Claiming My Bratty Stepdaughter(4)

I woke to gray light filtering through the tent. Richard was already awake, lying beside me, watching me sleep.

The moment my eyes opened, I felt it. What we’d done.

“Your mother called at six,” he said quietly.

I didn’t respond. My body was sore in places I didn’t know could be sore. I could still feel him.

“She’ll call again,” he said.

Mom always did. She’d call and apologize and make promises she wouldn’t keep. And I’d be here. We’d be here. And she’d never know.

I sat up, pulling the sleeping bag around myself. My skin was sensitive to the cold air. Everything felt raw.

“We should get up,” I said.

He didn’t move. His hand reached out, thumb brushing across my cheekbone. There was something almost tender about it. Something that made my chest tight.

“Don’t,” I said, pulling away.

“Don’t what?”

“This. Whatever this is.”

“This is what we both want.”

“This is wrong, Richard.”

He sat up. Pulled on his jeans. The fabric moved over his thighs. I watched as he zipped them, then reached for his shirt. The absence of him suddenly felt worse than his presence.

“Hike with me,” he said.

“Richard…”

“Emma, please.”

* * *

The trail was narrow and slick from the storm. Pine trees towered above us. Everything smelled like earth and wet bark. We didn’t talk for the first hour. Just walked. My legs felt unsteady beneath me.

The forest was dense around us. No signs of other hikers. No marked paths. Just Richard ahead of me, moving with purpose, and me following because what else could I do?

By the time we reached the overlook, my calves burned. The lake spread out below us, dark and still. No one else around for miles. Just trees, water, sky and us.

He grabbed my wrist and pulled me against him. His other hand moved to my jeans, fingers working the button open before I could protest.

“Richard, someone could…”

“No one’s here.” He pushed the denim down just enough. His hand found me. “You’re always ready for me.”

He stayed close behind me. I braced my palms against the tree in front of us, my forehead pressing into the rough bark.

His hips moved against me, steady and purposeful. His hand gripped my throat from behind, tilting my head back. I was completely exposed. Completely vulnerable.

“If anyone came up this trail right now,” he said into my ear, his breath hot, “they’d see you like this. They’d see what a good girl you are for me.”

My breath caught. The risk made everything sharper. The fear and the need colliding.

“I want to feel you come for me,” he said, his voice rough. “Now.”

The feeling hit hard. My body tightened. He groaned and went still with me.

We stayed like that. His breathing harsh against my shoulder. His hand still gripping my throat. The world spinning around us.

Then he stepped back and pulled my jeans up. Zipped them.

We walked back down the trail in silence. Like nothing had happened. Like I wasn’t still aching for him. Like this was normal.

The forest looked different on the way back. The same trees, but threatening now. The shadows deeper. Everything felt like a secret.

When we reached the tent, the sky was starting to clear. The storm had passed. My phone was sitting on top of my bag.

It buzzed.

Mom.

Checking in! How’s the trip? Miss you guys!

I stared at the message. At the simplicity of it. At the lie required to answer it.

Richard was watching me from across the tent. His expression unreadable.

“You going to respond?” he asked.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’re having fun.”

“I am having fun.” The words tasted strange. “That’s the problem.”

He moved closer. Sat beside me. His hand found my thigh, squeezing gently.

“No more guilt,” he said.

“I can’t just…”

“You can.” His hand moved higher.

My phone buzzed again. Another message from Mom.

Richard taking good care of you?

I laughed. Actually laughed. It came out bitter.

“She has no idea,” I said.

“No.” He pulled my phone from my hand and set it aside. “She doesn’t.”

He kissed me then. Deep and slow. His hand moved between my legs again, and I forgot about the tent and the overlook and the trail. Forgot about Mom and her messages and her obliviousness.

There was only his mouth on mine and his hand moving inside my jeans and the pressure building between my legs again.

“Want me?” he asked against my lips.

“You don’t get to ask,” I said.

He smiled. Actually smiled. Like he was proud of me. Like this was exactly what he wanted.

He pushed my jeans down and moved over me. This time I didn’t resist. This time I pulled his shirt over his head and ran my hands over his chest and let him do whatever he wanted.

By the time we finished, it was late afternoon. The light was starting to shift. We lay tangled together on the sleeping bag, his arm across my waist, my head on his chest.

My phone buzzed again.

I didn’t look at it.