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I was sitting on my stepfather's lap, feeling incredibly awkward. I really regret wearing such a thin, short silk sleep skirt today. In this position, the only fabric between us is his sweatpants. Oh, and my soaking wet underwear. I'm terrified I'll ruin his sweatpants with my wetness. “It's okay, baby,” he whispered to me suddenly, so low only I could hear. “I really like it.” --- “Come for breakfast!” My mom’s voice floated in from the kitchen. Loud and bright like always. I was sprawled across the living room couch, a half-eaten Snickers bar in one hand and the remote in the other, flipping through channels without really watching anything. My right foot was wrapped in a thick white bandage, propped up on a pillow like some tragic princess. I glared at it. Dmn ankle. Dmn stairs. Dmn me for falling from my university’s stairs and having to come crawling back home because of one clumsy fall. I hated being here. Well, I did not hate coming back home, but the reason was ….my Mom. She could flip from sweet to suffocating in two seconds flat, and right now I was already bracing for the interrogation about my classes, my friends, my weight, my everything. She had a way of pushing herself into my business, my life, and somehow making every decision for me. “Evie, call your daddy too!” she sang the voice again. I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt. As if I could hobble down the hallway on crutches to fetch him. Did she not see my ankle? The main reason for my return. Before I could shout back something sarcastic, that voice answered for itself, low, rough, dangerous. “I’m here.” My stomach flipped. My stepdaddy, Damian Voss stepped into the living room and the air changed, like someone had turned the temperature up ten degrees. My eyes fixated on him. Grey sweatpants hanging criminally low on his hips, black T-shirt stretched across his chest, sleeves tight around biceps that definitely didn’t belong to a forty-two-year-old man. His dark hair was still damp from the morning shower. He looked like he’d just walked off the set of a cologne ad that would get banned in twelve countries. I forgot how to breathe for a second. He caught my stare, one brow lifting as he pushed a hand through his hair. “Good morning, Evie.” The way he said my name. Slow and a little gravelly, like he was tasting it and it shot straight between my legs. It made me clench my thighs hard as I shifted uncomfortably not wanting him to even get an idea of it. “Morning,” I mumbled. My cheeks burning. Then he crossed the room in three strides, bent down, and slid one arm under my knees, the other behind my back. He picked me up effortlessly. Like I weighed nothing. His scent hit me all at once, cedar mixed with something darker, something that made my head spin. My arms looped around his neck on instinct, my fingers brushing the warm skin just above his collar. “You’ve gotten lighter,” he teased me. His voice rumbling against my side, making me swallow. “Makes it easier for you to carry me around, then.” He chuckled, low and gentle, and I felt it everywhere. The tiny silk sleep skirt I’d thrown on this morning suddenly felt way too short. His huge hand curved around the back of my bare thigh to keep me steady, thumb brushing skin that had never been touched by anyone but me in the dark, imagining it was him. I bit down on my lower lip, trying to push the thoughts away before I did something embarrassing I’d regret later. He carried me into the kitchen. Mom stood at the stove with her pastel apron, flipping pancakes, totally oblivious. He set me down on the single remaining high stool at the island. Mom had broken the other three while attempting some DIY project she’d learned from YouTube. Mom was still at the stove in her favorite apron, flipping pancakes and humming like this was some perfect family morning. “Evie, I’m making your favorite blueberry pancakes,” she said without turning. “I know you must have missed them at that awful campus dining hall.” I bit my lip and glanced sideways at Damian.Oh, I’d missed something, all right. Not pancakes. He was still standing, looking unfairly gorgeous. Damian’s profile was perfect. Sharp jaw, faint stubble that I wanted to feel scraping my thighs. His lips I’d imagined wrapped around my core more times than I could count. Of course, I knew it was wrong. The guilt settled heavily in my chest the moment the thought even crossed my mind. I shouldn’t feel this way. I shouldn’t want this. And yet, no matter how hard I tried to shut it down, the feeling refused to disappear, and even grew stronger the more I told myself to stop. I hated myself for it. I shifted on the stool, pressing my thighs together, trying to ease the ache that had started the second he walked in. He turned his head. Caught me staring. And then he smiled, slow, knowing, like he could read every improper, dirty thought that flashed through my head. Mom finally