Wet For Mom’s Husband(3)

Mom came back for files.

Not dinner. Not a charger. A stack of folders she had left on the kitchen island like the house was an office with a marriage attached.

Richard was already standing where a stepfather was supposed to stand. Distance. Coffee. A clean face.

I was still on the stairs with his warning soaked into me.

Do that again and I won’t stop.

“I knew I forgot them,” Mom said, breathless, smiling at both of us like we were a picture. “Alessia, be good. Richard, don’t let her starve. I’ll be late.”

She kissed his cheek.

I watched his mouth. The same mouth that had been on mine two weeks ago. The same mouth that had just told me what would happen if I pushed.

The door shut.

The garage rolled.

The house emptied out of her.

I went to my room because I was not as brave as I had sounded on that couch.

Twenty minutes.

That was all I lasted.

Twenty minutes of staring at the ceiling with my thighs pressed together, replaying the parlor, replaying baby, replaying the way his heart had slammed under my palm while his voice stayed cold. The heat didn’t die. It got louder. The house was too quiet. Too his. Too full of a man who had drawn a line and dared me to step over it.

I got up.

Not the short shirt this time.

A robe. Thin. Tied once. Nothing under it I intended to keep.

He was in the kitchen.

Sleeves rolled. Phone face down. Like a man trying to be married in an empty house.

He heard me on the stairs and didn’t turn at first.

Then he did.

The look he gave the robe was not stepfather.

“I told you to go upstairs.”

“I went.” I stepped onto the cool tile. “I came back.”

“Alessia.”

I untied the robe.

I didn’t drop it all the way. I let it hang open. Enough. The air hit my nipples, my stomach, the wet he had already put on me with nothing but a sentence. I sat on the counter like I paid rent there and opened my knees just enough to be a problem.

His jaw flexed.

“Put it on.”

“Make me.”

He came toward me slow. That was worse than fast. Fast would have been hunger. Slow was a man deciding I had used up my last easy out.

“You think because she left, this house belongs to your little revenge act.”

“I think you told me if I did it again, you wouldn’t stop.” I held his eyes. “So either you were lying, or you’re about to stop pretending you’re my dad.”

His hand closed on the back of my neck.

Not tender.

He turned me off the counter, bent me over it, and shoved the robe up my back. The marble was ice against my stomach. My ass was bare in his kitchen. My pulse went stupid.

“Count,” he said.

“Wh—”

His palm cracked across my ass.

The sound was filthy in the quiet house. Heat bloomed sharp and immediate. I gasped. He hit the other side harder.

“Count.”

“One.”

Another.

“Two.”

He spanked me until the sting turned to throb and the throb went straight between my legs. Four. Five. Six. My ass burning, my pussy dripping down my thigh, my mouth open against my own wrist so I wouldn’t moan like a girl getting exactly what she came downstairs for.

He stopped with his hand resting on the heat he’d made.

“Red enough,” he muttered. “You wanted my way. This is my way.”

He pulled me up by the hair. Not enough to hurt for real. Enough to tip my face to his.

“We do this in that bed,” he said. “Hers. Mine. You walk in there, you don’t get to call it a dare after.”

“Then take me.”

He did.

The matrimonial room smelled like her perfume and his soap. White sheets. Their wedding photo on the dresser. I wanted to smash it. I wanted to come on it. He shut the door and locked it like the lock could save either of us.

Then he went to the dresser.

Bottom drawer. A small key from his pocket. The lock looked older than the marriage. He opened it without rushing, like he had been hoping he wouldn’t need it and knew he would.

Not a shop.

A collar. Leather. Dark. Cuffs on a short chain.

He dropped them on the bed that belonged to my mother.

My stomach dropped with them.

“This is the part where you run,” he said.

His voice had gone low. Dark. Addictive. The bathroom stranger was gone. The parlor stepfather was gone. This was the man who had kept a drawer shut for years and just opened it for his wife’s daughter.

“You walk out now, we pretend today never happened. You sat on my counter. I put my hand on your ass. That’s all.” His eyes didn’t leave mine. “The moment I collar you and chain you to this bed, you don’t get to run. I fuck my women hard. And because you’ve been so fucking naughty since you walked into this house, I won’t be kind. I won’t be careful. I will fuck you harder than I have fucked your mother. Harder than I have fucked anyone in years. Until your eyes go black and the only sound you can make is moaning into her pillow, begging me to ruin you more.”

The room felt smaller.

My ass was still hot. My pussy was worse.

“Last chance, Alessia.”

I should have left.

I grinned instead.

I slid my hand between my legs, pushed two fingers through the mess he had spanked into me, and lifted them to my mouth. I licked them clean while I looked at him. Slow. Filthy. Eighteen and legal and done waiting for a man who kept stopping.

“I’ve never wanted anything more, Daddy.”

His breath went sharp on the word.

I let my wet fingers shine in the light.

“Unless you’re just scared to finish things,” I said. “Like the other night. Then yes. Ruin me.”

He picked up the collar.

The leather was warm from his hand when it hovered at my throat.

Downstairs, faint as a threat, her phone started ringing on the kitchen counter.

She had forgotten that too.

He didn’t look away from me.

The collar touched my skin.

And he still hadn’t locked it.