All Chapters of MY TABOO STEP DADDY : Chapter 211 - Chapter 220

[TRISTAN’S POV]The compound gates opened like a mouth about to swallow us whole.I'd been here before, when Kori and I still pretended we weren't circling each other like wolves. Back then, the Japanese gardens looked like something from a postcard: manicured and peaceful, all careful stone paths and water features that reflected the sky like mirrors. Now, in the pre-dawn darkness, with rain still hammering the Mercedes and my heart hammering in my chest, the whole place looked like a shrine to violence.Declan's fingers found my wrist as I reached for the door handle."Wait." His voice was tight, the Irish accent sharp enough to cut. "If they find out I'm a cop, I'm dead."I yanked my hand away and opened the door without responding. The rain hit me like a fist, cold and furious, and I stepped out into it before he could grab me again. Behind me, I heard him curse in Gaelic—probably something creative about my parentage—but he was moving too, following me toward the guards who wer

[CARLTON’S POV]Damon sits cross-legged on Tristan's bed with a paperback romance novel balanced on his thighs, and I'm curled against the headboard with a steaming mug of tea held between both hands. The book is terrible in the best possible way: all heaving chests and improbable coincidences and love that conquers absolutely everything, including basic logic and self-preservation.I should be reading. Instead, I'm watching Damon.His eyes move across the page with the mechanical precision of someone who isn't actually absorbing a single word. There's a pain sitting in the corners of his gaze that he's trying very hard to hide, the kind of pain that comes from loving someone who doesn't know how to love you back. His fingers absently trace patterns on the book's cover, and every few seconds, his jaw tightens like he's stopping himself from saying something he knows he shouldn't.Yosef did this to him.Or maybe Damon did it to himself by letting Yosef matter. Either way, watching h

[TRISTAN’S POV]Carlton positions himself with his back to me, his thighs spreading wide, and then he sinks down. My cock slides through the cleft of his ass first, and I have to grit my teeth to keep from just driving in dry. But then the head finds the pucker of his hole, and he bears down, his muscles relaxing to accommodate me.The slide is tight, so fucking tight, and I'm instantly reminded of the first time, when he was actually reluctant, when his body fought me even though his mind wanted it. This boy used to scream. Used to beg me to stop even as he was pushing back, asking for more. And now his hole is swallowing my cock like it was made for this, like his entire body is just a vessel designed to milk me dry."Fuck," I breathe, my hands finding his hips as he starts to ride. His movement is slow at first, careful, but I can see the moment he remembers that I like it hard. His pace increases, and the bed starts to creak with the violence of his movements. He's holding my h

[TRISTAN’S POV]Carlton is sleeping the kind of sleep that belongs to the thoroughly fucked: his mouth slightly open, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, his hair a mess across the pillow. There's a small bruise forming on his collarbone where I bit him, and I have to resist the urge to mark him up more, to make sure every inch of his skin advertises exactly who he belongs to.I press a kiss to his forehead, lingering there for a moment longer than necessary. The smell of him—sex and sweat and that particular scent that belongs only to Bunny—clings to my skin, and I'm already getting hard again just from the memory of what we just did.But there's business to attend to.I move quietly, finding the key I'd hidden in the back of my closet months ago; hidden like I was planning something, like I always knew this moment would come. The leather of my boxer briefs clings to my still-semi-hard cock, and I don't bother with anything else. Just the key and my body and the dried

[TRISTAN’S POV] The whiskey burns going down, and that's the point. I pour another glass, and the amber liquid catches the light from the lamp like liquid fire. My hands are shaking—not from fear, but from the effort it takes to not go downstairs and finish what I started the moment I saw Declan spinning his sister like she weighed nothing. Like she mattered. Like the world wasn't fundamentally broken and cruel and designed to crush the things you love beneath its heel. Camilla should have had that. The thought hits me like a bullet, and I drain the glass in one long pull. My ribs scream where the stitches are still fresh and bloody, but the pain is nothing compared to the ache in my chest that's been there since the moment they pulled her body from the sea. Twenty-four years. It's been twenty-four years, and the rage hasn't dulled one fucking bit. If anything, watching Declan hold his sister has made it sharper, more focused, more impossible to ignore. He got her back. He go