My StepDad wants me

I was twenty the summer Mom left for Tokyo.

Six months. A new contract, some massive consulting gig that had her flying first-class and FaceTiming us from hotel suites with views of skyscrapers I’d never see. She kissed me on the forehead, hugged Damian like he was the one deploying instead of her, and promised she’d be back before I knew it.

The house felt different the second her car disappeared down the driveway.

Bigger. Quieter. Dangerous.

Damian Knox—forty-two, former Special Forces, now the kind of man who ran private security for billionaires and governments that didn’t officially exist—was suddenly the only other person breathing in this sprawling five-bedroom prison of glass and marble.

I’d always known he was beautiful in that brutal way. Six-four, shoulders that filled doorways, hands that looked like they could snap a neck or cradle a woman until she forgot how to speak. Dark hair always kept regulation-short, a jaw sharp enough to cut yourself on, and eyes the color of gunmetal that saw everything. Mom had laughed when she introduced us four years ago: “He’s intense, sweetheart, but he’s mine.”

He’d been polite then. Distant. The perfect stepfather: paid for my college without being asked, fixed my car when it died, asked about my classes in that deep, quiet voice that made my stomach flip even when I hated admitting it.

But I wasn’t sixteen anymore.

I was twenty, home for the summer after finishing junior year, body filled out in ways that made my old bikinis feel like a dare. Sun-kissed skin, longer legs, hips that curved, breasts heavier than they used to be. I’d spent two semesters learning exactly how much power I had when I walked into a room—and exactly how little I cared about the boys who tripped over themselves trying to touch me.

None of them were him.

It started small.

I’d come downstairs in the mornings wearing nothing but an oversized T-shirt and tiny sleep shorts, pretending I didn’t know he was already up, already in the kitchen doing his protein shake routine. I’d stretch to reach a mug on the top shelf, feeling his eyes track the way the shirt rode up, exposing the bottom curve of my ass. He never said anything. Just tightened his grip on the blender until his knuckles went white.

I’d swim laps in the infinity pool at night, knowing he watched from the dark windows of his office upstairs. I’d float on my back afterward, letting the water hold me, nipples hard from the cool air, pretending I couldn’t feel the weight of his stare like a physical touch.

I told myself it was harmless. A game. Power on my side for once.

Until the night it wasn’t a game anymore.

It was a Tuesday, humid even for July, the kind of heat that made clothes feel like a punishment. I’d spent the day locked in my room finishing a paper, music loud, fan on high. By evening I was restless, skin too tight, body aching with the kind of need I refused to take care of while thinking about him again.

I gave up and went downstairs to raid the kitchen.

I didn’t bother with real clothes. Just a thin white ribbed tank—no bra—and the softest cotton boy-short panties I owned, pale pink, barely there. My hair was twisted up in a messy knot, a few damp strands clinging to my neck from the heat.

I thought he was out. His truck hadn’t been in the garage.

I was wrong.

The kitchen was dim, only the under-cabinet lights on, casting long shadows. I opened the fridge, cool air washing over my bare legs, raising goosebumps on my thighs. I bent deeper than necessary, scanning for the leftover Thai from last night, letting the cold kiss the heat between my legs.

That’s when I felt him.

Not a sound. Just the shift in the air, the way the room suddenly felt smaller, charged.

I straightened slowly and turned.

Damian was leaning against the island counter, arms folded over his bare chest, wearing nothing but black tactical pants that hung low on his hips. His skin still gleamed faintly—fresh from a workout or a shower, I couldn’t tell. A single dog tag rested in the hollow of his throat. His hair was damp, pushed back, and his eyes were locked on me like a sniper scope.

He didn’t speak at first.

Just looked.

Slowly. Thoroughly.

From my bare feet up my legs, lingering where the panties cut high on my hips, over the strip of bare stomach the tank exposed, pausing at my breasts—nipples already tight and visible through the thin fabric—then finally meeting my eyes.

The silence stretched until my pulse was roaring in my ears.

“You’re up late, Harper,” he said finally, voice low, controlled, the kind of tone that used to make new recruits flinch.

I lifted my chin, refusing to cover myself. “Couldn’t sleep. It’s hot.”

His gaze flicked down again, deliberate. “I can see that.”

Heat flooded me—embarrassment, anger, something darker and sharper. I crossed my arms under my breasts, which only pushed them higher, and his jaw tightened.

“You always walk around the house dressed like a fucking temptation?” he asked, stepping closer.

One step. Two.

I didn’t back up. Couldn’t. My spine hit the cold fridge door.

“I live here,” I said, proud that my voice didn’t shake. “I’ll wear what I want.”

He stopped just short of touching me. Close enough that I could smell him—clean sweat, cedar, gun oil, something dangerously male. Close enough that the heat radiating off his body cut through the fridge’s chill.

“You’ve been playing a dangerous game all summer,” he said quietly. “Parading around in these scraps of nothing. Bending over when you know I’m watching. Swimming naked at midnight.”

My breath caught. He’d seen that?

“I wasn’t—”

“Don’t lie to me, little girl.” His voice dropped even lower. “You wanted me to look.”

I swallowed hard. The word little girl should have pissed me off. Instead it sent a rush of liquid heat straight to my core.

He reached past me, not touching, but caging me in with one arm braced on the fridge door. His chest brushed my nipples through the tank, and I gasped at the shock of contact.

His eyes darkened.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, rough now. “Tell me to walk away, Harper, and I will.”

I should have.

Every rational part of me screamed to say it.

Instead, I whispered, “I don’t want you to.”

The air left his lungs in a slow hiss.

Then his hand was in my hair, gripping the knot at my nape, tilting my head back. Not gentle. Possessive.

He didn’t kiss me right away.

He studied my face like he was memorizing it, eyes tracing my mouth, my throat, the frantic beat of my pulse.

“You have no idea what you’re asking for,” he said against my lips, so close I felt the words more than heard them.

“Then show me,” I breathed.

That was all it took.

His mouth crashed into mine—hard, claiming, nothing soft or tentative about it. He kissed like a man who’d been holding back for years and had finally snapped. Tongue demanding entrance, teeth nipping my lower lip until I opened for him with a moan he swallowed greedily.

One hand stayed fisted in my hair, controlling the angle. The other slid down my side, rough palm dragging over my ribs, my waist, until he gripped my hip hard enough to bruise. He yanked me against him, and I felt him—thick, rigid, pressing against my stomach through the thin fabric of his pants.

I whimpered into his mouth, hands flying to his chest, nails digging into muscle. He growled and walked me backward until my ass hit the island counter, lifting me onto it without breaking the kiss.

Cold marble shocked my bare thighs. Then his hips shoved between them, spreading me open, and the heat of him was overwhelming.

He pulled back just enough to look at me—lips swollen, eyes wild.

“This doesn’t stop here,” he warned, voice ragged. “You let me touch you tonight, Harper, and I won’t be gentle next time. I’ll take everything.”

My core clenched so hard I nearly came from the words alone.

I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him closer.

“Then don’t be gentle,” I said.

His eyes flashed.

And then his mouth was on my neck, teeth scraping, tongue soothing, hand sliding up under my tank to palm my breast roughly, thumb rolling my nipple until I cried out.