Downstairs, the house felt unnaturally still. After I dressed and left my room, I noticed right away Marcus’s truck wasn’t in the driveway. On the kitchen counter, a note scrawled on theback of a crumpled receipt read: Had to head to the site early. Back late. Don’t wait up.
I stared at those words until they swam in my vision. He was running… from me, from himself, and especially from what we’d shared the night before.
The guilt I’d seen had etched deep lines into his face when he’d frozen after making me come. And then he whispered that he couldn’t believe he’d done that to me.
Even if I’d only been living under the same roof for a year, even if I was eighteen and gone to college before we ever really bonded as a family, the taboo label clung to us like smoke, and he couldn’t shake it.
I spent the day packing alone, trying to distract myself. I went through the hall closet, boxing up old coats and scarves that still smelled faintly like Mom’s perfume. The lavender and vanilla scent twisted something sharp in my chest.
I made piles of things to keep and things to donate.
Then I moved on to the linen closet, folding sheets and towels that had seen better days. Every creak of the old floorboards made my heart jump, half-hoping, half-dreading he’d walk through the door and pull me against him again.
By evening, the house felt empty without him. I microwaved leftovers, ate standing at the counter while scrolling my phone, seeing nothing. The sun dipped low, painting the kitchen in long, orange stripes, and still no truck rumbled up the driveway.
I told myself it was fine, that Marcus needed space. We both did. But the ache between my legs—and heart—said otherwise.
He finally came home after ten. The front door opened with a soft click as if he were trying not to wake me. I was on the couch pretending to read a book I’d pulled from one of the boxes. It was a dog-eared romance novel from Mom’s collection that now felt too on-the-nose.
His boots stopped in the foyer, and I set the book down and walked to the doorway, arms crossed over my chest like a shield.
He looked wrecked. His work clothes were streaked with dust and mud, his hair was disheveled, and his eyes were shadowed with exhaustion. But when he saw me, something flickered there, something akin to hunger or regret, maybe both.
“Hey,” I said softly.
“Hey,” his voice was gravel-rough. He glanced at me for a split second, then turned away, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it on the hook.
“You okay?”
“Long day.” He moved past me into the kitchen, close enough that I caught his scent of sawdust, sweat, and that underlying musk that was pure Marcus. He grabbed a beer from the fridge, twisted the cap off with a sharp pop, and took a long swallow without offering me one. The deliberate space he kept stung like a slap.
I followed him in. “Marcus?”
He set the bottle down harder than necessary, foam bubbling over the rim. “We need to talk about last night.”
My stomach knotted tightly. “Okay.”
He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed over his chest as if he were barricading himself. “What happened… it can’t happen again.”
The words hit like cold water. I swallowed hard. “You didn’t seem to think that when your fingers were buried inside me making me come.” I shouldn’t have been so crude, but I was pissed.
He squeezed his eyes shut for a beat. “That’s exactly why it can’t. I was your stepfather, Lila. Even if it was just for that one year. Even if you were already eighteen and heading off to college. I stood at the altar with your mother. I was supposed to be a father figure to you. A protector and guardian. Not the manwho pins you down and fingers your pussy until you scream my name. That makes this so fucked up. I’m ashamed I let it happen. I’m ashamed I can’t stop thinking about how tight you felt. How you soaked my hand.”
Heat flooded my face, rejection mixed with a fresh wave of arousal made my thighs clench together. “I’m twenty-three now. An adult. I wanted it. I begged for it, and I’m not ashamed.”
He groaned low in his throat, head tipping back against the cabinets. “Jesus, Lila. Don’t say that.” His voice cracked, raw and pained.
But when I stepped closer, he didn’t back away. I placed my hand on his chest, right over the rapid thud of his heart. He sucked in a sharp breath, but his arms stayed crossed, body rigid.
“I’ve wanted you for years. Forbidden or not. You were once my stepdad...it doesn’t matter. I’m not scared, and it doesn’t make me uncomfortable. I want you, the man you are, Marcus, not the title you once wore.”
I slid my hand lower, under his shirt, and feathered my finger over the hard ridges of his abs.
His hand shot out, grabbing my wrist in a firm grip, calluses rough against my skin. “Stop.”
But he didn’t push me away. His thumb brushed the inside of my wrist, slow and unconscious, as if he couldn’t help it.
I leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “Tell me you don’t want to pin me against this counter right now. Tell me you don’t want to feel how wet I am for you again.”
