Bred By My Mom's Dead Husband(3)

The morning light pours through the kitchen windows like it’s trying to wash away last night’s storm and last night’s sins.

I’m standing at the counter in nothing but Ethan’s old flannel shirt. It’s soft, faded blue, and it smells like him—woodsmoke, clean laundry, and that faint trace of his skin that makes my knees weak. The sleeves hang past my fingers, the hem brushes the tops of my thighs, barely covering my ass. No bra. No panties. Just the shirt and the memory of his body pinning mine to the mattress last night, telling me no while his cock throbbed against me.

I’m making breakfast.

Pancakes, bacon and coffee. The kind of normalcy that feels like a lie.

Ethan walks in barefoot, wearing gray sweatpants and a plain white T-shirt that clings to his shoulders and chest. His hair is still damp from the shower, silver streaks catching the light. He stops in the doorway, eyes locking on me.

I feel the shift in the air like a physical touch.

His gaze drops,slowly, from my face to the way the shirt drapes over my breasts, the way the hem rides up when I reach for the spatula. I know he can see the curve of my ass peeking out. I know he can tell I’m bare underneath.

He swallows hard. “Morning.”

“Morning,” I reply, voice soft, innocent. I turn back to the stove, letting the shirt lift just a little higher as I flip a pancake.

He steps closer. Too close. His chest brushes my back when he reaches past me for a mug. I feel the heat of him, the hard ridge of his body, and I press back,just enough to let him feel my ass against his hips.

He freezes. I don’t move.

“Lily,” he says, low and rough. “You shouldn’t be wearing that.”

I turn my head slightly, looking at him over my shoulder. “It’s just your shirt.”

His jaw clenches. “It’s not just a shirt when you’re not wearing anything underneath.”

My heart slams against my ribs. I set the spatula down and turn fully to face him, leaning back against the counter so the shirt rides up even more. His eyes drop to my thighs, then snap back to my face.

“You noticed,” I whisper.

He exhales sharply. “I’m trying not to.”

“Why?” I ask, voice trembling. “Why fight it?”

He steps closer, caging me against the counter. His hands grip the edge on either side of me, knuckles white. “Because you’re my stepdaughter.”

“I’m twenty,” I say. “I’m not a child. And I’ve wanted you for months.”

His eyes darken. “Lily…”

“I’m obsessed with you,” I confess, the words spilling out like water over a dam. “I think about you all the time. When I touch myself. When I’m alone. When I’m right here in this house. I can’t stop.”

He groans, low and tortured, forehead dropping to mine. “You can’t say things like that.”

“I have to,” I whisper. “Because I’m scared you’ll want someone else. Like Claire.”

His head snaps up. “Claire?”

“I saw how she looked at you yesterday,” I say, voice shaking with anger and fear. “And Mom always said you two would be perfect together. If she comes back, if she touches you, if you let her…”

He cuts me off, voice rough. “I don’t want Claire.”

My breath catches. “Then who do you want?”

He looks at me,really looks at me. His eyes trace my face, my lips, the way the shirt clings to my breasts. “I’ve always seen you as more than a stepdaughter,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper. “Even when you were younger. Even when your mom was here. I tried to ignore it. I tried to be good. But you grew up, Lily. You became… beautiful. And I hated myself for noticing.”

My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. I reach up, fingers trembling, and touch his jaw. “Then stop hating yourself.”

He closes his eyes, leaning into my touch like it hurts. “I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can,” I whisper. “Just once. Just kiss me step daddy.”

His eyes open,and they are dark, conflicted and burning.Then he snaps.

His mouth crashes into mine—hard, desperate, guilty. It’s not gentle, it’s hungry. His beard scrapes my chin, his tongue pushes past my lips, claiming me like he’s been starving for this since the day he married my mom. I moan into his mouth, hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. He tastes like coffee and sin, like everything I’ve been craving.

One of his hands slides to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair, tilting my head so he can go deeper. The other hand grips my hip, yanking me against him until I feel how hard he is—thick, hot, pressing against my bare stomach through his sweatpants.

I whimper, grinding against him, the friction making me slick and desperate.

He groans against my lips, kissing me harder, tongue stroking mine in filthy, possessive sweeps. His hand slides down to my ass, squeezing, lifting me just enough to set me on the counter. My legs wrap around his waist automatically, pulling him between my thighs.

The kiss turns sloppy, our teeth clashing, breaths mingling, wet and loud in the quiet kitchen.

I can feel him throbbing against me, right there, separated only by thin fabric. I rock my hips, rubbing myself against him, chasing the pressure.

He breaks the kiss with a ragged gasp, forehead pressed to mine. “Fuck, Lily. We can’t…”

“Stepdaddy,you kiss so good! Please,” I beg, voice wrecked. “Just a little more.”

His hand slides under the shirt, cupping my breast, thumb brushing my nipple. I arch into his touch, moaning his name.

He kisses me again, slower this time, deeper, savoring. His tongue strokes mine like he’s memorizing the taste. His hand kneads my breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers until I’m trembling.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes are wild, pupils blown.

“I need to stop,” he says, voice hoarse. “But fuck, I can’t.”I nod, breathless, but I don’t let go.

He lifts me off the counter in one smooth motion, cradling me against his chest like I weigh nothing. My legs wrap around his waist, arms around his neck.

He carries me upstairs slowly, every step pressing me tighter against his erection.

When we reach his bedroom, he pauses in the doorway, looking down at me with something like awe and torment.

Then he steps inside and shuts the door.