Início / Romance / Stepdad’s Pet, His Son’s Plaything / Capítulo 21 - Capítulo 30

Todos os capítulos de Stepdad’s Pet, His Son’s Plaything : Capítulo 21 - Capítulo 30

88 Capítulos

The lion’s den

EMMA’S POVThe Blackwood Corporate Headquarters was a monolith of glass and cold ambition, a jagged spear of steel piercing the city skyline. It was the physical manifestation of Jordan’s power, a place where fortunes were made and lives were dismantled with a single stroke of a fountain pen. As I stepped through the revolving doors, the conditioned air hit me—sharp, sterile, and smelling of expensive toner, filtered success, and the quiet desperation of those who worked beneath him.I wasn't wearing the floral sundresses my mother loved. Those were for the "perfect daughter" she wanted me to be. Today, I was wearing a weapon. My charcoal silk slip dress clung to my hips like a second skin, the fabric so thin it felt like a dare. Over it, I wore a structured blazer, but it did nothing to hide the fact that I had left my underwear on the floor of my bedroom. I felt every draft of the lobby’s air on my bare skin, a constant, electric reminder of what I was about to do.As I walked tow

The executive consultation

JORDAN’S POVThe world outside the frosted glass was moving at a frantic, corporate pace—a blur of emails, stock tickers, and high-stakes decisions—but inside the sanctuary of my office, time had curdled into something thick, dark, and dangerously carnal. The silence of the room was a heavy, pressurized weight, broken only by the sound of our breathing—a ragged, synchronized rhythm that signaled the absolute end of my restraint.I was a man built on foundations of iron and discipline. My entire life was a testament to the power of the "Saint," the man who never faltered, never yielded, and never sinned where the light could reach. But as I looked at Emma, the girl I had raised in the shadows of my own house, that iron was melting into a liquid, white-hot desperation.I didn't throw the papers off my desk. That was for amateurs who sought the drama of a movie scene over the cold reality of dominance. Instead, I moved toward her with the slow, predatory grace of a man who already knew

The perfect lie

JORDAN’S POVThe world didn't just stop; it fractured.Emma’s eyes went wide, her pupils so blown out by adrenaline and lust they were almost entirely black, reflecting the sheer, unadulterated terror of the moment. We froze in place, the only movement the frantic, visible thrum of the pulse in her neck. My heart felt like it was going to burst out of my chest, a frantic, trapped animal clawing at the bars of my ribs.The memory I had completely suppressed slammed back into me with the force of a high-speed collision: the lunch date. We had agreed weeks ago—in a different life, it felt like—that she would come to the office today. We were supposed to go to the jeweler to pick out the gala pieces together. Emma’s presence, her scent, and her touch had wiped my slate clean. I had forgotten the world existed outside the heat of her skin and the lock on that door."Stay here," I mouthed, my voice completely gone, reduced to a ghost of a whisper.We moved with a frantic, silent grace bor

The residual heat

EMMA’S POVThe cab pulled away from the curb, its taillights bleeding into the twilight like twin stab wounds. My mother hadn’t come inside. She was still sitting in the back, her fingers laced with Jordan’s as they headed toward some gala or jeweler’s appointment— another performance of the "Perfect Couple." Jordan hadn't even looked back at me. He had just adjusted his cufflinks, his face a mask of corporate indifference, as if the last hour in his office had been nothing more than a standard audit.The house felt like a mausoleum. The silence was heavy, pressurized by the coming storm, and the air inside the foyer was cool and smelled of expensive lemon wax and old secrets. I stepped out of my heels, the cold stone floor shocking the soles of my feet, but it did nothing to dampen the fire Jordan had lit and left to smolder.Every step I took was a struggle. My skin felt sensitized, the charcoal silk of my slip dress rubbing against my thighs with every movement, a constant, agoni

The tattered evidence

JORDAN’S POVThe drive back from the city had been a masterclass in psychological endurance. Ruth sat in the passenger seat of the Maybach, the soft amber glow of the dashboard illuminating the satisfied curve of her lips. She was humming a melody I didn't recognize, her fingers idly tracing the velvet lining of a jewelry box that held a set of pear-cut diamonds—stones that cost more than most men made in a decade.She had insisted on three glasses of vintage Krug at the boutique, her laughter ringing out against the silent, respectful walls of the showroom. By the time we pulled into the gravel drive of the estate, the champagne had done its work. Her movements were fluid and heavy, her eyes glazed with a gentle, drunken fog that shielded her from the jagged reality of the man sitting next to her.I helped her out of the car, my hand firm on her elbow as I carried her through the foyer. The house was silent, but it wasn't empty. It felt like a drum skin stretched too tight, vibrati

