Taken by Daddy Alpha

Sophia.

Okay, listen.

I know I sound insane, but I swear I’ve lost every last shred of self-control I ever possessed.

Completely.

Tragically.

Erotically.

Gone.

If there’s a special hell for girls who moan their best friend’s father’s name while touching themselves in a hotel bed, then I’ve already got a front-row seat.

VIP.

Permanent reservation.

No hope for redemption.

I’m headed straight there, soaked and smiling.

I don’t even care anymore.

I’ve judged myself so many times I’ve run out of shame to spiral into.

I already did the whole “Oh my God, I’m such a dirty girl, I’m going to burn” routine—three times, to be exact.

You know when?

Right after each climax.

Because yes, I’ve been lying here for over an hour now.

Legs spread.

Tank top pushed up.

My fingers are slick.

My voice is ruined.

My thighs are sticky.

I’m panting like an unclaimed Omega in full-blown heat, and all of it—every moan, every tremble, every desperate whimper that sounds like I’m being torn apart—has been for one man.

Benjamin Blackwood.

Not just any man.

My best friend’s father.

Her Alpha dad.

Her six-foot-plus, steel-eyed, veiny-handed, gravel-voiced, emotionally distant, broad-shouldered, impossibly grumpy daddy whose scent alone makes my core pulse.

The kind of man who makes my stomach flip and my body ache just by being in the same room.

He is danger in a form my instincts don’t know how to resist.

He is temptation wrapped in pure muscle and dominance.

And if I could choose anyone in the entire world to take my virginity, shatter my innocence, and fuck the soul right out of me with nothing but his knot and his hands gripping my hips—it would be him.

No protection.

No mercy.

Just pure, unadulterated Alpha madness.

I want to be split open.

I want to be marked.

Filled.

Pinned.

Broken.

I want his voice growling in my ear, “You’re mine now,” while I scream into a pillow and beg him not to stop.

I want to belong to someone so utterly that I forget my own name and start worshipping his.

And yes, I am eighteen.

I’ve said it once, but I’ll say it again because it matters.

I am legal.

I am grown.

I keep repeating it like a twisted mantra because I still don’t feel grown when I’m soaked through my underwear thinking about the way his lips looked wrapped around a beer bottle.

I don’t feel grown when I remember him climbing out of the pool last summer, water streaming down his chest, dark hair slicked back, his Alpha scent rolling off him in waves so thick I nearly fainted.

I stood there frozen, thighs clenched, face flushed, nipples hard, every cell in my body screaming to be claimed.

And now here I am.

Three orgasms later.

Still drenched.

Still desperate.

Still trembling.

I feel like a wild thing has snapped its leash inside me, and now all that’s left is raw, consuming hunger.

I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anything, and the worst part is—I haven’t even boarded the yacht yet.

Yes.

That’s right.

I am going on a luxury private cruise in less than twenty-four hours.

A yacht.

Eight guests.

Exquisite food.

Obscenely wealthy people.

And one dangerously aroused little Omega—me—who is one potent Alpha scent away from collapsing into a full, body-wrecking, heat-fueled meltdown.

And guess who invited me?

Ava.

My best friend.

The girl who has absolutely no idea that her sweet, smiley, innocent best friend has been ruining her sheets for two years now, fantasizing about what it would feel like to take her daddy’s knot.

I know I should have said no.

I should have been mature.

Responsible.

Respectful.

I should have said I was busy this summer.

I should have said my grandmother died. Again.

I should have claimed a yacht allergy.

But instead, I said yes.

I said yes so fast I nearly shouted.

Then I went home and packed every single scandalous little thing I own.

The red lace.

The sheer black.

The crotchless pair I bought in secret, even though I’ve never even been kissed.

I packed them all for him.

Because I want him to see me.

I want him to look at me and forget I was ever a child.

I want his gaze to drop.

I want him to smell the shift in my scent.

I want him to freeze.

I want his cock to twitch.

I want his inner Alpha to snarl and awaken.

I want him to lose all control.

I stand in front of the mirror now, staring at my reflection.

I close my eyes, and I see it—the dock, the blazing Mediterranean sun, the gleam of the yacht’s hull, Ava squealing and running toward me.

And then I turn around.

And there he is.

Benjamin Blackwood.

Wearing white linen trousers.

A dark shirt, half-unbuttoned.

Sunglasses pushed up into his hair.

Arms crossed over that broad chest.

That mouth set in a stern, unreadable line.

That scent.

That power.

That him.

Maybe he’ll glance my way.

Maybe he’ll say my name.

Maybe he’ll say “Sophia.”

And I’ll smile.

I’ll act like I’m not dripping wet beneath this dress.

Like I haven’t been dreaming of this moment with my fingers between my legs since I was sixteen.

I was still standing in front of the mirror like a maniac, one hand on my hip, the other waving dramatically as I practiced how to bend over without looking like I was begging to be taken.

I kept tilting my hips.

Arching my back.

Tilting my head just so.

*Oops, I dropped my drink. Guess I’ll just bend down right in front of you and pretend it’s not on purpose.*

That kind of thing.

My breasts bounced.

My ass looked fucking perfect.

My nipples were straining against my tank top like they were screaming *pick me*.

And listen, don’t you dare judge me.

I know for a fact I’m not the only girl who’s ever done this.

I know you’ve arched your back in front of your crush like you just needed a stretch.

I know you’ve “accidentally” dropped something just to see if his eyes would follow.

So don’t even look at me sideways right now.

I’m just being honest.

I’m just brave enough to say out loud what your slick little cunt already knows—we’re all filthy when the right man walks into the room.

I was mid-squat, practicing a fake, breathy “oops” while pretending to retrieve a lip gloss, when my phone buzzed on the bed.

Ava.

Oh, fuck.

I swiped to answer.

“Hello?” I tried to sound normal, but my voice came out husky.

“Where the hell are you?” Ava shouted over the sound of wind and water slapping against the dock.

I could hear seagulls, the pop of a champagne cork, and a yacht horn blaring like it was mocking me.

“Sophia, the captain is literally about to cast off! If you miss this cruise because you’re doing your hair—”

“I’m on my way!” I spun in a panicked circle, as if that would magically transport me. “I’m five minutes out. Literally.”

“That didn’t sound convincing.”

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

Ava groaned, but she was laughing. “You better move your sexy little ass. This is going to be the summer that changes everything. Spain. France. Italy. Greece. Do you have any idea how many hot guys are already on this boat?”

I tried to laugh. It came out as a choked whimper. “Oh, I’m so ready.”

She giggled. “Good. Champagne’s already flowing, nobody brought any rules, and my dad’s the only adult on board. But he’s so boring he doesn’t count. He’s probably already in a corner somewhere, glaring at the ocean with a whiskey in one hand and his usual brooding silence in the other.”

My whole body went rigid.