Todos los capítulos de Ruin Me Step Daddy: Forbidden Cravings : Capítulo 181 - Capítulo 190

The mansion felt hollow after the war. Richard’s departure still echoed — the slammed door, the screech of tires on the gravel driveway, the final devastated look he’d given Lila like she had died in front of him. Sophia had followed like the venomous shadow she was, spitting threats about ruining reputations. Damien had slipped away into the night with nothing but a dark, calculating smirk. Elena had taken the staff and left for the week, leaving the sprawling lakeside estate eerily silent except for the gentle lap of water against the private dock. It was just Victor and Lila now. They stood on the wide master balcony overlooking the moonlit lake, the cool breeze carrying the scent of pine and water. Lila still wore the torn dress from the confrontation, the fabric ripped and stained with the evidence of what they had done on her father’s desk. Victor stepped behind her, his massive 6’4 frame enveloping her smaller body as he wrapped strong arms around her waist and pulled her

Damien Cross stood in the shadows long after Elara disappeared back into the golden light of the party, the broken glass glittering at his feet like evidence of a crime. Blood welled from a shallow cut across his palm where the crystal had shattered in his grip. He barely felt it. He could still taste her. Champagne and something sweeter. Heat. Youth. The soft, shocked little sound she made when he shoved his tongue into her mouth like a man who had already lost the war. His cock was still painfully hard, straining against the front of his trousers, and every pulse of it felt like a punishment. *She’s twenty-one.* *She’s Victor’s daughter.* *You’ve known her since she was eleven and missing her front teeth.* The reminders slammed through him one after another, brutal and useless. None of them erased the way her body had melted against his. None of them erased the way she had whispered *Maybe I do* when he accused her of wanting to be ruined. Damien dragged a hand down his fa

Thirty-one hours of not answering the door when the doorman called up. Thirty-one hours of deleting her new number the second it appeared. Thirty-one hours of working until his eyes burned, of cold showers that did nothing, of lying in the dark with his fist wrapped around his cock and her name caught between his teeth like a curse. It wasn’t enough. At 1:14 a.m. on the second night, the private elevator chimed. He already knew who it was. Elara stepped into the dark penthouse wearing the same white sundress from the day before and a look that said she had stopped pretending this was anything other than inevitable. Her hair was a little wild. Her lipstick was gone. She looked like she had been thinking about him the same way he had been thinking about her—constantly, filthy, without mercy. Damien stood in the living room in nothing but black sweatpants, barefoot, chest bare, a tumbler of whiskey forgotten in his hand. The city lights painted silver across his skin. Neither of t

Damien woke to the feel of soft breath against his throat and a warm thigh hooked over his hip. For three full seconds he didn’t move. The city light filtering through the sheer curtains painted everything in pale silver. Elara was tucked against him like she belonged there—face buried in the hollow of his neck, one hand resting over his heart, the marks he had left on her skin the night before already darkening into bruises he should have hated himself for. He didn’t hate himself enough. That was the problem. He should have eased out of bed, showered, put on a suit, and driven her home before the sun fully rose. Instead he lay there cataloguing every detail: the faint freckles across her shoulder, the way her lashes rested against her cheeks, the soft, trusting weight of her body. Something dangerous and unfamiliar moved under his ribs. Not just lust. Not just the filthy, addictive need to be inside her again. Something that felt like wanting to keep her. Elara stirred.

The seventy-two hours Julian had given himself felt like a noose tightening around Damien’s throat even though he didn’t yet know it existed. He spent the first day after the dinner trying to create distance. He buried himself in work, declined Victor’s invitation for drinks, and left Elara’s latest text unanswered for six full hours. The message had been simple. **I meant what I said last night.** He stared at it until the words burned into his vision, then locked the phone in his desk drawer like that might stop the way her voice kept echoing in his head. *I’m falling in love with you.* He had no right to those words. He had no right to the way they made something young and reckless open up under his ribs. By evening he needed air that didn’t smell like her. He accepted an invitation he would normally have ignored—a charity gala at the modern art museum, black-tie, full of the same faces he had been navigating for twenty years. He told himself it was networking. In truth it w