She blushes at the praise.
“Good, because I love it when you take control, Daddy. I love being yours and letting you use my body to make yourself feel good.”
I stare at her, at the perfect pink flush on her big breasts, the glisten of her wet cunt, the aftershock of pleasure still making her thighs twitch. I think about the truth lodged behind my ribs: that despite her sexy appearance, this girl is still a virgin. That I will be the first, and the last, and the only.
That nothing in my life has ever tasted so sweet.
I pull her into my arms, let her melt against me, and stare up at the sauna ceiling. The thought circles in my brain, carving new channels of want and intent.
She’s mine.
And next time, I’m going to ruin her.
12
WHY DOES MY STEPDAUGHTER STILL HAVE HER V-CARD?
KENT
The house is silent except for the sizzle of bacon and the hiss of the espresso maker. I stand at the kitchen island, shirtless, in the gray sweatpants I use for lounging, staring blankly at a row of crystal clear glasses. The island itself is a slab of black stone, ice-cold even under the morning’s lazy sunlight. The coffee brews slow, cycling a thin coil of steam up to the vent hood and filling the air with a smell so dark it’s almost charred. There’s a line of half-emptied mugs by the sink, evidence of last night’s nerves, but I leave them; I like the clutter, the after-image of human need.
The bacon crisps, curling at the edges. I press it flat with the spatula, resisting the urge to poke at my phone, to check for messages like a tween, to look for something to puncture the silence.
After all, my discovery last night was big.Big, big. My sweet and sassy stepdaughter is a virgin, of all things, and never in a million years would I have guessed it. How the hell does that even happen? She’s so fucking beautiful, and so fucking ripe too, with big breasts, a narrow waist, and a sweet smile. Hell,I’ve been keeping my distance for years now, knowing that Mary Kate was likely being wined and dined by other men. Maybe they were douchebags, but surely, they weren’t so spineless that they never asked to enjoy her curves. Hell, what kind of so-called “man” doesn’t get laid at the end of a date?
There’s a small sound in the hallway, then the tap of bare feet on tile. The sweet girl I’ve been obsessing about enters like a ghost and a dare: Mary Kate, wrapped in a threadbare t-shirt and pink panties, her blonde hair unbrushed and down to her shoulder blades, eyes still sleepy. She’s so beautiful it makes me want to look away. She doesn’t look at me first—she looks at the window, at the sun coming out in the yard, at the nothing beyond. But she feels me watching her, and when our eyes finally meet, the heat of attraction sparks between us.
“Morning,” I growl.
She makes a small sound, somewhere between a yawn and a murmur, and drags herself to the island. The sleep shirt is big on her, hits mid-thigh, but as she walks it clings just a bit—showing the pure, ridiculous curve of her hips, the long stretch of her legs, and, when she moves just right, the subtle jiggle of her bare tits underneath.
I’m instantly half-hard.
She seats herself delicately onto a barstool, tucks one knee up, and hugs her calf close. The motion is so automatic, so childlike, it makes the air around us vibrate with something dangerous.
I let the bacon burn and take in the whole scene: the beautiful girl at the kitchen island, hair wild like a golden halo, the hush of morning, the memory of her pussy in my mouth. Holy fuck, I’m a lucky man.
The coffee is ready, so I pour a mug, black, and slide it across to her. She catches it with both hands, wrapping her fingers around the ceramic like it’s the only source of heat in the universe.
“You want eggs?” I ask.
She shakes her head, hiding behind the coffee. “No, just bacon’s fine,” she says, voice small. “Thanks.”
I turn off the burner and plate the bacon, then lean back against the counter and cross my arms. I look at her over the rim of my own mug, letting the silence settle.
“Did you sleep?” I ask.
She glances up, and there’s a flicker of something—defiance, or maybe just a dare—before she shrugs. “A little. You?”
I smile, just a little. “Not really.”
A beat passes. The air between us is thick, shot through with memory and the kind of craving that makes your skin electric.
She can’t hold it in. “About last night?—”
I cut her off. “I want to talk about that.”
Her eyes go wide, lips parted just enough to show the white edge of her teeth.
