~Ava

I didn’t think the day could get any worse.

The fluorescent lights of the hallway buzzed overhead, mocking me as I stood outside Professor Harlan’s office clutching a folder that held my failure.

Advanced Calculus? A big, fat F staring back at me. The only one course I managed to carelessly fail.

My grades. My disappointment. My heart. All neatly stapled together on white paper that suddenly looked like my death sentence.

At 18, I was supposed to be conquering college, not crumbling under it. My dreams of transferring to a top engineering program? Shattered. I needed extra credit, a miracle, anything

When I finally got in, he barely looked up. “Ava, I’m busy right now,” he said, pen scratching across his desk. “Come by next week and we’ll discuss it.”

"Please spare me a few minutes, it's about my grade in Calculus. I... I failed. Can we talk about retaking or extra work?" My voice cracked, betraying the lump in my throat.

He sighed, rubbing his temples. "Ah, yes, Miss Ava. Look, I'm swamped with grading and committee meetings. Come back next week, Monday, say 2 PM. I'll have time then by God's grace."

"Next week?" I echoed, my heart sinking further.

Today was Friday, the end of a hellish week. Waiting seven days felt like an eternity in purgatory.

But what choice did I have? "Okay... thank you."

He waved me off dismissively, already typing again. Defeated, I mumbled a goodbye and shuffled out, the door clicking shut behind me like a final judgment.

The hallway blurred as tears pricked my eyes. I wiped them away angrily, crying in public? No way. Not here, not in front of the smug freshmen who thought college was a party.

I stepped into the sun, squinting, and felt the weight of the whole semester pressing on my shoulders.

Everyone around me looked so alive, laughing, talking, hugging like the world wasn’t falling apart for me. Meanwhile, my thoughts were heavy, dragging like wet clothes.

I hugged my books to my chest and walked toward the gate, my head low, my sneakers scraping against the pavement.

Then I heard it. The sound of an engine purring.

A sleek black SUV, the kind that screamed money and mystery.pulled up sharply right in front of the main entrance, tires crunching gravel. Heads turned immediately.

The door opened.

And he stepped out.

Tall, easily over six feet with broad shoulders straining against a tailored black button up shirt that hugged his muscular frame like a second skin.

His dark hair was tousled just enough to look effortless, falling slightly over his forehead.

Chiseled jawline shadowed with a day's stubble, piercing eyes hidden behind aviator glass shades.

He moved with predatory grace, exuding power and something dangerously magnetic. The students murmurs erupted like wildfire.

"Oh my God, is he picking someone up? Look at those arms, does he bench press cars?" a girl in a sorority tank top whispered loudly to her friend, fanning herself dramatically.

"Someone tell me that's Lucifer in human form! I mean, hello, sin on legs. I'd sell my soul for a ride which isn't gonna take place in the car," her friend giggled, clutching her phone to snap a sneaky pic.

"Bet he's a celebrity undercover. Or a mafia boss. Either way, I'm deceased," another guy chimed in, elbowing his buddy. "Dude, those tattoos peeking out from his sleeve? Total bad boy vibe.”

“Holy hell… I’d let him ruin my GPA.” another one screamed.

I would’ve laughed if my mouth wasn’t suddenly dry.

The whispers rippled through the crowd, a mix of awe, envy, and outright lust.

Phones were out, capturing the spectacle. I stood frozen near the gate, my depression momentarily forgotten in the surreal scene.

Who was this guy? He didn't belong here, in our mundane college world of ramen noodles and all nighters.

He removed his shades slowly, revealing eyes like stormy seas, deep gray, intense, scanning the area with purpose.

His gaze flicked to his phone, thumb scrolling briefly, then locked onto... me? No, couldn't be.

He pocketed his phone and strode forward, parting the crowd like Moses at the Red Sea.

I took two instinctive steps back, my heart hammering. Run, a voice screamed in my head.

He's too good looking to be a good person. Those eyes, that build, he looked like the villain in a thriller movie, the one who kidnaps heroines and makes them question everything.

