Claiming My Bratty Stepdaughter(5)

The next morning, I woke to sun streaming through the tent. Richard was already gone.

I found him outside making coffee on a camp stove. He handed me a cup without speaking. We stood there drinking in silence, watching the lake glitter in the daylight.

“We should swim,” he said.

“It’s freezing.”

“So?”

I knew what he was doing. The testing. The pushing. I grabbed my bikini from my bag anyway.

It was the smallest one I owned… red with thin straps. The kind that left little to the imagination. I put it on and walked past him without looking.

The water was cold enough to steal my breath. I waded in, feeling his eyes on me the entire time. My body reacted instantly from the cold. Or from him watching. Probably both.

“Go deeper.”

I did. The water came up to my waist, then my chest. I could feel every ripple of fabric against my skin. Could feel the weight of his gaze even from shore.

He waded in after me. The water barely slowed him down. He moved like he owned the lake.

“Don’t,” I said as he got closer.

“Don’t what?”

“Touch me out here.”

“No one’s around.”

“That’s not the point.”

He grabbed my wrist anyway and pulled me against him. His other hand moved to my hip, fingers pressing into the bikini fabric. I could feel the heat of him despite the cold water.

“You wore this to test me,” he said.

“I didn’t.”

“You wore this because you want me to lose control.”

My breath caught. He wasn’t wrong.

“Not here,” I said weakly.

He pulled back and released me. Stepped away. But his eyes stayed on me… hungry and dark.

We swam for an hour. I stayed in the water longer than I should have. My skin turned blue. My lips went numb. Anything to keep the distance between us.

That evening, we sat by the fire. The sky was turning purple. The air was cooling. Richard opened a bottle of wine and poured two glasses.

“To us,” he said, handing me one.

I didn’t drink to that. But I drank.

“Tell me something true,” he said.

“About what?”

“About you. About why you really resented me.”

I took another sip. The wine was good. Expensive. He always chose expensive things.

“You were always there,” I said quietly. “And my father wasn’t.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“I know. But it felt like it was. Like you replaced him. Like you were the reason he left.”

He set down his glass. Reached over and took mine, setting it aside too.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said.

“You’re married to my mother.”

“I know.”

“This is insane.”

“I know that too.”

He leaned forward and kissed me. Slow and deep. Like he had all the time in the world. Like there wasn’t a part of me screaming that this was wrong.

When he pulled back, I was shaking.

“Inside,” he said.

We moved to the tent without a word. He laid me down on the sleeping bag and undressed me slowly, kissing every new bit of skin he uncovered. My shoulders. My collarbone. The space between my breasts.

“Daddy,” I said, testing the word.

He made a low sound in his throat. His hand moved between my legs. His fingers moved against me, steady and sure. I arched against him, soft sounds leaving me.

“Say it again.”

“Daddy.”

He kept touching me until I was trembling. Then I reached for him. My hand moved over him slowly at first, then faster.

He groaned and pulled my hand away. He moved over me, pushing my legs wider. The weight of him settled between them. No teasing. Just him taking full control.

“All mine,” he said against my neck.

He started to move, strong and steady. His hand gripped my hip, lifting me. Every push made me cry out.

“Don’t stop,” I gasped.

The feeling hit fast and hard. His followed right after. He held me tight as he went still.

We stayed tangled together afterward. His hand rested on my stomach. His lips brushed my shoulder.

“No more guilt,” he said.

I didn’t argue this time.

The guilt had burnt away somewhere. What was left was pure need. Simple and absolute.

I was his.

And that was the only truth that mattered now.