Bred By My Mom's Dead Husband(2)

Aunt Claire showed up at exactly noon, looking like she’d stepped out of a magazine.

Cream silk blouse that clung to every curve, navy pencil skirt hugging her hips, heels that clicked like she owned the place. Her dark hair was swept up in a loose chignon, lips painted deep red, perfume heavy and expensive. She looked exactly like the kind of woman men like Ethan would notice. She was polished, confident, and available.

I hated her on sight.

She hugged me first, all fake sympathy and “poor sweet Lily,” then turned to Ethan.

He was dressed up too in a charcoal button-down rolled to the elbows, dark jeans that fit him just right, hair still damp from the shower. He looked good. Too good. She smiled at him like she’d already won.

I wanted to claw her eyes out.

The table was set beautifully—Mom’s good china, crystal glasses, the roast I’d helped Ethan prepare earlier. I’d insisted on cooking with him, standing close while he chopped vegetables, brushing against him “accidentally” when I reached for spices.

I’d also done something else.

When Claire wasn’t looking, I’d slipped a generous pinch of the ghost pepper spice mix Ethan loved into her serving of the sauce. The same spice she’d always complained about at family dinners—“too hot, too much, I can’t handle it.” She would always say.

She hated it while He adored it.

I smiled sweetly as I plated her food.

Lunch started politely.

Claire complimented Ethan’s cooking, laughed at his jokes, touched his forearm when she spoke. Every time her fingers grazed him, my stomach twisted with something dark and possessive.

Then she took her first bite.

Her eyes widened.

She coughed once—politely—then harder.

Tears sprang to her eyes. She grabbed her water glass, gulping it down, but the heat only spread.

Her face turned red, then blotchy.

She coughed again,louder this time. Some remnants in her mouth landed on my sweet daddy Ethan. She was choking.

Ethan jumped up, concerned. “Claire? Are you okay?”

She waved him off, gasping. “Too… spicy… I’m so sorry…”

Another cough,another remnant from her mouth landed on his shirt. She stood, clutching her throat, tears streaming.

“I…I need to go. This is so embarrassing.”

I watched her flee, heels clacking, face flushed with shame.

Ethan followed her to the door, worried, offering water, offering to drive her home.

She refused and practically ran to her car.

When the front door closed, Ethan turned back to me, frowning.

“That was strange. I used the same spice I always do.”

I shrugged, innocent. “Maybe she’s getting sensitive in her old age.”

He gave me a long look,there was something unreadable in his eyes,then sighed. “Maybe.”

The rest of the day was quiet. He worked in the garage.

I stayed inside, replaying the way Claire had fled, the way Ethan had looked at me when he came back inside,like he knew something but wasn’t sure what.

Night fell arrived. Thunder rolled in around eleven, low and rumbling, the kind that shakes the windows. Lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the empty house.

I couldn’t sleep.

The storm was loud, but it wasn’t the thunder keeping me awake.

It was the thought of him alone in the master bedroom, in the bed he used to share with Mom. The bed I’d started imagining myself in.

I wait another minute, listening to the rain lash the roof.

Then I slip out of bed, bare feet silent on the hardwood, and pad down the hallway to his room.

The door is cracked open, the way it always is when he knows I might need him.

I push it wider.

Ethan is sitting up in bed, reading lamp on, glasses perched on his nose, looking every bit the handsome, grieving widower. His chest is bare under the sheet, silver-streaked hair slightly mussed, shoulders broad against the headboard.

He looks up when I step inside.

“Lily?” His voice is soft, concerned. “You okay?”

I nod, hugging myself. “The storm. It’s loud. Like old times.”

He hesitates,just a second,then pulls back the covers. “Come here, sweetheart.”

I crawl in without hesitation, sliding under the sheet and curling into his side. His arm wraps around me automatically, pulling me close. I tuck my face into his neck, breathing him in the warm skin, clean soap and the faint trace of the cologne he wore for dinner.

His heart beats steady against my cheek. I press closer, letting my leg drape over his thigh.

He tenses slightly. “Lily…”

“Just like old times,” I whisper, voice small. “When I was scared of thunder.”

He exhales, hand rubbing slow circles on my back. “You’re not a little girl anymore.”

I know what he means. I also know he can feel the way my body has changed,my breasts soft against his side, my hip brushing his, my bare thigh sliding higher.

The storm rages outside. Lightning flashes, illuminating the room in stark white. Thunder rolls so loud the windows rattle.

I shift again,deliberately this time,letting my leg slide higher, my knee brushing the growing hardness under the sheet.

He inhales sharply. “Lily. Stop.”

But his hand doesn’t push me away. It just stills on my back.

I rock my hips,just a tiny movement,grinding slowly against his thigh. The friction sends sparks up my spine. I’m already wet from earlier, from the kitchen, from the thought of him.

“Lily,” he warns again, voice rougher now. “We can’t.”

I lift my head, looking up at him through my lashes. “Can’t what?”

His jaw clenches. “You know what.”

I grind again, slowly, deliberately, letting him feel every inch of me pressing against him. “I just want to be close to you. Like Mom wanted us to be close.”

His eyes darken. “Your mom wanted us to be family.”

I slide my hand up his chest, fingers tracing the line of hair down the center. “We are family. Just… closer.”

He catches my wrist, holding it gently but firmly. “Lily. No.”

The word stings, but it also lights me up. The denial, the restraint. It makes me want him more.

I lean in, lips brushing his ear. “Please? Just hold me. Just let me feel you.”

His breath is ragged now. I can feel how hard he is—thick, insistent, pressing against my thigh. He wants this. He just won’t let himself have it.

He shifts, rolling me onto my back and pinning my wrists above my head with one hand. The move is sudden, dominant, and it makes my pulse spike.

“No,” he says again, voice low and final. “Not like this. Not ever.”

I stare up at him, chest heaving. “Why not?”

“Because you’re my stepdaughter,” he says, eyes burning into mine. “Because your mother trusted me. Because I’m supposed to protect you, not… not this.”

I arch under him, pressing my breasts against his chest. “What if I want this? What if I’ve wanted it for months?”

His grip tightens on my wrists. “Then you need to stop. Because I’m not strong enough to keep saying no forever.”

The admission hangs between us. It was raw and dangerous.

I lick my lips. “Then don’t.”

He groans, low and tortured, and buries his face in my neck. I feel his teeth graze my skin. He’s not biting, just pressing, like he’s fighting the urge to mark me.

“Lily,” he whispers against my throat. “You’re killing me.”

I rock my hips up again, grinding against the hard length of him trapped between us. “Then take me.”

He lifts his head, eyes wild. “No.”

One word and it sounded final.

He releases my wrists and rolls off me, onto his back, chest rising and falling hard. He pulls the sheet up to his waist, hiding how much he wants me.

“Sleep,” he says, voice strained. “Just sleep.”

I curl onto my side, facing him with a pounding heart. I’m aching, soaked, and desperate, but he said no. But that denial makes me want him even more.

I close my eyes, listening to the storm rage outside. I’m not done shooting my shot step daddy.