The Step father and His plus size obsession

Tomorrow, I was supposed to move into a gilded cage and pretend I didn't absolutely despise my new step-father.

But tonight, I just wanted to forget my own name.

The bass in the underground club was so heavy it vibrated right through the soles of my heels and settled deep in my chest.

I was sitting at the far end of the mahogany bar, nursing a ridiculously expensive bourbon, trying to melt into the shadows.

It wasn't easy, though. Not when I was wearing a dress that was practically painted on.

It was emerald green, with a sweetheart neckline that pushed my heavy breasts up to my collarbone, and a skirt that clung desperately to my thick thighs and soft waist.

I knew exactly what I was doing. I wasn't some stick-thin, fragile socialite like the other girls my mom dragged to charity galas.

I was built for sin, with curves that demanded attention, and for once, I actually wanted men to stare. I wanted to feel dangerous. I wanted to feel like I had some control over my own body before Arthur Sterling claimed it for his household.

"You look like you're either plotting a murder, or about to make a really spectacular bad decision."

The voice was a low, rough rasp that cut right through the thumping music. I turned my head, and the breath literally hitched in my throat.

He was sitting on the stool next to mine, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him. He didn't look like the usual trust-fund babies that frequented this place. He was wearing a dark, fitted leather jacket over a black tee, and the sleeves were pushed up to reveal thick, intricate ink creeping up his forearms. His jaw was covered in dark stubble, and his hair was messy, like he’d just run his hands through it a dozen times.

But it was his eyes that pinned me to my seat. They were dark, heavy, and tracking the rise and fall of my chest with a predatory focus that made my skin flush hot.

"I'm just drinking my bourbon," I managed to say, trying to keep my voice steady even though my heart was suddenly hammering against my ribs. "Is that a crime in this place?"

The corner of his mouth twitched up into a wicked, asymmetrical smirk. "Around here? Probably."

He didn't move away. Instead, he shifted closer, his knee brushing against the bare skin of my thigh. A jolt of pure electricity shot straight down to my core, making my panties instantly dampen. I should have pulled away. I should have grabbed my drink and walked out. But the smell of him—smoke, expensive whiskey, and something dark and purely masculine—was intoxicating.

He raised a hand, signaling the bartender without breaking eye contact with me. "Get the lady another one. Put it on my tab."

"I didn't ask for a drink," I said, though I didn't pull my leg away from his.

"You didn't ask for me to sit here, either," he countered, his voice dropping an octave, turning into a rough purr that sent shivers down my spine. "But you didn't move away."

He was right. I was completely frozen, caught in the gravity of him. He reached out, his large, calloused fingers lightly tracing the bare strap of my dress where it rested on my shoulder. The contrast of his rough skin against my soft flesh made me gasp softly. He didn't just look at my curves; his eyes mapped them out, heavy and dark, like he was already planning exactly how he was going to ruin me.

"What's your name?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. The noise of the club was deafening, but the space between us felt entirely isolated.

He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. "Does it matter?" he murmured, his breath hot against my neck. "By the time the sun comes up, you're not going to be thinking about my name."

My stomach did a violent flip. He pulled back just enough to look at my mouth, his gaze dropping to my lips before dragging back up to my eyes. The raw, unfiltered hunger in his expression made my thighs clench together. He wasn't playing games. He wanted me, and he wanted me right now.

"I have to be somewhere tomorrow," I breathed out, a weak, half-hearted protest. "I'm moving."

His hand slid from my shoulder down to my waist, his large palm spanning the soft curve of my hip, his thumb pressing into the fabric of my dress. The grip was firm, possessive, and it made my head spin.

"Then you better make tonight count," he said, his voice a dark command. He stood up, tossing a black card onto the bar, and held his hand out to me. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

I looked at his hand, then up at his face. Every rational thought in my brain was screaming at me to say no, to remember the massive mansion waiting for me tomorrow and the terrifying step-father who was going to run my life. But the heavy, throbbing ache between my legs was louder.

I placed my hand in his.

His fingers curled around mine, tight and warm, and he led me away from the bar, toward the secluded VIP elevators at the back of the club. The hallway was dimly lit and completely empty, the thumping bass of the club fading into a dull roar behind us.

He didn't say a word as he pressed the button for the top floor. The metal doors slid open, and he pulled me inside, hitting the button for the private suites.

The doors clicked shut, sealing us in the quiet, mirrored box. Before I could even catch my breath, he stepped into my space, crowding me against the cool glass of the mirror.

His hands came up to frame my face, his thumbs tracing my cheekbones, and then he leaned down, his mouth hovering just a millimeter from mine.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered, his eyes searching mine, dark and blown wide with lust. "Tell me to walk away right now, because if this door opens upstairs, I'm not letting you go."

My lips parted, but no words came out. I just stared up at him, my chest heaving, completely trapped in his gravity.

And then, his phone buzzed loudly in his pocket.