Kidnapper? Stalker? My mind raced to worst case scenarios. The compound's gate was only feet away, I could bolt into the street, flag a cab, disappear.

But my feet wouldn't move. Something primal held me there, a mix of fear and inexplicable pull.

He stopped inches from me, towering over my 5'6 frame. Up close, he was even more devastating, flawless skin, full lips curved in a slight, knowing smirk, and a faint scar above his left eyebrow that only added to the danger.

"Are you Ava Thompson?" His voice was deep, with a rumble that vibrated through me.

I blinked, shocked silent. How did he know my name? My full name? Panic clawed at my throat, but all I could wonder was how a man could be this handsome.

It wasn't fair, evolution had no business creating perfection like this. "I... uh... yes?" I stammered, voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, as if confirming something on an invisible list. "I'm Adrian Blackwood. I'm your mother's new husband."

The fuck did he just say?

I blinked. Once. Twice.

The words didn’t register at first. My mother’s what?

“The fuck…” The word slipped out before I could stop it. “You’re my what?”

He tilted his head slightly, as if amused by my disbelief. “Your stepfather.”

My brain short circuited. My mother's husband?

My mum, the beautiful quirky Elena Thompson had divorced my Dad seven years ago.

I was only 11 then, old enough to remember the screaming matches, the slammed doors, the way Dad packed his bags one rainy night and never came back.

She'd raised me alone ever since, juggling nursing shifts and my endless activities. Lately, though, she'd been gushing about hanging out with this hot man from her hospital's admin team.

"He's got that silver fox thing going, Ava, but way hotter," she'd teased over dinner last week, her cheeks flushing.

Woah, she wasn't kidding. This man was incredibly hot. But he looked nothing like an angel, more like temptation wrapped in sin, with those dark eyes promising forbidden secrets.

Before I could process, he stretched out his hand, not for a shake, but to grab my wrist.

His grip was firm, warm, sending an unwelcome jolt up my arm. He pulled me toward the SUV without another word, his stride unyielding.

I stumbled after him, too dazed to resist, my backpack bouncing against my side. The students murmurs turned to outright jealousy, a chorus of envious hisses.

"Lucky bitch, who even is she? Getting manhandled by that god?" one girl snarled, arms crossed.

"Did he just say he's her stepdad? Damn, sign me up for that family tree," her friend added with a scoff.

"Stepdad? Please, look at how he's holding her. That's not fatherly, that's straight up possessive. Jealous as hell," a guy muttered, shaking his head.

"I'd fake a relation for a ride on that beast underneath his trouser," another voice chimed in, laced with bitterness.

I barely registered them, my eyes fixed on Adrian as he drew me closer to the vehicle.

The door of the SUV opened automatically, fancy tech and he guided me inside with surprising gentleness, though his hand lingered on my wrist a second too long.

The SUV pulled away from the curb, leaving the murmuring crowd in the dust.

~Ava

The ride home or wherever this was stretched into an eternity of silence.

I sat rigid in the passenger seat, the SUV's engine humming like a distant thunderstorm. My backpack rested at my feet, forgotten, as my eyes betrayed me time and again, stealing glances at Adrian Blackwood who claimed to be my step dad.

The way his large hands gripped the steering wheel, veins flexing with effortless control.

He was a masterpiece of contradictions, polished danger, sinful allure.

Every stolen look made my pulse race, heat creeping up my neck. What was wrong with me? This was my supposed stepfather. Freshly minted family.

Yet, my brain refused to compute, looping on the impossibility of his perfection.

He caught me mid stare, those gray eyes flicking sideways without turning his head.

A smirk tugged at his lips, low and teasing. "Keep staring like that, Ava, and I might just melt into the seat. Or worse, pull over to give you a better view."

I cleared my throat, heat flooding my cheeks as I snapped my gaze to the window.

"I wasn't... I mean, just zoning out," I mumbled, cursing my voice for sounding so breathy.

Front and center now, I focused on the dashboard, willing my heart to slow. Kidnapper vibes? Still lingering. But melting? God, the arrogance.