The penance of the Saint

JORDAN’S POVThe tension in the room was a living thing—a coiled, venomous snake ready to strike. Emma wasn't backing down; she was leaning into the chaos she had created. The sight of her—flushed, defiant, and smelling of the rage she had carried home from my office—was more intoxicating than any vintage champagne Ruth had sipped today."What do you want, Emma?" I rasped, my hands sliding from her shoulders to the small of her back. I pulled her flush against me, feeling the heat of her body through the thin white silk of her robe. "You want me to apologize for being a man who has to maintain a world for you to live in? You want me to say I hate the mask?""I want you to make me forget her," she whispered. Her voice was a low, shivering vibration that bypassed my brain and went straight to my blood. She reached out, her fingers tracing the sharp line of my jaw before sliding down to my silk tie, which was already loosened. She didn't pull me into a kiss. Instead, she pushed me b

The serpent sacrament

REIGN’S POVThe hallway of the house was a tunnel of oppressive, expensive silence, illuminated only by the pale, skeletal moonlight filtering through the high arched windows. I stood pressed against the cold velvet wallpaper, my breathing shallow and rhythmic, watching the heavy oak door of Emma’s room. I had watched my father enter— after looking around to make sure nobody saw him entering— seen the way his broad shoulders were set with a predatory, desperate tension. He was a man driven by a hunger he couldn't name in the light, a "Saint" seeking penance in the arms of a girl who was slowly becoming his executioner.I moved closer, my bare feet sinking into the thick, plush carpet, until I could hear the muffled, low-frequency vibration of their voices. I heard the sharp, glass-shattering tone of Emma’s defiance—the way she wielded her youth like a blade—and the low, dangerous rumble of my father’s possessiveness. I knew his patterns better than he knew them himself. I knew th

The ghost in the sheets

JORDAN’S POVI walked back into the master suite, my blood still simmering with the jagged frustration Emma had left me with. I was hard, aching, and humiliated—a king who had been dismissed by his own subject, a billionaire who had been brought to his knees only to be told he hadn't earned the right to stay there. The scent of her was still on my face, a floral, mocking reminder of the penance I had just performed.The room was dark, the only light coming from the moon reflecting off the white marble of the ensuite. I saw Ruth in the bed, a pale silhouette against the dark silk sheets. She hadn't moved an inch. She looked as peaceful and oblivious as a saint in a tomb, the perfect image of the woman I was supposed to be faithful to.I stripped off my jacket and my shirt, throwing them onto a chair with a silent, violent motion. I needed a release. I needed to overwrite the feeling of Emma’s hand closing her robe. I needed to feel like a man who was still in control of something i

The bitter aftertaste

EMMA’S POVThe silence of my bedroom was a physical weight, pressing against my chest until every breath felt like a struggle through water. I lay in the dark, my body still humming from the hollow victory of Jordan’s mouth, but my mind was a jagged landscape of rage.I had expected him to grovel. I had expected the powerful, untouchable "daddy" to break at my feet when I denied him the release he was starving for. I wanted to see him reduced to a beggar in his own palace. But instead, he had simply adjusted his tie, regained his mask, and walked out.And then, the sound began.It started as a low, rhythmic vibration through the vents, and then it sharpened into the unmistakable, high-pitched cries of my mother. Jordan wasn't begging. He wasn't sitting in his study, dwelling on my rejection. He had gone straight to the one woman who was always available, the woman who didn't play games, the woman he had sworn to protect while he was busy ruining me.Every moan that drifted through

The anatomy of a son

REIGN’S POVI stood in the upstairs hallway, my back pressed against the cold wainscoting, listening to the house breathe. It was a heavy, suffocating sound. Jordan and Ruth had returned from their "shopping trip" with Emma in tow, the three of them acting out a pantomime of domestic bliss that made my stomach churn. I saw the way Emma moved—a sharp, satisfied hitch in her stride that told me she was still riding the high of our collision on my bed. And I saw my father, the "Saint," whose eyes followed her with a starvation he couldn't quite hide behind his expensive glasses.But my mind wasn't on Emma. It was trapped in the master suite, buried in the memory of the night before.I remembered the weight of Ruth’s body under mine, the way she had hummed with a confused, drunken pleasure as I overwrote my father’s territory. A dark, oily coil of something like guilt sat in my gut—not because I cared about Jordan’s "honor," but because I had taken her while she was a ghost. It felt lo

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