The living room risk

EMMA’S POV

Three days.

Three days since Reign had kicked my door shut and used me as a physical outlet for the obsession he didn’t know we shared. We hadn't spoken a word about that night.

In the daylight, we were the same bickering step-siblings we had always been, but the air between us had curdled. When we passed each other in the narrow hallway, his shoulder would brush mine with enough force to stagger me, his dark eyes lingering on the high collar of my shirt as if he could still see the marks he’d left on my skin.

He looked at me with a smirk that said he owned a piece of my soul, but he was wrong.

Reign was a distraction—a loud, crashing wave. Jordan was the deep, silent ocean I wanted to drown in.

The afternoon sun was relentless, carving long, golden rectangles across the expensive Persian rugs of the living room. It was that heavy, drowsy time of day when the house felt like it was holding its breath.

My mother had retreated upstairs nearly an hour ago, complaining of a migraine brought on by the summer heat. Reign had roared out of the driveway on his motorcycle shortly after, the fading rumble of his engine leaving a vacuum of silence behind.

I was curled up on the sofa, a book forgotten in my lap, when Jordan walked in.

He looked different when he thought no one was watching. The "over protective father" facade was gone, replaced by a weary, raw masculinity that made my throat tight.

He had discarded his suit jacket, his charcoal silk tie hanging loose around his neck. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the strong, corded muscles of his throat and the dusting of dark hair at the top of his chest. He didn't see me at first; he just sighed, a deep, tectonic sound, and sank into his oversized leather armchair.

"Quiet house today," he noted, finally noticing me. His voice was like velvet over gravel, sending a familiar shiver down my spine.

"The quietest," I murmured, sliding off the sofa. I didn't walk toward him; I stalked. Every step felt like a transgression. "Mom is out for the count, and Reign is... well, you know Reign. Chasing trouble somewhere."

I didn't stop until I was standing right in front of him. In this house, I had perfected the role of "Daddy’s Girl." It was the ultimate camouflage. It allowed me to touch him, to lean on him, to occupy his personal space in a way that would have looked scandalous for anyone else.

I sank to the floor, kneeling between his legs, and rested my chin on his knee. "You look exhausted, Jordan. Is work that bad?"

"Just meetings that could have been emails, Emma," he sighed, his large hand coming down instinctively to rest on my head. His fingers threaded through my hair, a gesture that was supposed to be paternal, but I felt the way his hand trembled slightly.

I leaned into the touch, turning my face so my cheek pressed against the firm, warm muscle of his thigh. I could smell him—the scent of cedarwood, expensive stationery, and that faint, intoxicating hint of bourbon. It was the scent of authority. The scent of a man who provided everything, but held back the one thing I truly craved.

"You work too hard for us," I whispered, my hand trailing up his leg. My fingers grazed the fine wool of his slacks, tracing the line of his quad.

I felt the shift instantly.

Jordan’s hand in my hair went still. His breathing, usually so measured and calm, hitched. Beneath my cheek, I felt the unmistakable, sudden surge of his reaction. He was hardening, right there, with his wife sleeping just thirty feet above our heads.

The adrenaline was a physical drug in my system. I looked up at him, my chin still on his knee. Jordan was staring down at me, his face a mask of warring emotions. The "gentleman" was losing the fight to the predator I’d heard through the wall three nights ago. His pupils were blown so wide his eyes looked almost entirely black.

"Emma," he warned, his voice a low, dangerous vibration that vibrated through my very bones. "You... you should go check on your mother. See if she needs water."

"She told me not to disturb her for anything," I breathed, my hand moving higher, my palm cupping the heavy heat blooming beneath his zipper. "And I don't want to be with her. I want to be here. With you."

The air in the room became heavy, thick with the scent of impending sin. Jordan didn't push my hand away. He couldn't. His fingers tightened in my hair, almost painfully, pulling my head back so I had to look at him.

"You have no idea what you're doing," he hissed, but his hips betrayed him, bucking upward into my hand.

"I know exactly what I'm doing, Daddy," I countered, the word hitting him like a physical blow.

I reached for his belt, the metallic click of the buckle sounding like a gunshot in the silent room. My heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs, the fear of being caught only making the fire in my gut burn hotter. I slid his briefs down, and he finally let out a choked, muffled sound of surrender.

He was massive—thick, pulsing, and hot enough to burn. He was everything I had imagined and more.

I didn't hesitate. I leaned forward, packed my hair up in a loose ponytail and took him into my mouth, the velvet heat of him overwhelming my senses.

Jordan’s head slammed back against the leather of the chair, a guttural groan escaping him that he desperately tried to stifle by biting his own lip. His hands flew to my shoulders, his grip bruisingly tight as he pushed me further down, his body taking over where his morals had failed.

The risk was a living thing in the room. The living room had huge, vaulted ceilings and open archways; the maid could walk in, or my mother could wake up and call down from the landing. But that was the point. I wanted to be his secret. I wanted to be the thing that made this powerful man tremble.

I worked him with a frantic, rhythmic suction, my eyes never leaving his face. I wanted to see him come apart. I wanted to see the moment Jordan Blackwood forgot he was a husband and remembered he was a man.

He groaned again, a sound of pure agony and ecstasy. He reached down, grabbing my waist with those huge, capable hands, and hauled me up. In a blurred motion of limbs and silk, he shifted us until we were in a tangled, desperate 69 position in the armchair.

I was tasting him, my tongue tracing the length of him, while he buried his face in me, his tongue rough and demanding. The synchronization was perfect—the same rhythm I’d heard through the wall, but this time, I was the one receiving it. The adrenaline made every sensation electric. I was finally claiming what was mine.

Then, the heavy, rhythmic thud-clack of the front door echoed through the foyer.

"Emma? I forgot my sunhat!"

My mother’s voice. She wasn't upstairs. She must have slipped out the back door for the garden and come back through the front.

The world stopped. Jordan’s heart was drumming against my chest like a cornered animal. We were a mess of exposed skin and frantic breathing, tangled in a chair that faced the very archway she was about to walk through.

"In the living room, darling!" she called out, her footsteps clicking closer on the hardwood.

Jordan’s eyes met mine, wide with a terrifying blend of horror and lingering, dark lust. We had seconds. Maybe less.