Maid for the Quadruplets

STORY TITLE: Daddy, Will You Ever Love Me?

INTRODUCTION:

Gracie thought coming home after college would mean peace. Instead, it means a suffocating summer trapped with the one man she can’t escape—her stepfather. He has always despised her, his eyes sharp with unspoken hatred, his words laced with disdain. But beneath that cruelty lies something far more dangerous… a pull she can’t resist.

Every glance is a provocation. Every silence, a dare. His touch lingers too long, his anger cuts too deep, and Emma finds herself trembling at the edge of fear and desire. The secret she has carried for years—dark, shameful, and burning—crashes against the forbidden cravings that tighten their grip with every passing night.

This is not love. It’s obsession. It’s sin wrapped in longing, punishment laced with pleasure. And once the line is crossed, there will be no turning back.

But Gracie’s story is only the beginning. This book unlocks a collection of raw, taboo-driven erotic tales—each one more daring, more dangerous, and more intoxicating than the last. For readers who crave the forbidden, who ache for the edge where desire blurs with darkness, this is your invitation.

Enjoy reading..

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A rumbling jostle pulled me out of my dream and my eyes snapped open. Someone was leaning against me, mashing me against the wall to my right. A quick glance over reminded me that I was sitting in an airplane, flying over the clouds on my way home. My assailant was an overweight gentleman sitting in the middle seat. He seemed to be occupying his own seat and half of the two seats on either side of him. I tried not to let myself get frustrated. It was probably frustrating for him, too. These airlines seriously needed to do something about accommodating people of all shapes and sizes.

Glancing out the window, I could just make out the drifting masses of cloud as the plane flew over them. It was starting to get dim outside, which told me I was almost home. My flight landed just after sunset. And with that realization my stomach started to fill with dread. This was my first trip home since I went away to college last year. My dad was going to pick me up from the airport, which I was not happy about. I mean, it made sense that he would pick me up, of course. Trying to get one of my friends to pick me up instead had proven futile. They were all busy, apparently. So, at the last minute, I had resigned myself to asking my father for his help. He grudgingly agreed, which I knew he would. That didn't make me like it, though.

You see, my father hates me. And I never understood why.

Alright, a little about myself. For starters, my name is Gracie and I'm nineteen years old. I've always been extremely short, being one of--if not the--shortest girls in my class all throughout high school. My body oddly continued growing right up until my senior year, when I finally achieved the monumental victory of reaching five feet. Well, just shy of it, but who's counting? I was proud of that accomplishment.

Last year, I dyed my brown hair blonde. My eyebrows are still dark brown, but I like the contrast. It's also very trendy these days. It's thick on my head, so I keep it long, hanging just below my shoulder blades. My hair has a slight, natural wave to it, and I've always liked how it frames my face. I've often been described as pretty, but I have a much different opinion of myself. "Cute" is probably about as far as I'd go to describe myself. My eyes are a bluish green (mostly blue) and are actually my favorite part about myself. I used to take a lot of close-up selfies of my eyes and post them on I*******m when I was in high school. My face used to be a lot rounder but changed during the past two years. Now my cheekbones are high and my face angles down toward my chin, giving me what I've heard referred to as a "heart-shaped" face. Probably the only other noteworthy feature of my face is my lips. And they are noteworthy on account of I hate them. They're too thin and curvy. I wish they were a little fuller like some of the girls at my school. One of my friends told me I should just get a "lip job". But, no. I'll keep my body exactly as it is, thank you very much.

As for the rest of me, I'm pretty skinny. While I won't divulge my actual weight, suffice it to say I have a slim build. And believe me, it takes work to keep it that way. But I like how it makes me feel to stay fit and watch what I eat. Not that I don't occasionally self-indulge with a gallon of ice cream, but that's rare. Lastly, I supposed I'll comment on my boobs. If only because they are semi-pertinent later on in the story. Embarrassingly, I wear a 32A size bra. Well, I am borderline a B-cup, but I like the snugness that an A-cup bra gives me. That is when I bother to even wear a bra at all. It was much more common for me to wear a bra when I was twelve than it had been the past two years. In contrast to liking how the snug 32A felt when I wrapped it around my bosom, the freedom of not having a bra at all was even more appealing.

The captain announced that we were heading into our final descent. Glancing once more to the gentleman I was wedged against to my left, I was thankful that I didn't have to pee. It would take me ten minutes to get out of my seat as is. Staring out the window again, I watched the world slowly dim into nighttime while my mind tossed memories and thoughts around like a washing machine. Most of them centered on my father, much to my dismay. For nearly a year, I had managed not to think much of him, having thoroughly invested myself into my first year at college. But now that I was minutes away from encountering him again, I couldn't help it.

Being the oldest of three sisters, I probably knew him better than the other two. Briefly, I thought of my sisters. I was excited to see them, even if the reunion would be debased by the tumultuous relationship I had with my father. Sighing toward the window, the glass momentarily hazed over with condensation from my breath. I reached up and drew a six-pointed star made out of three infinity symbols. It was a symbol my sisters and I had come up with years ago to show our unity. Smiling at the symbol as it slowly faded, my thoughts returned to them.

Monica was a fifteen-year-old brunette with the attitude of a redhead. She wasn't exactly a brat. She was just... intense. About everything. I had to give her credit, though. When she got interested in something, she put her all into it. That was how she had learned to play piano when she was eight. I had tried, but just didn't have the knack. And then there was Ally. Innocent, eleven-year-old Ally. She was the little jewel of the family. If the word "innocence" had a picture in the dictionary, it would show her. I used to envy her for her ability to have a flat, firm belly without a lick of effort. She was, however, an oddity as she was the only one of the three of us with strawberry blonde hair. Nobody was sure where she got it from, but my mom had guessed it came from someone on her side of the family. She was daddy's little girl, that was for sure.