But for now, she’s here. In my house, in my chair, in the golden afternoon light.
I close the distance, reach for the guidebook, and our fingers brush. Her hand is small, bones delicate, but her grip is sure. For a heartbeat, neither of us lets go.
I feel the first real smile crack my face in weeks.
She doesn’t let go.
Neither do I.
Mary Kate holdsthe book open between us, her finger tracing the outline of an ancient city map, lips moving as she sounds out the names under her breath. I listen to the tremble of her voice—light, almost musical—and think about all the languages I never learned, all the places I never went.
She’s talking about the Vatican City now, something about ivy on the stone walls and how she wants to get lost there someday, maybe after graduation, maybe never. Her hair catches in the light and I catch myself staring, cataloguing the way it falls against her cheek, the small shadow it makes along her jawline.
My mind fractures along a thin seam, and suddenly the present slides away.
It’s two years ago, Christmas. The house full of people—colleagues, Jeannine’s second-cousin’s new boyfriend, a crowd of medical students I barely remember inviting. Outside, rain lashes the stained-glass windows in the entryway, hammering the glass so hard it sounds like the world is breaking open. Inside, everything is candlelight and the sharp tang of citrus peel; red wine spills on linen, someone laughs too loud, the whole place hums with the false intimacy of a holiday gathering.
I find Mary Kate in the side hallway, a thin ribbon of corridor off the main staircase. She’s standing under a sconce shaped like a torch, the gold leaf chipped at the edges. She’s in a black velvet dress, ankle socks, her arms wrapped around herself like armor. She’s staring at her phone, but not typing, just letting the blue light soak her face. Her cheeks are raw from the wind, eyesrimmed in red; she looks even younger, half-child, half-woman, and my chest aches with the sight of her.
I step into the hall, the floorboards giving just enough to warn her, and she looks up. Her mouth moves first—a little smile, crooked, cautious.
“You hiding too?” she says, voice quiet.
I nod, leaning against the wall a few feet away. “Those people in there are animals,” I say, and she laughs, a puff of breath that makes her hair flutter. I can smell the candle wax and her perfume, sensual and sugary, something that would nauseate me on anyone else. On her, it’s—God help me.
She glances at my glass, then down at her own hands, which are empty. “Can I have a sip?” she asks, and before I can say yes or no, she’s already reaching, taking the wine from my hand. Her fingers brush mine, and they’re cold, so cold I can feel the chill through my skin. She sips, makes a face, and hands the glass back.
“It’s gross,” she says, wrinkling her nose.
“It’s French,” I say.
She looks at me, eyes huge and bright in the dark. “You like French things?”
I don’t know how to answer that. My mind is humming, a static charge building in the hollow of my chest, and I know I should leave, go back to the party, to Jeannine, to whatever the performance requires. But I don’t. I stay, watching Mary Kate as she chews the inside of her cheek, as she glances up at me, then down, then up again, as if waiting for something.
I set the wine on a side table, and before I can stop myself, I reach out and tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Her breath hitches, the barest sound. I should stop. I don’t.
Her mouth opens, as if to say something, but no sound comes out. I move closer, see the way her hands tremble at her sides, the way her shoulders draw up tight. I touch her cheek, the skin warm and impossibly soft, and she leans into it, eyes fluttering closed for a moment.
The first kiss is—God, it’s like a windswept storm. I don’t even remember the mechanics, just the shock of her lips, the heat of her breath, the way she opens for me. She tastes like wine and sugar, like everything I’m not supposed to want. Her hand finds my shirt, clutching at the fabric, pulling me down, closer, until I feel the small bones of her wrist against my chest.
Stop, the voice in my head rasps.She’s your stepdaughter.
But do I stop? Hell no. I’m an asshole, and always have been. My hand slides down, skimming the fine bones of her shoulder, the curve of her arm, until I reach the hem of her dress. It’s velvet, soft as a bruise, and she shivers as my fingers slip under the edge, searching for her skin. When I touch her, just above the knee, she gasps into my mouth, and I can feel the shock roll through her body.
I move higher, tracing the inside of her thigh, and she’s shaking, breath coming in tiny, desperate bursts. I don’t know what I’m doing—I mean, I do, but there’s a part of me that’s detached, watching the whole thing like a film. The man in the movie is someone else, someone dangerous and doomed, and he’s touching his stepdaughter in the dark, and she’s letting him, not just letting but wanting, needing.
When I find the cotton of her panties, it’s already damp. I freeze, momentarily stunned by my own need, but Mary Kate presses against my hand, her lips parting around a silent plea. I stroke her through the fabric, gentle at first, then harder, and she cries out—just a tiny, muffled sound, but it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.
“Mmm, Daddy,” she mewls. “Oh god.”
The word “Daddy” unleashes the beast within. I want to fuck her. I want to throw her down on the carpet and tear her apart, make her scream, make her mine. But instead, I slip two fingers beneath the fabric, find the slick heat of her, and work her until she’s panting, clutching my shirt, digging her nails into my shoulder. The only light is the flicker of the sconce, turning her hair to gold, her skin to marble.
“Oh!” she whimpers faintly, clutching at my shoulders. “Mmm!”
“Come for me, sweetheart,” I rasp against her mouth, my fingers stroking and rubbing her clit, before patting it in tender slaps. “Come on Daddy’s hand.”
The golden girl obeys and climaxes suddenly, a shudder that runs the length of her body, her big breasts heaving as she cries out against my mouth. A gush of warm wetness fills my palm, and I rub her through the orgasms, murmuring soft words of praise.
