Unholy Cravings

Sara

A soft breeze brushed over my bare legs as I pressed my hand on the doorknob. My suitcase stood by my feet, dusty from the train ride, and my stomach was already tying itself in knots.

I didn't want to do this. I really didn't. But Layla had begged me to stay for the summer break at her parent's place.

"It'll save you the cost of flying home," she had said. "No rent, no food bills. Just chill at my place till summer ends."

She made it sound easy. Like I was just crashing with a friend. The door creaked open, and my expectation to see the face of my best friend was shattered by another face.

A tall man stood there instead. Dark hair, peppered with grey. Strong jaw. Barefoot in jeans and a black tee that hugged his arms a little too well.

He wasn't smiling. Just stared at me like I was a package he didn't remember ordering.

"Uh..." I cleared my throat. "Hi. I'm Sara. Layla's... friend from school."

He blinked, then stepped aside. "Right. Come in."

His voice was deep. Rough around the edges. It rolled through me in a way I didn't expect.

"She's upstairs." He shut the door behind me. "I'm her father."

My stomach flipped.That's not what she told me. She said her father would be away for a business for the whole summer.

I didn't know what to say to that, so I just nodded.

The house was quiet. Big, clean, with soft lights and polished wood floors. It smelled like fresh coffee and leather.

He pointed up the stairs. "Her room's the last door on the right.”

"Okay. Thanks."

I grabbed my bag and headed up, careful not to look back at him. But I could feel it—his eyes on me the whole way up.

Layla's door was slightly open when I reached it. I gave it a soft knock.

She spun around from where she was sprawled on the bed, grinning. "Finally! Took you long enough."

"I would've gotten here sooner if someone told me her dad was home," I said, stepping inside with my bag.

Her smile faltered a little. "Oh... yeah. That changed last minute. He was supposed to be out of town, but his trip got pushed back."

I raised an eyebrow. "And you didn't think that was something I should know?"

She shrugged. "It won't matter. He mostly stays in his room or goes out. Barely talks. You'll forget he's even here."

I wasn't so sure about that.

Layla flopped back onto her bed. "So," she said, kicking her legs, "Do you wanna share my room, or take the guest one down the hall?"

I hesitated, then forced a smile. "Anywhere is fine. Better with you, though."

She grinned. "Good. Then it's settled. We'll share."

I dropped my bag on the floor as she pulled open her closet. "We can unpack together. I'll clear some space."

The room smelled like her—peach-scented body mist and something sugary. She passed me a hanger and started babbling about the summer plans she had for us.

But all I could think about was the man who opened the door earlier.

And the way my stomach flipped when he said, "I'm Layla's father."

I had just stepped out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around my body, hair dripping wet down my back. The house was quiet. I figured Layla might have gone downstairs.

I walked into the room and turned towards the closet, not even thinking to check the door.

That's when I felt it. Like someone was watching me. I looked over my shoulder—and stopped breathing.

The door was slightly open. And Layla’s father was right there.

Just standing in the hallway, like he was passing by, but... he wasn't moving. His eyes were on me. On my legs. My bare shoulders. The curve of the towel barely covering my chest.

He didn't say anything. Neither did I.

For a second, we just stared at each other. My heart was beating so loudly. Then his eyes lifted back to mine, slow. And instead of looking away, he held my gaze. And I couldn't tell if I wanted to hide... or open the door wider.

**

Later that night, Layla pulled at my arm, dragging me downstairs.

"Come on, Dad made dinner. You can't miss this."

I wasn't really hungry. My stomach was still tied in knots from earlier. But I followed her anyway.

We stepped into the kitchen, and he was standing by the stove, stirring something in a pan like he hadn't just caught me nearly naked a few hours ago.

"Dinner's almost ready," he said, still focused on the pan.

Layla dropped into a chair at the table and patted the one beside her. I sat, trying to act normal. But my skin still tingled, like it remembered how exposed I'd been when our eyes met earlier through that open door.

