Book 1;Stepdady Secret Touch

The sitting room lamp cast a weak golden pool across the coffee table, barely enough light for the form I was trying to fill out. Scholarship application. Another attempt to claw my way out of this house and the confusing mess my life had become since Mason entered it. Twenty-two years old, and I still felt like I was drowning in my own skin.

The house hadn’t been quiet since he moved in. Tonight was no exception.

Even with my headphones on, I could hear them. The rhythmic squeak of the bedframe. My mother’s breathy gasps that rose and fell like a tide. Then her voice, low and dripping with lust: “Mmmh… harder, Mason.”

I yanked the headphones off, cheeks burning. My pen dug into the paper hard enough to tear it. Focus, Zoe.But focus was impossible when every moan reminded me exactly what was happening upstairs. Madison my elegant, always-composed mother was losing herself again. And Mason… God, Mason.

I stood up too fast, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. Anger and something far more dangerous twisted in my chest. I marched up the stairs before I could talk myself out of it, bare feet silent on the carpet. Their bedroom door was closed, a thin slice of warm light spilling into the hallway like an invitation I knew I shouldn’t accept.

I raised my fist to knock.

The door swung open wider at the lightest touch.

Madison was on all fours near the edge of the bed, gripping the sheets tightly, her back arched. Mason stood behind her, powerful thighs flexing as he drove into her with deep, controlled strokes. His large hand was fisted in her hair, pulling just enough to make her moan louder. Sweat glistened on his bare chest and abs those damn abs I had no business noticing.

“Umm… sorry,” I stammered, slapping a hand over my eyes. The image was already burned behind my eyelids. “I didn’t mean”

“Zoe,” Madison’s voice came out hoarse, breathless, edged with something almost amused. “For heaven’s sake, go get laid and find something useful to do with your life, sweetheart.”

The words stung. Heat flooded my face shame, yes, but also a sharp spike of something else. Jealousy? Longing? I peeked through my fingers just enough to see Mason watching me. His dark eyes locked onto mine over my mother’s shoulder. He didn’t stop moving. If anything, his pace slowed into something more deliberate, more sensual, as if he wanted me to see every inch of what he was doing to her.

That look. It wasn’t new. He’d been giving me versions of it for months lingering glances when Madison wasn’t watching, a brush of his hand that lasted too long, a quiet intensity that made my stomach tighten. It wasn’t fatherly. 

I backed out, pulling the door shut with trembling fingers. The latch clicked, but the sounds continued the wet slap of skin, my mother’s rising cries, Mason’s low groans of satisfaction. I pressed my back against the wall, thighs squeezed together, trying to ignore the  heat building between my legs.

Lord, help me.

Back in the sitting room, the form lay forgotten. I curled up on the couch, knees drawn to my chest. Mason was twice my age. Strong, commanding, successful everything my mother had needed after my father left. He treated her like a queen in public and like his personal obsession behind closed doors. I should have been happy for her. Instead, I kept imagining what those rough hands would feel like on my skin.

I hated myself for it.

The itch started again. That restless ache low in my belly. I slipped one hand under the waistband of my soft cotton shorts, fingers gliding over smooth, already-damp skin. Just a little relief, I told myself. Just enough to take the edge off. My eyes fluttered shut as I circled the sensitive bud, biting my lip to stay quiet. In my mind, it wasn’t my own fingers. It was his. Thick. Confident. Knowing exactly how to unravel me.

The front of my tank top felt too tight against my breasts. I arched slightly, chasing the building pressure, when the floor creaked near the doorway.

My eyes flew open.

Mason stood there, shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips. His chest still rose and fell from exertion. A faint sheen of sweat highlighted every ridge of muscle. He watched my hand, still tucked inside my shorts, with dark, unreadable eyes.

“Zoe,” he said, voice rough . 

I yanked my hand away, mortified. “I… I thought you were still…”

“With your mother?” He stepped closer, filling the room with his presence. “She’s asleep. Exhausted.” A small, dangerous smile curved his lips. “You, on the other hand, seem wide awake.”

The air between us crackled. I could smell him  clean sweat, faint cologne, and something unmistakably masculine. My body reacted before my brain could catch up, nipples tightening under the thin fabric of my tank top.

“You shouldn’t be down here like this,” he murmured, eyes tracing the flush on my cheeks, the rapid rise and fall of my chest. “Not when you’re this worked up.”

“I wasn’t” The lie died on my tongue as he closed the distance. He didn’t touch me.He simply loomed, close enough that heat radiated from his skin.

“You were watching us,” he said quietly. “Again.”

My breath hitched. Denial wouldn’t work. Not with the way my body was trembling. Not with the way his gaze made me feel stripped bare.

Mason reached out slowly, giving me every chance to pull away. His fingers brushed my jaw, tilting my face up to meet his eyes. 

“Tell me to leave, Zoe,” he whispered. “Tell me this is wrong.”

I opened my mouth, but no words came. Only a soft, needy sound that betrayed everything.

His thumb brushed my lower lip. “That’s what I thought.”

The tension stretched between us. One more inch and he would kiss me. One more second and I might beg him to.

Instead, he stepped back, leaving me aching and empty.

“Bedtime,” he said, voice low. “Before we both do something we can’t take back.”

He turned and walked away, leaving me alone with my racing heart, soaked shorts, and the terrifying realization that I didn’t want him to stop.

I wanted him to ruin me.