We turned onto a private drive lined with manicured oaks, the gates swinging open automatically.

The house, no, mansion loomed ahead like something out of a fairy tale gone dark.

Towering stone facade, ivy clinging walls, floor to ceiling windows that screamed old money.

A palace for kings, not college dropouts. My stomach twisted. This couldn't be real. Mom was a nurse scraping by on shifts, her hot man couldn't own this.

Liar. Kidnapper confirmed. I half expected armed guards or a dungeon basement.

Adrian parked in the circular driveway, the SUV purring to a stop. He killed the engine and stepped out, circling to my door with that predatory grace.

He opened it, extending a hand. "Welcome home, Ava." His tone was smooth, almost gentle, but his eyes held that storm.

I hesitated, then took his hand, warm, calloused palm enveloping mine. He collected my backpack effortlessly, slinging it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing, then helped me out.

His touch lingered on my elbow, steadying me as my sneakers hit the ground.

He led me up the grand steps, his presence a magnetic force at my side.

Inside, the foyer alone dwarfed our old apartment. Marble floors gleamed under a crystal chandelier, walls lined with abstract art that probably cost more than my tuition.

Adrian set my bag down and turned to me, gesturing expansively. "Let me give you the tour. This is the grand entrance, which doubles as a gallery for my collection."

He pointed to the paintings, explaining each one's artist and story with casual expertise. Arrogant, but knowledgeable.

We moved through the living room, a bar stocked with top shelf liquor. "Kitchen's state of the art, every chef's dream. I cook when I can, Elena loves my steak."

Elena. Mom.

Up the sweeping staircase, he detailed the guest wing, home gym, and library stacked with books.

"Your sanctuary," he said, opening double doors to a room that stole my breath.

My room?

King sized bed draped in silk sheets, balcony overlooking manicured gardens, ensuite bathroom with a rainfall shower. "Elena insisted on stocking it. Said you'd need space to breathe after college stress."

I wandered in, fingers trailing the vanity. The wardrobe, naturally, was bursting, dresses, jeans, tops, all my exact size.

Tags still on, designer labels winking. Creepy? Or thoughtful? I showered quickly, hot water washing away the day's grime and confusion.

Towel dried, I eyed the options. A crop top, soft, black, hugging my curves and a skirt, very short, denim that barely skimmed my thighs.

I hated to admit it, but a thrill shot through me. What if he saw? What if those eyes lingered? Slipping them on, I checked the mirror, legs for days, midriff exposed.

Sinful. Fitting, given the man downstairs.

I padded out barefoot, the cool floor sending shivers up my legs. Adrian was at the dining table, a spread laid out, grilled chicken, fresh salad, wine for him, sparkling water for me.

He looked up, eyes darkening as they raked over me. "That dress? It looks hot on you. Stunning."

Blush exploded across my face, heat pooling low. "Thanks," I muttered, sliding into the seat opposite.

Dinner was surreal, he served portions with a fork that brushed my plate teasingly close to my hand, his knee grazing mine under the table.

Accidental?

As we ate, he leaned forward to refill my water, his arm extending across me, bicep flexing inches from my chest.

Done eating, I reached for the plates, stacking them instinctively. His hand shot out, capturing mine. Skin on skin. "I've got it," he murmured, voice husky.

He held my gaze a beat too long, thumb tracing a slow circle on my knuckles before releasing. My skin tingled as he cleared the table, muscles rippling under his shirt.

He returned, wiping his hands on a towel, and I blurted the question burning in me. "How'd you meet my mom?" Anything to break the spell.

He settled into the chair beside me, closer than necessary. "Hospital fundraiser, six months back. Elena was volunteering, radiant, as always. We talked, she mentioned you. Sparks flew. She's fire, your mother. Married her last month in a quiet ceremony. Wanted to surprise her daughter properly."

I stared, mesmerized by his lips forming the words, the way his Adam's apple bobbed. Surprise? Understatement. "She's... happy?"

