One night with my step daddy 2

Maya’s POV

We fell into easy conversation the way strangers sometimes do when the whiskey is good and the night is young. Drinks kept coming, one after another, and with every sip, the edges of the world softened. Matthew had this way about him—self-assured without being loud about it, dry humor that landed just sharp enough to make me laugh, and eyes that watched me like he was already mapping every place he wanted to touch.

I knew the game. I’d played it plenty of times before. But tonight it felt different. Hotter. More dangerous.

I let my fingers trail slow circles around the rim of my glass, holding his gaze. “So tell me, Matthew Thompson… do you make it a habit of flirting with strangers in bars, or am I just lucky?”

He leaned back slightly, one elbow on the bar, studying me with that lazy half-smile. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether or not you want me to flirt with you.”

I lifted my drink, took a long, deliberate sip, and let him wait. Let the silence stretch until it buzzed between us. Finally, I set the glass down, cocked my head just so. “What if I do?”

His smile widened, slow and wicked. “Then I’d say you have excellent taste.”

I laughed—real, surprised laughter that felt good after weeks of holding everything in. “Confident, aren’t you?”

He leaned in closer, close enough that I could smell the cedar and smoke on his skin, and his voice dropped to a low rumble that slid right under my ribs. “I don’t waste time pretending I don’t want something.”

Direct. No games. No bullshit.

My pulse kicked hard.

Maybe it was the whiskey burning through my veins, or perhaps it was the way his eyes had gone darker, pupils blown wide, but suddenly I wanted to push. Wanted to see how far this could go before one of us broke.

I shifted on the stool, closing the last few inches between us. “What is it you want, Matthew?”

His gaze dropped to my mouth for a heartbeat, then back up. “Right now? I want to take you somewhere private and find out exactly how loud you get when you’re not trying to play it cool.”

Heat flooded my stomach, liquid and heavy. This was precisely what I needed—a distraction so sharp it could cut through the noise in my head. No tomorrow. No stepdad announcement waiting like a guillotine. Just this.

I reached for my drink again, letting my fingers brush his on purpose. “You talk a good game.”

His lips quirked. “I back it up, too.”

A slow, delicious thrill curled through me. “Is that so?”

“Careful, darlin’.” His voice turned rough, almost a growl. “You keep looking at me like that, and we’re gonna have a problem.”

My heart slammed against my ribs. I swallowed, set my glass down, and met his eyes head-on. “Maybe I like problems.”

He didn’t answer with words.

He stood, tossed a few bills on the bar, and extended his hand.

“Let’s get out of here.”

The rush hit me like a drug. I didn’t hesitate. I slid my fingers into his, warm and sure, and let him pull me through the crowd, past bodies and bass and neon, out into the humid night.

He paused just outside the door, turned to me, voice low. “Tell me if I’m reading this wrong.”

I curled my fingers into the front of his shirt, tugged him down until our mouths were a breath apart. “You’re not.”

His mouth crashed into mine—hard, hungry, no preamble. I sank into it, let the fire swallow me whole. His tongue swept in like he already owned me, tasting of whiskey and want, and I moaned into his mouth without shame.

He pulled back just enough to search my face, breath ragged, hand skimming my waist like he was memorizing the curve. “You sure?”

I nodded once. That was all he needed.

His fingers laced through mine, and he led me down the street, past the too-bright sign of the hotel I’d walked past a hundred times. We didn’t speak in the elevator. The silence was thick, electric. When the doors opened on the eleventh floor, he moved fast—key card, door, inside.

The second the lock clicked, the air changed.

I barely registered the room—dim light, crisp white sheets, faint scent of clean linen—before Matthew was on me again. Hands on my hips, mouth claiming mine with slow, aching hunger. He backed me against the door, body a solid wall of heat, pinning me there while he kissed me like he was starving.

“You’re eager, darlin’,” he murmured against my lips, teeth grazing my bottom lip before he sucked it into his mouth. “I like that.”

