Make Me Yours, Daddy

　　Am I gay?

　　The question kept echoing in my head like a broken record, louder than the pounding music vibrating through the strip club. I sat frozen on the red velvet couch in the VIP section with my half empty glass of vodka sweating in my hand.

　　It burned down my throat every time I took a sip, but it did nothing to thaw the weird numbness settling in my chest.

　　Right in front of me, one of my friends, Jax, the baseball captain I'd been crushing on for months, was balls-deep in one of the dancers. His cock slammed in and out of her pussy. Her blonde hair was a tangled mess in his fist as she bounced on his lap, moaning like she was getting paid extra for the performance. Which, honestly, she probably was.

　　Jax's head was thrown back and his eyes half-shut in bliss. His hips snapping up to meet her every time she sank down. The wet slap of skin on skin mixed with her high-pitched cries-

　　"Fuck, fuck, baby, yes, give me more!"

　　She cried out, head thrown back and her nails digging into his shoulders while she bounced on his lap, thighs slapping against his.

　　Wetness. Heat. That familiar throb between my legs that usually hit me the second I pictured a man taking what he wanted. Anyone would be dripping right now- hell, half the room probably was.

　　The scene should've made anyone's blood run hot. I should've been dripping. I should've been squirming, thighs clenched, imagining myself in her place. I'm not some prude. I'm the girl who gets soaked just from a certain kind of stare.

　　But watching this? Watching him? Nothing. Not even a flicker of heat between my legs. Just this hollow, confused ache. My body stayed stubbornly cold and traitorous, while my mind screamed the truth I'd been running from for years.

　　It wasn't that I was broken. I was still the same horny twenty-year-old who could get soaked from nothing more than a dark, commanding gaze. The problem was… that gaze had to belong to him.

　　Tristan Desmond.

　　My father's cousin. My uncle in every way that mattered on paper, distant enough on the family tree to make the fantasy feel dangerously possible but close enough to make it utterly, unforgivably wrong.

　　Even here, surrounded by sweat and perfume and sex, my body only woke up when I let myself picture him.

　　Tristan Desmond was The Devil in a black suit. Sleek black hair swept back, tattoos curling like sin up his neck and disappearing under starched collars. Veiny forearms that flexed when he rolled up his sleeves. Those long fingers that looked made for pinning wrists above heads, for sliding between thighs, for making a girl beg and strong enough to snap me in half- or pin me down until I begged.

　　And those thick thighs… God, the way his tailored pants hugged them, promising power, promising ruin.

　　I clenched my thighs together under my short skirt, feeling the slickness already coating my panties. Not because of Jax and the stripper but because of the image that flashed behind my closed lids.

　　Image of me, spread open on silk sheets and Tristan's rough hand sliding up my bare thigh, knuckles brushing the damp lace before pushing it aside. I could almost hear his low, gravelly voice whispering filthy things against my ear.

　　"Fuck," I muttered under my breath, biting my lower lip so hard I tasted blood.

　　He was every dark, filthy dream I'd ever had since I was old enough to understand the ache between my legs.

　　Fuck! Tonight was supposed to be different. This night was supposed to fix me.

　　"Operation Forget Tristan" my best friend had called it when she dragged me here. Get drunk. Dance. Maybe hook up with someone hot and uncomplicated. Prove to myself that I could want someone else. Anyone else. Because Tristan Desmond was my father's cousin. A family, even if distant.

　　Forbidden. Impossible. A line I could never cross. But my stupid heart- and worse, my stupid body- didn't care about lines.

　　I gulped the last of my drink, the alcohol scorching my throat, and slammed the glass down on the low table. The clink was lost in the music. My head was spinning, a whirlpool of shame, frustration, and that relentless, throbbing need that only he could ignite.

　　I clenched my thighs hard and the urge to touch myself only grew. I had to get out of here. I glanced around. My friends were scattered, some grinding on strangers, some making out in dark corners, all of them blissfully drunk and oblivious. Perfect.

　　I grabbed my purse and stood up. My legs wobbled as I tried to keep my balance. The room tilted as I grabbed the wall for balance. My heels clicked unevenly across the sticky floor as I stumbled toward the exit.

　　As soon as I stepped out, the cool night air hit me like a slap, making me whimper. I stood on the sidewalk, chest heaving, trying to breathe through the fog of vodka and unwanted desire.

　　My thighs rubbed together with every shift of weight and the wetness between them making me hyper-aware of how empty I felt. How desperately I wanted to be filled. Not by Jax. Not by any random guy.

　　Only by him.

　　A yellow taxi pulled up almost immediately, like the universe was mocking me. I slid into the backseat and gave the driver my address. I let out a deep sigh and bit my lower lip, feeling the intense racing of my heart.

　　Soon, The cab lurched to a stop outside the gates, and I somehow managed to shove enough crumpled bills into the driver's hand without dropping them all over the backseat.

　　My fingers felt numb, clumsy. I stepped out and the night air was cooler than I remembered and sharp against my flushed skin, but it did nothing to clear the vodka fog in my head.

　　I stood there for a second, swaying, staring up with my drunkard blurred vision at the dark silhouette of the mansion. No lights in the windows. Mom and Dad were still in Paris on a business trip. The thought sent a strange thrill through me.

　　I was alone which meant- freedom, danger and sweet.

　　I fumbled in my purse for the key card, nails scraping uselessly against lip gloss tubes and crumpled receipts. "Come on…" I hissed under my breath.

　　My head spun. Finally, I just pushed against the heavy front door. It gave way- Had I forgotten to lock it earlier? Didn't matter. I slipped inside, and the door thudded shut behind me.

　　Silence wrapped around me like velvet. Alone. Finally alone.

　　I took two steps forward and immediately stumbled over my own feet. My palm quickly slapped against the wall for balance. A shaky laugh bubbled up as I felt pathetic, really, but I swallowed it down.

　　I immediately kicked off my heels. They clattered somewhere into the shadows. My purse hit the floor next with a dull thud. I didn't care. I could take care of tomorrow.

　　The tight fabric of my dress was suffocating. I grabbed the hem and yanked it over my head in one rough motion, letting it fall wherever it wanted. Cool air kissed my bare skin, raising goosebumps all over my body.

　　I stood there in nothing but the black lacy lingerie I'd stupidly chosen tonight, thinking maybe, just maybe, I'd let someone peel it off me. Someone who wasn't him.

　　Stupid.

　　My legs felt like jelly as I stumbled deeper into the house. I made it to the couch and collapsed onto it face-first, then rolled onto my back with a long, relieved moan. The leather was cold against my overheated skin. Heaven.

　　I stretched my arms out to the sides, arching my back instinctively. My breasts pushed up against the lace bra and I felt my nipples tightened into hard peaks that ached with every breath.

　　A soft whimper slipped past my lips. Between my thighs, my pussy throbbed, so hot, swollen and slick. I rubbed them together, desperate for friction, but it only made the ache worse.

　　God, I was soaked.

　　I bit my lower lip, eyes fluttering closed, then opened again. The room wasn't completely dark. It was enough to see him. My breath caught. Across from me, a figure stood, leaning casually against the far wall like he belonged there.

　　His wet black hair slicked back, droplets still clinging to the ends. Face stern, unreadable, the way it always was. A loose black shirt clung to his lean and sculpted chest. Grey sweatpants hung obscenely low on his hips and the waistband teased the sharp V of muscle that disappeared beneath.

　　My mouth went dry.

　　Those intense black eyes locked on mine. His gaze was dark, burning and pinned me in place. A shaky breath rattled out of me.

　　"Tristan…"