noticed. “Damian, honey, why are you still standing?” He chuckled. “The new stools aren’t here yet, and there’s only one seat. Unless you want me to sit on Evie’s lap.” I gasped, my eyes widening as heat rushed to my face. Mom burst out laughing. “Not you, silly,” she said. “She can sit on yours. You two can share.” She said it like it was the most normal thing in the world. My pulse thundered. I looked away, forcing myself to breathe, but Damian’s gaze pinned me in place. I shook my head slowly, unable to speak. His hands were on me again, lifting me with ease and settling me sideways across his lap as he took the stool. I froze, suddenly aware of how close we were. The hard plane of his thigh pressed between my legs. I could feel the heat of him everywhere. CHAPTER 2 | DON'T STOP EVIE’S POV I really regret wearing such a thin, short silk sleep skirt today. In this position, the only fabric between us is his sweatpants.. Oh, and my underwear, which is already starting to get wet. I'm terrified I'll ruin his sweatpants. with my wetness. I tried to focus on anything else, but my brain short-circuited. All those late nights alone in my dorm bed, fingers between my thighs, imagining exactly this, his body under mine, his hands on me, his private part… Stop!!! What on earth am I even doing! Why am I suddenly thinking about stuff like this again? Enough, I need to distract myself. I started glancing around restlessly, grasping for anything to distract myself. My movements turned awkward and careless, and suddenly I slipped, nearly sliding right off his lap. “Hey, easy there, sweetheart,” he murmured, his strong arm snapping around my waist to steady me. My breath caught as he held me in place. “Trying to get yourself injured again just to extend your sick leave?” he added with a soft laugh. Dmn it. That smile was warm and effortless, and it nearly unraveled me. Mom didn’t notice a thing. She kept chatting about farmers’ markets and some new yoga studio, neither of us really listening. All I could hear was my own pulse, loud in my ears, especially when I felt his attention settle on me. Then I felt it. Warm, rough fingers sliding onto my bare knee beneath the island countertop. I jolted, eyes flying to him. He didn’t even look at me, just kept that polite smile fixed on Mom’s back. His huge palm stayed there, steady, casual on my bare thigh, like it belonged there, like nothing was wrong. It had to be an accident. I told myself that again and again, forcing the thought down before it could spiral. He wouldn’t do this on purpose. He couldn’t. And yet my body betrayed me anyway, reacting before my mind could catch up. I felt a warm current slowly flow out of me, soaking into his pants. I was so fk up!!! My breath stuttered. I went rigid, afraid to move, afraid not to. My fingers dug into the edge of the counter, knuckles whitening as I fought to stay perfectly still, terrified that if I shifted even an inch, I’d give everything away. “Right, Cass?” he said, voice perfectly casual. “We missed Evie more than she missed your pancakes.” Mom laughed. “Oh, darling, yes.” He was still chatting with her, totally relaxed, while I sat frozen on his lap, heart racing, thighs pressing together to ease the ache. The stool was high, my bandaged foot dangled uselessly. I gripped the edge of the counter and shifted backward, just a little, trying to get comfortable. My lower part slid against him. Against the thick, unmistakable ridge in his sweatpants. I froze, eyes fluttering shut for a second. He was already half hard. I could feel that. Every filthy fantasy I’d ever had crashed over me at once. Mom was right there, humming at the stove, completely oblivious. The risk made it hotter. I wanted him so badly I couldn’t think straight. I glanced at her as she was busy plating pancakes and I couldn’t stop myself. Slowly, carefully, I rocked my hips, just a fraction, grinding down on that hard length. My skirt rode higher. My soaked underwear dragged over him. I bit my lip to stay quiet. Another tiny roll of my hips. Another. I spread my legs just a little, wanting more friction, wanting him closer to where I needed him most. I was riding him. Slow, secret, desperate and right under Mom’s nose. I didn’t even realize what was happening at first. I was too wrapped up in my own pleasure, until I felt the weight of his hand at my waist, it snapped me back to reality. My heart lurched. Shame, panic, akwark hit me all at once, hot and suffocating, freezing me in place. He knew. Of course he knew. I’d been obvious. Careless. Completely unaware of how far I’d gone until I was already caught. Any second now, he would pull away, create distance, make it clear how badly I’d crossed a line. And mom will know it too. OMG I was so fk up! I swallowed hard and finally dared to glance at him. His eyes were dark, unreadable. He leaned in, breath hot against my ear. “You’re doing a great job, baby girl. ” he whispered, so low only I could hear. “Don’t stop.”