“Oh, shit—fuck,” I hissed, scrambling upright, the sheets twisted around my legs. My clit still throbbed, my thighs trembled, and I could barely breathe.

Dad’s best friend. That was today. How the hell did I forget?

I shoved the toy under my pillow and swiped a hand across my flushed face, dragging in a shaky breath. “Perfect. Just perfect.”

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I grabbed it, still trembling.

“Babe,” Chloe’s voice purred through the phone, amused. “I’m outside. Open up before I melt out here.”

“Ho… hold on,” I muttered, fumbling with the sheets, still out of breath.

There was a pause, then her laugh — wicked, knowing. “Oh my God. Don’t tell me you’re dripping all over your dad’s sheets again.”

“Shut up,” I hissed, cheeks burning. “I was just… busy.”

“You mean wet and busy.” Her laugh sharpened, wicked. “Should I bring a mop with me?”

“You’re impossible,” I snapped, my voice cracking.

“Please, please,” she shot back, sing-song and merciless.

I let out a long sigh and tossed my phone onto the sheets without even checking if the call had ended.

Great. Just the perfect call I needed to clear my not-so-catastrophic head.

Sigh.

Chloe was my bestie. She knew me better than anyone, maybe too well. She was the wild to my reckless, the one person I trusted enough to tell everything, even the stuff I shouldn’t. She got under my skin because she saw too much — like now.

I shoved my hair into a messy ponytail, yanked open my bedroom door, and forced my legs to move even though they were still trembling. Every step down the stairs screeched like it was mocking me.

Dad’s grin met me first. “There you are. Mark’s here.”

And then I saw him.

Tall, broad, sleeves rolled to his forearms, jeans hugging him in ways that weren’t fair. Those hands — big, rough, working hands, veins running beneath the skin.

“Fucking hell,” I breathed before I could stop myself.

This man was unreal.

And then his eyes hit mine. Not just glanced.

Hit.

Held.

And I swear every filthy thought I’d just had upstairs came rushing back, sharper, hotter.

“Lena,” Dad said cheerfully, oblivious. “Come meet Mark.”

I swallowed, my voice a whisper. “Hi.”

Mark’s gaze lingered before he finally said, smooth as velvet, “Hi, Lena.”

Right then Chloe slipped in from the doorway, grin cocky — until her eyes landed on him. For once, she went still. Her smile faltered, her pupils dilated, lips parting like she’d just seen a god walk into the room.

“Oh wow, he's the infamous best friend, huh?” she breathed, low, but loud enough for me to hear.

I shot her a sharp look. She was NOT helping.

Mark extended his hand, but before I could reach, Chloe slid hers out fast, voice sugary. “Hi, Mark. I’m Chloe. We’ve heard so much about you.”

He paused, polite, shook her hand with the bare minimum of attention before turning back to me — still holding his hand out, waiting. And when our palms met, the warmth was instant, consuming, his grip firm and confident. My knees wobbled. His mouth tilted just slightly, like he’d noticed.

Chloe gave a quick laugh to fill the silence, tugging her neckline down half an inch. “Need any help with your boxes? I’m free. Totally free.”

Mark’s eyes flicked once to her, then back to me. “Thanks, but her dad insisted Lena would help me herself. She's more… familiar with the crib.” His voice was calm, final, with the faintest smirk that felt like a private joke.

“Um… okay,” Chloe said, her brightness cracking for just a second. She tucked her hair behind her ear, trying to recover.

I could feel her staring at me, but Mark hadn’t let go of my hand yet.

“Pleasure,” he said.

I muttered something that barely counted as words.

Dad carried on, talking about moving vans and some other stuff, completely blind to the electricity crackling between the three of us. He probably thought this was just another one of his old buddies, someone to fill the house with noise again. He had no clue what was burning under the cover.

When I bent to grab a box from the floor, I felt it — his eyes dragging down my back, burning into me. My skin reddened hot. Chloe saw it too. Her smirk faltered for half a second, her jaw tightening, before she leaned closer to him, laughing louder, desperate for his attention.

But his eyes slid back to me. Again. Always me.

By the time we dumped the boxes in the kitchen, Chloe was glued to his side, firing questions, even offering again to “help unpack.” He answered politely, but the weight of his gaze kept returning to me, deliberately.

And when Chloe caught it again — caught him looking at me, not her, the tension snapped sharp. Her laugh cracked, just slightly, before she covered it with another too-bright smile.

Dad’s voice cut in from the other room. “Lunch is ready. Don’t break anything before then.”

Mark excused himself a moment later, murmuring something about freshening up. He disappeared down the hall, his broad shoulders moving with that unhurried confidence, and I told myself not to stare. Not to imagine. But my body wasn’t listening.

A minute later, Dad called out, “Lena, grab a towel, will you? I forgot to leave one in the guest bath. Mark’ll need it for a shower.”

My stomach dropped. “Me?”

“Yeah, you. Top of the closet. Just leave it by the door,” Dad said, already distracted by something else.

My fingers trembled as I pulled the thick, hotel-white towel from the shelf. I told myself I’d just hang it on the knob and leave. No big deal. Easy.

But when I reached the guest room, steam was already curling out from the cracked bathroom door. I hesitated, heart racing, then knocked lightly. “Uh—towel.”

The door opened a beat later, and there he was. Shirtless. Skin damp, drops of water tracking down over the ridges of his chest, rolling lower, into the line of his jeans. His hair was darker wet, pushed back, a few strands clinging to his forehead.

He took the towel, his fingers brushing mine for half a second too long. His stare caught mine, steady. And then—it dropped. Lower.

I froze. His eyes dragged down, slowly, then flicked back to my face. And down again.

What the hell was he looking at?

Heat crawled over my skin as his eyes dipped one more time before snapping back up. I swallowed, pulse hammering, until curiosity—or maybe terror—made me glance down myself.

“Oh, shit—” I whispered.