"Ecstatic." His eyes locked on mine, noticing my trance. A slow smile. "You're staring again, Ava."

Heat flared. Desperate for distraction, I spotted the remote on a high shelf by the TV wall teasingly out of reach for my height.

"Movie time," I said, standing on tiptoes, fingers straining. No dice.

Warmth pressed behind me suddenly, Adrian, closing the distance. His body aligned with mine, chest to my back, and oh God, the hard length of his cock pressed firmly against my ass through the thin fabric of my skirt.

Erection? Undeniable, thick and insistent.

My breath caught, core clenching involuntarily as he reached up effortlessly, his arm brushing my side.

The contact was fire, his heat seeping through, hips subtly rocking once, pinning me. Sinful friction. I froze, pulse thundering, every nerve alive.

He grabbed the remote, voice a low rumble in my ear. "Got it."

But I twisted to flee, escape the temptation, and collided breast first into his chest. Soft curves met unyielding muscle, my nipples hardened instantly against him, traitors.

I stood frozen, looking up into those gray eyes, burning, pupils dilated, gaze dipping unmistakably to the low neckline of my crop top, as if seeing straight through to bare skin.

Time suspended. His face inched closer, breath mingling with mine, lips parting. Kiss? My eyes fluttered shut, body arching instinctively, lips tingling in anticipation.

But no, his cheek grazed mine, warm stubble rasping, as he leaned past me. Click. The TV hummed to life from the socket beside. He pulled back, remote in hand, smirking. "There. All set."

I bit my lip hard, cussing under my breath, "Fuck, tease." cheeks flaming. Teased? Tormented. He was playing, and I was losing.

Then, an alarm chimed at the.

Adrian's smirk widened. "Guess my wife's home. Your mum." He whispered it, lips brushing my ear, sending shivers down my spine.

I felt like giving him a kick right in those smug abs.

Or pulling him closer and let him fuck me till I can't take it anymore.

But mum's back home.

He Saw Me Naked

~Ava

I wiggled my ass a little extra as I stormed toward the front door, the short skirt riding up just enough to feel rebellious.

The alarm's chime still echoed in my ears, but Adrian’s whisper, "Guess my wife's home" had lit a fire under my skin.

Teaser. Tormentor. I yanked the door open with more force than necessary, plastering on a smile for Mom.

She stood there, keys jingling, her nurse scrubs rumpled from a long shift, curly hair tied back in a messy ponytail.

Same old Elena Thompson, but her eyes sparkled with that new married glow.

"Ava! Baby!" She pulled me into a hug, but I kept it stiff, unpleasant, arms loose around her shoulders, body language screaming what the hell.

She pulled back, frowning, her hands on my arms. "What's wrong? You look like I ran over your favorite sneakers."

I crossed my arms, the crop top shifting uncomfortably. "Oh, nothing. Just, you know, surprise move into a freaking mansion with your secret husband. The one you mentioned in passing as hot guy from work. Would've been nice to get a heads up before the kidnapping vibes hit."

Mom winced, genuine apology flooding her face.

She stepped inside, kicking off her shoes in the foyer, the door clicking shut behind her. Adrian lingered in the background by the dining table, all casual observer, but I felt his eyes on me.

“I'm so sorry, sweetie. The house sale happened fast, our old place went under contract last week. I wanted to tell you in person, make it special. Adrian's been dying to meet you properly. This is our fresh start."

"It's fine," I muttered, waving it off even though my gut twisted.

Fresh start? More like plunged into a den of temptation. The old apartment's creaky floors and tiny kitchen felt like a lifetime ago, cozy, predictable.

This palace? A glittering trap.

She brightened, looping her arm through mine, leading me toward the living area. "How's school? Grades out yet? Spill."

I hesitated, the F in Calculus burning like acid. No way was I admitting total failure in front of Mr. Sinful over there.

“Eight A's and one F. But get this, Professor Harlan probably botched the marking. I'm not a math whiz, calculations aren't my forte, but an F? Nah, at least a C. I'm hitting him up next week to fix it."

