All Chapters of MY TABOO STEP DADDY : Chapter 161 - Chapter 170

[CONTENT WARNING ACKNOWLEDGMENT] This chapter contains: maternal abuse, psychological manipulation, non-consensual touching (non-sexual but violating), references to trafficking/rape, gaslighting, power play, and dark family dynamics proceeding with execution.[CARLTON'S POV]The water doesn't wash it off.I scrub until my skin turns raw, pink and angry under the scalding spray, but I can still feel him. Tristan's fingerprints branded into my hips. His cum dried in places I didn't know cum could reach. The phantom weight of his body pinning me down.The soap smells like cedar and smoke. His soap because everything in this penthouse is his. Including me.I grab the generic hotel bar from the back of the cabinet instead. Something plain. Something that doesn't smell like tobacco and sex and poor life choices.By the time I step out, my skin is scrubbed almost bloody and I still don't feel clean.The robe I choose is simple: Navy blue, no embroidery, no initials. Not one of Tristan's.

[CARLTON’S POV] [FLASHBACK: TWELVE YEARS OLD CARLTON] The bar looks higher than it did yesterday. I know it is the same bar because Coach Reyes measured it himself this morning with the yellow tape measure he keeps in his back pocket, and he said the same thing he says every time which is that the bar does not lie and neither do your legs. But it looks higher. It looks like something that belongs on a building, not a sports field, and I am supposed to run at it and throw my whole entire body over it like that is a normal thing a person does on a Saturday. The stands are full. That is the part nobody warned me about properly. Mom said there would be people watching and I said okay because I thought she meant parents and maybe some teachers and a few bored siblings who got dragged along. She did not mean three hundred people crammed into the bleachers of Westfield Junior Athletics ground with foam fingers and thermoses of coffee and faces turned toward the track like we are some

[CARLTON’S POV] [FLASHBACK: SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD CARLTON] In retrospect, I should have seen it coming. Gina Reyes had been in our class for exactly eleven days and in those eleven days she had turned down Marcus Webb, who was captain of the swim team and had arms like a Greek statue, and Jordan Asante, who drove a Range Rover his dad bought him for his birthday and had never once in his life been told no by anyone. She turned them both down with the same polite, unbothered smile, the smile of a girl who has heard it all before and found it lacking. I watched all of this and thought, she just hasn't met the right person yet. The right person being me, obviously. I am Carlton Dickson. I have a 4.1 GPA, I dress well, I smell good, I am told I have a nice face, and I have never in seventeen years been rejected by a girl I actually tried with. This is not arrogance. This is just the established pattern of my existence, the same way gravity is the established pattern of apples and t

[TRISTAN'S POV]Pain wakes me.Not the good kind. Not the kind that comes with Carlton's nails raking down my back or his teeth sinking into my shoulder.The bad kind.The "someone hit me with a blunt object and I'm probably concussed" kind.I groan, roll over. My face is pressed against cold tile. My body feels like it's been through a wood chipper. Which, considering what Carlton and I did earlier, isn't far from the truth.The smell hits me next. Blood. Cum. Sweat. That particular cocktail of fluids that comes from fucking someone into the floor while bleeding from multiple stab wounds.My abs burn. I touch them, fingers coming away sticky. The cuts Carlton gave me have stopped bleeding but they're deep enough to need stitches.Later.Right now I need to figure out why I'm waking up alone on the bathroom floor wearing nothing but briefs and why my head feels like it's been used as a drum.I push myself up. The room spins. I grab the counter, steady myself, and catch my reflection i

[CARLTON'S POV] The sound reaches me first—metal scraping ceramic, the soft clink of porcelain meeting wood.My eyes drag open, heavy and gritty like someone rubbed sand under my lids while I slept. Morning light filters through the curtains, pale and watery, painting everything in washed-out gold.I blink once. Twice.Tristan stands beside the bed.Towel slung low on his hips. Water droplets track down his chest, following the valleys between muscle and scar tissue like tiny rivers carving through a mountain range. His hair hangs damp and dark, pushed back from his face.He's setting down a tray. Bacon. Eggs. Coffee that steams in delicate white curls.My brain stutters, trying to reconcile this image—domestic, almost tender—with the man who fucked me into the floor last night while I bled from a dozen shallow cuts and came so hard I thought I'd die.He catches me staring.Those amber eyes flick up, lock onto mine, and the corner of his mouth lifts. Not a smirk. Something softer. Da