Make Me Yours, Daddy

Chapter 6 | Too Good To Be True

MAYA

Sunlight slipped through the curtains in soft golden stripes across my bed. I stretched my arms lazily, reaching high above my head and my fingers brushed the headboard. My body felt… good. Loose and Fresh. Like I’d slept deeper than I had in years.

A slow, contented sigh slipped past my lips as I blinked my eyes open and was instantly met with a familiar ceiling. My ceiling. Pale cream with that tiny water stain in the corner shaped like a crooked heart.

My lips curved into a sleepy smile. What a refreshing good morning- It took me a moment to realize but then reality slammed into me like cold water. f*****g hell.

Again. I dreamt of that devil.

I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes and groaned low in my throat. “Why does it always have to be you?” I muttered to the empty room. “Why does it always feel so… real?”

The memory flickered behind my closed lids. I remembered his finger inside me, thick and slow, curling just right and filling me so good. The wet sounds. My own broken cries. The way I’d gushed all over his hand like I was made for it.

My thighs clenched involuntarily. f*****g hell- that felt so good. I wish it was all true and not a dream.

The moment those words flashed inside of me, I froze. Slowly- very slowly- I lowered my hands and looked down at myself. Black lace. Still. My bra was shoved down below my breasts, the cups barely containing the soft spill of flesh.

My n*****s were still peaked, still sensitive. My thong… God. The crotch was dark, clinging, soaked through in a way that made heat crawl back up my neck. Okay- everything was fine but if I remember correctly- I don’t remember coming into my room- and I am in bed- But how…?

I sat up fast. Too fast that the room tilted for a second. I clearly remembered collapsing on the living room couch. Face-first. Drunk. Half-naked. And then… him. No. Not him. A dream of him. Right?

My heart kicked hard against my ribs. My eyes enlarged at my own thoughts. I slid a shaky hand between my thighs and my fingers brushed the damp fabric. Sticky. Warm. Still slick.

“Probably just… a wet dream,” I whispered to myself, voice cracking. “Yeah. That’s all. You got too drunk, Maya. You lost your mind. Nothing happened.” I tried to laugh but it came out pathetic. Of course nothing like that would happen in real life.

Tristan Desmond didn’t just show up in the middle of the night and finger me until I squirted on my parents’ couch. He was my father’s cousin. He was dangerous. He was never here. He was someone who rarely got time from his work and visited.

I pressed my thighs together, trying to ignore the fresh ache that bloomed low in my belly at the memory. Stop it. I scolded myself silently. You’re twenty. You’re not a child. You got wasted and had the horniest, most vivid dream of your life. That’s it.

I took a deep breath and held it to relax my throbbing nerves before letting it out slowly.

He wouldn’t be here. He’s never here when I need him to be. But I just couldn't shake off that slight feeling of doubt in my chest that felt like a burden now. I needed to prove it to myself. Just so I wouldn’t ruin my whole day and next days thinking about this.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the delicious soreness between my thighs, the way my inner muscles fluttered like they remembered being stretched.

I didn’t even bother with clothes.

Why would I? No one was home. Mom and Dad were still in Paris. The house was empty.

I padded barefoot across the carpet. I did not even bother to look in the mirror but I was aware of my state. My hair was a tangled, slept-in mess falling down my back. My skin still glowed and was flushed, dewy- like I’d been worshipped instead of dreaming.

I reached the door and hesitated for half a second. That nervous feeling crept in but I shrugged off and then pushed the door open. The hallway was quiet. Sunlight poured through the tall windows at the end, turning everything gold and soft.

I peeked around the doorframe, heart thudding too loud in my ears. “Tristan?” My voice came out small. Barely there. I waited for a few seconds and heard .. Nothing. I swallowed. Tried again, louder.

“Tristan?” Silence. Instantly, a tiny, relieved smile tugged at my lips. “Knew it,” I whispered, mostly to myself. “It wasn’t true.”

I stepped fully into the hallway, letting the door swing shut behind me. The cool air kissed my mostly bare skin and I sighed in satisfaction. I lifted my arms high, stretching again in satisfaction. My back arched and my breasts lifted before I reached behind me and unclasped the bra with one practiced flick.

The lace slid down my arms and pooled on the hardwood floor. I whimpered softly at the freedom, at the way my n*****s tightened instantly in the open air. I took one step and then two.

I was just turning to head back to my room, already planning a long, hot shower to wash away the evidence of my shameful imagination- when I felt it.

A presence. Heavy. Burning. A pair of eyes on me. Intense. Dark. Unblinking. And the next moment I knew, my feet froze mid-step. My heart slammed so hard I thought it might crack a rib.

No.

No no no.

Slowly- agonizingly slowly- I turned my head. Hoping It was all just my mind playing games but … I was wrong. And there he was. Standing in the middle of the hallway.

Just a few steps away.

Black oversized shirt hanging open over his tattooed chest. Grey sweatpants slung obscenely low on his narrow hips, exposing that carved V of muscle that disappeared beneath the waistband. Damp hair pushed carelessly back. Jaw locked. Expression unreadable.

But those eyes… Those endless black eyes were locked on me like I was prey.

Like I was already his. The air between us crackled. Thick. Electric. Dangerous.

I couldn’t breathe. My mouth opened, but the only sound that came out was a choked little gasp.

“Tristan- ” He took one slow step forward. My pulse roared in my ears. “What’s too good to be true, Maya?” His voice was low. Rough. Velvet dragged over steel.

He tilted his head, gaze raking down my naked torso, lingering on my heaving breasts, my trembling stomach, the soaked scrap of lace still clinging between my thighs. “Would you like to explain?”

The hallway suddenly felt too small. Too quiet. Too full of him. And I realized- with a dizzying, terrifying rush- that I wasn’t dreaming anymore.

I wasn’t dreaming at all.