One night with my step daddy 5

Maya’s POV

Dinner that night was torture dressed up as normalcy.

Mom chattered about wedding plans, honeymoon ideas, the new house they were looking at. Matthew sat across from me at the table, sleeves rolled to his elbows, fork moving with calm precision while he answered her in that low, steady voice. Every time his eyes flicked to mine, it felt like a hand sliding up my thigh under the table. He didn’t touch me. He didn’t need to. The memory of last night did the work for him—his cock stretching me against cold glass, his teeth on my shoulder, the way he’d growled my name like a curse and a prayer.

I excused myself early. Said I had a headache. Mom clucked sympathetically and told me to rest. Matthew’s gaze followed me up the stairs, heavy and unreadable.

I didn’t go to my room.

I went to the guest bathroom at the end of the hall—the one with the lock that actually works and the window that overlooks the backyard. I locked the door, leaned against the sink, and stared at my reflection. Lips still bruised. Eyes too bright. Body humming like a live wire.

Ten minutes later, a soft knock.

I didn’t answer.

The knob turned anyway. He’d picked the lock. Of course he had.

Matthew stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and flipped the lock again. The click sounded obscene in the quiet.

We didn’t speak.

He crossed the small space in two strides, hands finding my hips, spinning me until my back hit the sink. His mouth was on mine before I could breathe—hard, hungry, tasting of the wine he’d been sipping downstairs and the forbidden thing we both knew we were.

I moaned into the kiss, fingers already yanking at his shirt, popping buttons. He growled low in his throat, shoved my dress up around my waist, and hooked my panties to the side. No preamble. No gentleness. Just two fingers plunging inside me, curling hard, finding that spot that made my knees buckle.

“You’ve been dripping since breakfast,” he rasped against my mouth. “I could smell you across the table.”

“Shut up,” I hissed, but my hips rolled into his hand anyway, chasing the friction.

He laughed—dark, rough—and pumped his fingers faster. “You’re so fucking wet for your stepdad, Maya. Say it.”

The word twisted in my gut, filthy and electric. I bit his lip hard enough to taste copper. “Fuck you.”

He pulled his fingers out, spun me around, and bent me over the sink. My palms slapped the cold porcelain. In the mirror I watched him—jaw tight, eyes black with want—as he freed himself from his pants. Thick. Hard. Still glistening from how ready he was.

He didn’t tease this time.

One brutal thrust and he was buried to the hilt, stretching me so wide I gasped, forehead dropping to the mirror. The angle was deep, punishing. Every slam of his hips rattled the faucet, made my breasts bounce against my dress.

“Look at yourself,” he ordered, voice gravel. One hand wrapped around my throat—not choking, just holding—while the other gripped my hip hard enough to leave fingerprints. “Look at how you take me. Look at how fucking desperate you are.”

I did. I watched my own face contort—mouth open, eyes glassy—as he fucked me like he hated me and needed me in equal measure. The slap of skin echoed off the tiles. My moans came too loud; he clamped his hand over my mouth.

“Quiet, darlin’. Your mom’s downstairs planning our wedding.”

The words were cruel. Perfect. They sent a fresh gush of wetness down my thighs.

He felt it. Groaned. Thrust harder. “You like that, don’t you? Knowing I’m going to marry her while I’m balls-deep in her daughter. Knowing every time I kiss her goodnight, I’ll be tasting you on my tongue.”

I clenched around him, hard, trembling on the edge. He laughed low, vicious.

“Come for me, Maya. Come on your stepdad’s cock while she waits for me to bring her coffee.”

That did it.

The orgasm hit like a fist—sharp, violent, ripping through me until my legs shook and tears pricked my eyes. I bit down on his palm to muffle the cry. He didn’t stop. Kept pounding through it, drawing it out until I was whimpering, oversensitive, begging.

He pulled out at the last second, spun me around, and pushed me to my knees.

“Open.”

I did.

He stroked himself twice, three times—rough, fast—and came across my tongue, my lips, my chin. Hot pulses that marked me while I looked up at him, wrecked and defiant.

He wiped a thumb across my bottom lip, smearing it, then pushed it into my mouth. I sucked it clean without breaking eye contact.

For a long second we just breathed—sweat-slick, panting, the bathroom thick with sex and sin.

Then he tucked himself away, fixed his shirt, and leaned down to brush the softest kiss against my forehead. Almost tender.

“Get cleaned up,” he murmured. “I’ll be back downstairs in five. Don’t keep your mother waiting.”

He left me there on the tile floor, dress rucked up, his taste still in my mouth, his come drying on my skin.

I stared at the closed door.

My heart hammered.

My body still trembled.

And somewhere deep inside, the worst, hungriest part of me smiled.

Because this wasn’t the end.

This was just the first night of the rest of our ruin.

And I couldn’t wait to burn with him again.