Mom nodded sympathetically, squeezing my hand. "That's my girl, advocate for yourself. You'll sort it out." Out of the corner of my eye, Damien smiled through the whole exchange, that infuriating curve of his lips, like he knew secrets I didn't.

Leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his broad chest, he watched us with amusement. Bastard.

Then, as if on cue, Mom turned, gesturing grandly. "Oh! Ava, meet Adrian Blackwood, your new stepdad. Adrian, this is my brilliant daughter, Ava. She's the one who keeps me on my toes."

He pushed off the wall, extending a hand like we were strangers at a cocktail party. "Pleasure to meet you, Ava."

His grip was firm, warm, thumb brushing the back of my hand in a way that sent sparks shooting up my arm.

As if he hadn't just pressed his erection against me minutes ago. As if he hadn't stared into my boobs by the TV.

I frowned, yanking my hand back a tad too sharply. "Yeah, sure." The pretense grated, playing first meet when he'd already hauled me here like property.

Mom didn't notice, chattering about dinner remnants, but I shot him a glare. He just smirked, unfazed.

He greeted my mum well and with an annoying kiss that took forever.

I spun on my heel and bolted upstairs to my room, slamming the door harder than intended. Safe. For now.

My bathroom called like a sanctuary. I stripped down, peeling off the crop top and skirt, letting them pool on the tile.

Hot water cascaded over me in the rainfall shower, steam fogging the glass. I scrubbed away the day's chaos, the failed grade, the magnetic pull of Adrian, Mom's oblivious joy.

Naked felt right, freeing. I hated clothes when alone, they were prisons, constricting the raw me.

Back in the old apartment, I'd roam bare after showers, dancing to music or just breathing free. Mom knew, she'd laugh, toss a robe my way, but never judged. "Your body, your rules," she'd say.

Toweled dry, I didn't bother dressing. The room's AC hummed softly, cool air kissing my skin, nipples pebbling.

I paced, mind racing. Adrian's touch, his scent, that bulge of his trouser, God, the memory alone made a heat pool between my thighs.

Stepdaughter taboo? Whatever, I don't care. He was fire, and I was dry tinder.

The door creaked open. No knock. Instinct screamed cover up! But I froze, heart slamming.

Something told me to dive for the bed, snatch the duvet. Too late. Mom knows my quirks, sure, but the face peering in wasn't hers. Adrian.

Those gray eyes widened a bit, then darkened, raking over my naked form shamelessly. From my flushed cheeks down the curve of my breasts, over my hips, to the apex of my thighs.

He didn't flinch, didn't avert. Just stared, bold as brass.

I snatched the duvet finally, clutching it to my chest, but not before he got an eyeful. "What the, get out!" I hissed, voice shaky.

He leaned against the doorframe, casual, like walking in on nudity was Tuesday. "Your mom said to tell you to go to bed early. Workout tomorrow, gym's waiting. Don't be late." His voice was even, but laced with that rumble.

Then he turned to leave.

I breathed heavy, relief mixing with fury, the duvet slipping slightly as my arms trembled. But the door opened again, creaked and he poked his head back in, eyes gleaming wicked. "Nice shape, Ava." Whispered, like a dirty secret.

Then gone.

I bolted up, naked feet slapping marble as I twisted the lock with fumbling fingers. Click.

Heart pounding, I slumped against the door, breath ragged. The audacity to stare at his stepdaughter, naked, in his own house, and not bat an eye.

No shock, no apology. Just hunger in those eyes. Mom's husband. Taboo didn't begin to cover it. Society's rules? Screw them. I wanted him.

I craved the burn of his hands, the press of his body, the sin his body promised. He was forbidden fruit, and I was starving.

Sliding down to the floor, duvet forgotten, I looked down. My thighs glistened, wet with arousal. Just from his stare? From the memory of his voice, his presence invading my space?

My fingers trembled as I touched myself lightly, a gasp escaping. Wet. Achingly so. The man had unraveled me without a single touch. I rocked back, head thumping the door, fighting the urge to chase the high right there.

