Semua Bab STEP-DADDY'S SIN : Bab 1 - Bab 7

I unzip my bag and tug out the black silk dress I packed for a night like this—the one I haven’t worn in months but never stopped thinking about. I peel off my clothes, let them fall to the floor, then slide the dress over my bare skin, savoring the wicked whisper of silk as it kisses every inch of me. No bra. No panties. Just me, the dress, and the promise of trouble clinging to my skin.Tonight, I’m not just his stepdaughter.I’m his goddamn downfall.With one last look in the mirror—a wicked, dangerous woman staring back at me—I grab my stilettos and head for the door.Game on, Daddy.The dress is too tight. Too short. Too sinful.Exactly why I wore it.Black silk clings to me like a fucking second skin, whispering across every curve with every step I take. The neckline plunges like a damn invitation—deep enough to make a preacher drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness he knows he won't get. This isn’t just a dress. It's a loaded weapon. And tonight, I’m pulling the trigger

Alexander’s POVI just never realize I am the one needing protection—from her.Now?She laughs louder. Walks bolder.Moves like sin dipped in sunlight, and when she looks at me...Goddamn.It’s not safety she’s asking for anymore—it’s something else. Something that makes my blood run hot and wrong and desperate.I lean back in my chair, feeling the old leather creak under the tension thrumming in my body. I pinch the bridge of my nose, squeezing my eyes shut.“You’re losing it,” I mutter to myself, the words harsh and ugly in the quiet room. "You're the fucking adult. She’s just—"I stop.I flinch. At my own filthy thoughts.The shit swirling in my head would make a priest start smoking again.No.I’m not that man.I don’t cross lines. I don’t even fucking look at them.I build walls so high even God has to ask for permission to peek over.And then she walks in—skirts swirling, lips curling—and she doesn't just knock on the walls.She burns them the fuck down.My chest heaves like I j

Alexander's POV The sun dips low, casting a burnished gold across the pool. It shimmers like liquid fire, making the water sparkle like fucking diamonds. The whole damn view is something out of a painting. Serene. Quiet. A lie. I stand at my office window, fingers wrapped around a crystal tumbler of whiskey, the liquid burning its way down my throat—but not nearly as hard as the thoughts I keep trying—and failing—to drown. Then she steps out. Ivy. Wet. Dripping. My fingers tighten around the glass, the edge digging into my palm. That bikini. That fucking bikini. Red. Barely there. Strings. More sin than fabric. The water clings to her like it misses her already, gliding over her skin in ways I shouldn’t be watching. Ways I have no goddamn business watching. She stretches her arms over her head, slow and unbothered, like she isn’t standing there looking like a damn wet dream. Then she grabs a towel and starts running it down her body—slow. Teasing. Her hands skate over the swe