I hadn't told Layla. I wouldn't dare.

He finally turned around, set the pan down, and looked at me.

"So, Sarah," he said, wiping his hands on a towel, "What do you like to do when you're not studying?"

Before I could even form words, Layla cut in, rolling her eyes. "She's not like those wild girls, Dad. Sarah's sweet. Quiet. Innocent."

The word innocent stuck in the air like smoke.

I swallowed and tried to smile. "I like reading and hiking."

He nodded, eyes never leaving mine. His gaze didn't feel casual. It felt... like a reminder. Like he hadn't forgotten what he saw. And I definitely hadn't.

I shifted in my seat, suddenly too aware of my bare legs under the shorts I wore, the way the collar of my shirt dipped low when I leaned forward. My whole body was tense, too hot.

He sat down across from us, and for a while, we just ate. Or pretended to.

Every scrape of a fork felt loud. Every glance from him made my heart thump harder.

I told myself to focus on the food. On Layla's story about some guy from her class. But the heat in his stare was still there. And I couldn't stop thinking about the way he looked at me earlier... or the way he still was.

And still later, I couldn't sleep. Layla had passed out the second her head hit the pillow, but I'd been lying there for what felt like hours, staring at the ceiling, heart still beating too fast.

All I could think about was him. The way he looked at me across the dinner table. The heat in his stare.

The way he saw me earlier—wrapped in just a towel, fresh out of the shower. That pause. That silence.

And how he didn't look away.

I gave up trying to rest. My throat felt dry, and maybe some cold water would help—or at least give me an excuse to clear my head.

I padded down the stairs, quiet. The house was still, dimly lit from a small bulb in the hallway.

But as I turned the corner into the kitchen, I froze. He was there.

Mr. Carson. Leaning against the counter in a plain black t-shirt and joggers, a glass of dark liquor in his hand. The way the shadows clung to him made him look like something out of a dream I wasn't supposed to have.

He looked up when he saw me.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked, in a low voice, almost like a whisper meant only for me.

I nodded slowly. "Just... needed a glass of water."

He gave a small smirk and tilted his glass. "Same reason I'm here. Though mine's a little stronger."

I stepped in, trying not to act nervous, even though every inch of my skin was alert—too aware of him.

He didn't look away this time either. His eyes followed me as I walked to the sink, grabbed a glass, and filled it. The silence between us wasn't awkward—it was thick. Like it was holding back something neither of us wanted to name.

I sipped slowly, stealing a glance at him.

"You always drink alone at night?" I asked, just to break the tension.

"Only when something's keeping me up," he said, gaze still locked on me. "Or someone."

I blinked, heart skipping. My glass lowered just slightly. "Layla's upstairs."

"I know."

His words lingered in the air, thick and warm like the summer night outside.

I took a small step back, the edge of the counter meeting my lower back. He didn't move closer, but his presence filled the kitchen like heat.

He looked me over slowly, from the messy bun on my head to the hem of my shorts. "You shouldn't walk around in towels if you don't want to test a man's patience."

My breath caught.

"Didn't know I was," I said quietly, almost a whisper. "You were just passing by."

"Exactly." His eyes didn't waver. "And yet I haven't stopped thinking about it."

There was a pause—long.

Then his hand came up, brushing a strand of hair off my cheek. His knuckles grazed my jaw, then paused just beneath it, like he was deciding whether to keep going.

"Go to bed, Sarah." His voice was hoarse. "Before I forget whose friend you are."

I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice steady. "Does it really matter?"

He smirked, low and dangerous. "It matters," he growled, his eyes darkening. "If not I wouldn't be standing here thinking about fucking you right on this kitchen counter."

His hand slid just a little lower—just enough to make me shiver but not enough to cross any lines. The room felt smaller. Hotter. And just like that I forgot my real reason coming here in the first place.