No. Not yet. Tomorrow's workout loomed, more proximity, more temptation.

Sleep came fitful, dreams filled with gray eyes and muscular arms.

Fuck the age, Fuck the rules! Make me yours!

~Ava

I woke up earlier than usual, the first hints of dawn creeping through the balcony curtains like sneaky fingers prying into my dreams.

My body hummed with nerves, buzzing under my skin like live wires sparking against dry tinder.

Sleep had been a joke, tossed and turned all night, replaying Adrian's whisper from yesterday, that bold stare at my naked body, the way he'd called my shape "nice" like it was his to appraise.

Sex with someone over twice my age? Yeah, it screamed wrong in every rational corner of my brain, but my body didn't give a damn about rationality.

It craved him, that towering wall of muscle and sin, Mom's husband or not. The workout today... it wasn't just exercise anymore.

It was a battlefield, a tease, a chance to feel his hands on me again without the thin veil of "family bonding."

I slipped out of bed naked, as always when alone, padding across the cool marble floor to the bathroom.

The shower was quick, steam fogging the mirror, water sluicing over curves I'd always been shrugged about until now.

They felt weaponized, ready for war. Towel dried, I stood in front of the full length mirror in the walk in closet, eyeing the workout gear.

Tight shorts, black, spandex clinging to my ass like a jealous lover, riding high on my thighs.

Sports bra, same color, supportive but low cut enough to show cleavage when I breathed deep. I turned side to side, admiring the way the fabric hugged my hips, the dip of my waist, the perk of my breasts.

Not for me. For him.

I hated that I wanted his attention this badly, that one look from those gray eyes could turn me into this desperate version of myself.

But there it was, fingers lingering on the waistband, imagining his grip there instead.

"Pathetic," I muttered to my reflection, but the heat building low in my belly said otherwise.

Dressed, trapped in clothes again, I headed downstairs, sneakers soft on the steps.

The house was quiet, Mom still asleep or getting ready for her shift, but Adrian? He was already outside in the private gym courtyard.

The space was his kingdom, open air setup with the main gym building to one side, weights scattered on mats, a running track looping the manicured lawn.

He was doing stretches like some damn fitness model ripped from a magazine spread, legs wide, arms extended overhead, tank top riding up to flash abs carved from stone.

Sweat already glistened on his tanned skin, those V lines dipping into low slung shorts that did nothing to hide the bulge I remembered all too well.

Broad shoulders flexed as he bent forward, touching toes, ass tight and powerful. God, he was built for sin, every inch screaming power and control.

The moment he saw me approaching through the glass doors, he straightened, wiping his brow with the hem of his tank, flashing more of that ridged sex pack.

His eyes scanned me top to bottom,not fast, like a casual glance, but slow, intentional, devouring.

Starting at my sneakers, up the curve of my legs, lingering on the way the shorts cupped my ass, then my exposed midriff, breasts straining the bra, finally my flushed face.

Heat followed his gaze like a physical touch, making my nipples tighten against the top. "You look like hot cake, girly," he said, giving that devilish smirk, half tease, half predator, voice rough from the early hour.

"Shut up," I shot back, crossing my arms to hide how my chest heaved, but I didn't mean it. Not really.

The way he called me girly got on my nerves, infantilizing and hot all at once, like he was claiming some twisted ownership.

It made me want to slap him and beg for more in the same breath. I grabbed a water bottle from the outdoor cooler, chugging to steady the flutter in my stomach, but his eyes stayed glued, amusement dancing in those stormy grays.

"Feisty this morning. Let's burn it off." He clapped his hands, the sound sharp, pulling me into the routine.

Workout started easy, jumping jacks to warm up, the rhythmic bounce making my breasts jiggle in the bra, his gaze flicking down every few jumps.

Light runs around the track, my ponytail whipping, breaths coming faster not just from cardio. He paced beside me, effortless, commenting on my form

"Pick up those knees, girly. Yeah, like that." The nickname grated again, but each time, it sent an illicit thrill straight to my core.