I rolled my hips against the hard length pressing into my stomach, loving the way he tensed, the way his fingers dug into my waist hard enough to bruise. “Then stop talking and do something about it.”

He chuckled, dark and low. “Oh, I plan to.”

My dress hit the floor in seconds. His shirt followed. Then my bra. His hands were everywhere—rough palms skating over my ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts, making my nipples tighten painfully.

He stilled when his thumb traced the thin, jagged scar along my left side—old, faded, but still there.

I didn’t want questions. Didn’t want pity. So I cupped his face, dragged him back to me, and kissed him with everything I had—desperate, messy, devouring.

Matthew growled into my mouth, control snapping like a frayed rope. He grabbed my waist, lifted me like I weighed nothing, and carried me to the bed. We crashed onto the mattress, his weight pressing me down, solid and intoxicating.

“Fuck, look at you,” he rasped, eyes dark and ravenous as he dragged his fingers over the damp lace between my thighs. “You really are smoking hot, darlin’.”

I arched into his touch, aching. “Then stop teasing.”

“Not a chance.”

He settled between my legs, hands gripping my hips, holding me open. Then his mouth was on me.

The first slow lick tore a gasp from my throat. His tongue circled my clit—soft, then firm—before he sucked it between his lips, and I nearly came off the bed.

“Oh fuck… Matthew…”

He groaned against me, the vibration ripping through my core. Relentless. Merciless. Tongue flicking, lips sucking, fingers digging into my thighs to keep me spread while he devoured me like I was the last thing he’d ever taste.

I threaded my fingers through his hair, hips bucking, chasing the edge. He pushed me higher, faster, until the pressure snapped and I shattered—sharp, blinding, whole body convulsing as I cried his name.

He didn’t stop. Lapped at me through every aftershock until I was trembling, oversensitive, pleading.

When he finally lifted his head, lips shiny with me, eyes blown black with hunger, he rasped, “You’re fucking perfect.”

I tasted myself on his tongue when I pulled him up to kiss me—salty, raw, filthy—and it only made me want more.

My fingers fumbled with his belt, desperate. He helped, shoving his jeans down, and then he was in my hand—thick, hot, pulsing.

“Turn over,” he ordered, voice gravel.

I obeyed.

A sharp smack landed on my ass. I gasped, the sting blooming into heat.

“Such a good girl,” he murmured, hands gripping my hips, lining himself up. The thick head teased my entrance, sliding through my slickness. “You want this?”

“Yes,” I breathed. “Please.”

He cursed low, then thrust—deep, stretching me open in one long, brutal stroke.

I moaned into the pillow, toes curling, body adjusting to the overwhelming fullness. He gave me a second, fingers bruising my hips, breath ragged against my neck.

Then he moved.

Hard. Deep. Relentless.

I met every thrust, pushing back, taking him deeper. The room filled with wet sounds, skin slapping skin, our moans tangling.

“Fuck, Maya,” he gritted out, hands sliding up my spine to grip my shoulders, driving even harder. “You feel so fucking good.”

His pace turned feral. Each thrust slammed into that spot that made lights burst behind my eyes. Fingers found my clit—rough, perfect circles—and I was gone again.

The second orgasm ripped through me, tighter and meaner than the first. I clenched around him, trembling, crying out.

He followed seconds later—growling my name, hips stuttering as he buried himself deep and came hard inside me.

For a long moment, neither of us moved—just breathing, sweat-slick skin, hearts hammering.

Then he collapsed beside me, pulling me against his chest, pressing a surprisingly soft kiss to my temple.

“I hope you know,” he murmured, voice still rough with afterglow, “that I’m not done with you yet.”

I smiled into the dark, body humming, mind blissfully quiet for the first time in months.

Tomorrow could wait.

Tonight, I was wrecked in the best possible way.

And I had no intention of stopping.