Crossing the Line

Elena hadn’t been able to sleep all night. The echoes of Adrian’s touch, the memory of his lips brushing so close to hers, the dangerous heat in his eyes—it all haunted her in the dark silence of her bedroom. Richard had been snoring beside her, oblivious, while she lay wide awake, torn between guilt and longing.

She told herself again and again that it had to stop. Whatever this was, whatever dangerous game they had begun to play—it needed to end before it consumed her. He was her stepson, her husband’s child. She was supposed to be the respectable wife, the perfect stepmother.

But then morning came, and she found herself in the kitchen, robe tied loosely around her waist, and there he was.

Adrian. Leaning against the counter like he owned the place, shirtless, a glass of juice in his hand. His dark hair was damp from the shower, and droplets of water slid down his chest, disappearing into the waistband of his sweatpants.

Her throat went dry.

“Morning,” he drawled, his lips curving into that infuriatingly confident smirk. “You didn’t sleep much, did you?”

She froze, fingers tightening around the mug she’d been holding. “What are you talking about?” she asked sharply.

He took a slow sip of his juice, eyes locked on hers over the rim of the glass. “I heard you. Tossing and turning. Restless. Thinking about me, maybe?”

Her stomach clenched, heat rushing to her cheeks. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped, but her voice lacked its usual edge.

Adrian set his glass down and stepped closer, closing the space between them with that lazy, predatory confidence that made her knees weaken. “You can keep lying to yourself if you want. But I know you feel it too.”

She backed up, pressing against the counter, heart hammering in her chest. “This is wrong, Adrian. You’re my—”

“Step-son,” he finished for her, his tone mocking, daring. “Not your blood. Not your real child. Just the man who can give you what he doesn’t.” He jerked his chin toward the hallway, where Richard’s voice echoed faintly as he took a phone call in his office.

Elena’s breath hitched. She hated the truth in his words, hated the fire in her body that flared every time he was near.

He reached out, fingers brushing her wrist. The touch was electric, burning through her skin. She should have pulled away. She should have slapped him, screamed at him, anything.

Instead, she stood frozen.

“I dreamt about you last night,” Adrian murmured, his voice low, intimate. “I dreamt about your lips. About the way you’d sound if you moaned my name.”

Her knees nearly buckled. “Stop,” she whispered, but her voice cracked, trembling with weakness.

“Tell me you don’t want me,” he challenged, his face inches from hers, his breath hot against her skin. “Look me in the eyes and tell me you haven’t thought about it. That you don’t wake up aching for something more than what he gives you.”

Her lips parted, but no words came out. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, betraying her.

Adrian’s smile turned dark, victorious. He leaned in, brushing his lips along the curve of her jaw. She shuddered violently, biting her lip to stop the whimper threatening to escape.

She should have shoved him away. She should have run.

But instead, she tilted her head—just slightly, just enough—and in that moment of surrender, he caught her mouth with his.

The kiss was fire.

It was raw, hungry, and forbidden, everything she’d tried to deny bursting free in a single, reckless act. His hand slid into her hair, pulling her closer, while her trembling hands gripped his bare shoulders. The taste of him flooded her senses, intoxicating and wild.

When they broke apart, both breathless, Elena stared at him in horror at what they’d done.

“We can’t,” she gasped, her voice shaking. “God, Adrian, we can’t.”

But Adrian only smirked, brushing his thumb across her swollen bottom lip. “We already did.”