Claiming My Bratty Stepdaughter(7)

I couldn’t sleep.

I kept staring at the open door. Waiting. Expecting.

My head was still pounding. My stomach was still twisted. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that moment… Mom on the bed, the stranger with her, her face going white when she realized I was there. The image wouldn’t leave.

The house was silent. That was worse than screaming.

I got out of bed and crept downstairs. The living room was dark. The kitchen was empty. I could hear Mom’s door closed upstairs. She was still up there. Probably crying. Probably wondering how her life had fallen apart so fast. The floorboards creaked under my feet. I didn’t try to be quiet.

Richard was on the back porch, staring out at the dark yard. A bottle of whiskey was on the table beside him. Half empty. The night air was cool against my skin.

I didn’t plan to go out there. My feet just moved.

He heard me before I reached the door. His head turned. His jaw was still clenched. His eyes were still burning.

“You should be asleep,” he said.

“So should you.”

He didn’t argue. Just gestured to the chair beside him.

I sat. The night air was cold. I pulled my arms around myself. The wood of the chair was rough under my legs.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“For what?”

“For her. For…”

“Don’t.” His voice was sharp. “Don’t apologize for her.”

We sat in silence. The darkness felt thick. Heavy. Crickets chirped somewhere in the yard. Neither of us looked at the other.

“I knew,” he said finally. “I think I knew the whole time. The excuses. The late nights. The way she looked at me like I was nothing.”

I didn’t know what to say. My throat felt tight.

“But I didn’t leave because of you,” he said.

My chest tightened.

He turned to look at me. The porch light caught the edge of his face.

“Richard…”

My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it.

He reached out and touched my face. His hand was rough. Warm. His thumb brushed across my cheek.

“I want you,” he said.

“I’ve wanted you since the first day I saw you, Emma. But now… now I don’t have to hide it.”

“She’s still upstairs,” I whispered.

“I don’t care.”

He pulled me closer. His mouth found mine. The kiss was different from the others… not desperate or frantic. Possessive. Claiming. Slow and sure, like he had already decided this was happening.

His hand moved to my waist, pulling me out of the chair and into his lap. I straddled him, my knees on either side of his thighs. The denim of his jeans was rough against my skin.

“Tell me you want this,” he said into my mouth.

“I want it.”

“Tell me you want me.”

“I want you. Only you.”

He groaned and pulled my shirt over my head. His hands moved over my skin like he was memorizing me. Like he needed to know every inch of me was his. The night air touched my bare skin, cool against the heat of his hands.

He unzipped his jeans. I shifted against him. The weight of him settled between my legs.

I gasped. My hands gripped his shoulders.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

I did. His eyes were dark. Possessive. Completely certain.

He moved slowly at first, deep and controlled, making my entire body shake. His hand gripped my neck, tilting my head back, keeping my eyes on his. The chair creaked under us.

“You’re mine now,” he said. “Not hiding. Not in secret. Mine.”

“Yes,” I breathed.

He moved faster. His other hand gripped my hip, controlling my movements, dictating the pace. I was completely in his control, and I didn’t want anything else. Soft sounds left me with every movement.

The feeling built fast. My entire body tightened. He followed, going still with a low sound against my shoulder. His breathing was harsh in the quiet night.

We stayed like that on the porch, tangled together, breathing hard. My forehead rested against his. Neither of us moved.

Behind us, the house was silent.

My mother was upstairs in her room, alone.

And I was here. Claimed. Owned. Completely and absolutely his.

This was real now. No more hiding. No more pretending.

He’d chosen me over my mom. Over everything.

And I’d chosen him back.