CHAPTER 3: MY STEPDADDY GOT ON HIS KNEES AND RUINED ME -

He pulls my shorts down slow.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Like he’s unwrapping something he’s been thinking about for a long time and he wants to remember every second. The fabric drags over my thighs, my knees, my ankles, and then they’re gone, tossed somewhere behind him without a glance, and I’m sitting on the edge of my bed in just a tank top and nothing else.

He looks at me.

Not at my face. Between my legs. And the way he looks, jaw tight, nostrils flaring, eyes tracing every detail, makes me feel more naked than I’ve ever been in my life. I’m swollen. I can feel it. Puffy and slick and exposed, and the cool air of the room hits my wetness and I shiver.

“Jesus,” he mutters. Low. Almost to himself. “Look at this mess.”

His thumbs press into my inner thighs and spread me open wider and I make a sound, high and sharp and involuntary, because nobody has ever looked at me like this. Like I’m something to be studied. Consumed.

“All this from watching me through a door?” His thumb drags through my slit, root to clit, one slow stroke, and my hips jerk off the bed. He catches me with his other hand, pressing my hip down. Holding me still. “Soaked. Fucking dripping. You were this wet in the hallway?”

“Yes.” I can barely get the word out.

“Touching yourself to your stepfather.” He says it like he’s tasting the words. Like the filth of it turns him on as much as it turns me on. His thumb circles my clit, featherlight, teasing, not enough, and I whimper. “How long have you been doing that? Touching yourself thinking about me?”

“I haven’t—”

“Don’t lie to me.” The pressure on my clit increases. Just slightly. Just enough to make my breath stutter. “I’ve seen the way you look at me across the dinner table. The way you cross your legs when I talk. How long?”

My pride holds for about three more seconds of his thumb working slow circles against me before it collapses entirely.

“Since the wedding,” I whisper. “Since I met you.”

He groans. It comes from somewhere deep in his chest, raw and animal, and his forehead drops against my inner thigh. His breath is hot on my skin and I can feel his mouth right there, inches from where I need him, and I’m shaking.

“A month,” he says against my thigh. “You’ve been sleeping down the hall from me for a month, getting yourself off to the thought of me, and you had the nerve to call my performance average.”

“It was a—”

“I know what it was.” He lifts his head and the look on his face makes my stomach flip. Dark. Focused. A man with a point to prove. “You wanted to see what I’d do. So watch.”

His mouth closes over my pussy and my hand flies to his hair.

The sound that tears out of me is obscene. Loud and broken and grateful, because his tongue is wide and flat and hot and he licks into me like he’s starving. Not tentative. Not careful. He eats me like this is what he was built for, messy, wet, his jaw working, his nose grinding against my clit while his tongue fucks into me.

“Oh my, fuck, Dominic—”

He pulls back just enough to speak and his lips are shining. “Say it again.”

“Dominic—”

“No.” His tongue flicks my clit and I sob. “Say what I am.”

I know what he wants. I know exactly what he wants, and the sick part is that saying it makes me wetter.

“Daddy.” It comes out broken. Desperate. “Oh god, Daddy—”