Squats first, barbell light but challenging. He positioned me under it, hands on my hips immediately, correcting stance. "Wider legs. Drop low." His palms were fire through the thin shorts, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above my hipbones, guiding me down.

Every descent, his grip tightened, pulling me back up with controlled strength, bodies inches apart.

Breath hot on my neck as he murmured, "Arch that back, perfect." I felt exposed, vulnerable, his touch lingering longer than necessary, fingers splaying to trace the edge of my shorts.

My breath kept hitching, obvious as hell, core clenching around nothing. Hated how he could hear it, see the flush creeping up my chest.

Stretches next, forward bends, him behind me, pressing my back flat with one hand while the other adjusted my thighs.

Fire everywhere he touched, skin hypersensitive, pulse throbbing between my legs. Then lunges, and that's when it happened.

He pulled me closer for a demo correction, my ass rubbing right against his dick as he adjusted my footing. Thick, hard length nestling into the cleft through our clothes, unmistakable.

A moan slipped out from me, soft, involuntary, needy.

His grip faltered for a split second, hips twitching forward once, grinding subtly. "Easy," he growled low, but his voice was strained, breath ragged against my ear.

I froze, ass pressed back instinctively, feeling him throb.

My mum came down from upstairs but she wasn't taking long, she wasn't in her gym dress.

We broke apart gasping, him stepping back with a curse under his breath. "Water break," he rasped, turning to the cooler.

I poured from my bottle, but hands shaky, water spilled, cascading down my chin, soaking the sports bra, trickling in rivulets between my breasts, darkening the fabric translucent.

Nipples peaked hard, visible now, chest heaving. I could feel his eyes burn into my skin, heavy, hungry, tracing every drop's path like he wanted to lick it clean.

He handed me a towel from the rack, our hands brushing, fingers tangling briefly, electric spark jumping.

The contact lingered, his thumb stroking my knuckles before release. "Messy girl," he teased, voice darker.

My phone buzzed on the bench, Mom. She sounded wiped, voice tiny through the speaker. "Hey, kid. Got called into an extra shift, tired already. When you're done, I'll be upstairs cooking breakfast. Pancakes sound good?"

Upstairs? She meant her room, prepping later. The gym felt even more isolated now, just us.

Adrian nodded to himself, then turned to me, towel still in hand. "Here, let me help with that."

Before I could protest or beg, his hand was on my chest, towel pressing softly against the wet fabric over my breast.

But it wasn't the towel doing the work, his palm cupped me through it, thumb circling the nipple in slow, deliberate strokes.

Soft pressure, then firmer, kneading just enough to arch my back.

A moan tore from my throat, loud and shameless, body betraying me as wetness soaked my shorts.

He turned back abruptly, like pulling himself from the edge, shoulders tense. "Enough," he muttered, voice gravel.

No. Hell no.

I grabbed his hand mid retreat, yanking him close, our bodies colliding. "You dare not leave me high and dry," I hissed, eyes locked on his, defiant and desperate.

My other hand guided his hand down, pressing his palm against the front of my tight shorts, right over the heat. "Feel that."

He smiled, slow, dangerous, eyes flashing. "High? I've not even done anything yet, girly." But his fingers flexed, tracing the seam, feeling the wetness seeping through.

I directed his hand lower, slipping under the waistband just enough to touch the basement of my pussy, wet, throbbing clit. "I'm wet for you already," I whispered, voice breaking. "All from your touches. Your stares."

His breath hitched, fingers exploring, dipping into the wetness with a groan. "Are you ready to scream daddy?" he murmured, voice lethal promise. "In a way where pleasure and pain deal with you mercilessly?"

I leaned in, lips brushing his jaw. "Whatever would make you sin with me, I'm ready." The words hung heavy, sealing the pact.

"I'm 40, you're 21," he whispered softly, his lips grazing my nipple, hot breath sending shivers down my spine as his tongue flicked out, teasing the hardened peak.

"I don't care!" I shot back amidst breathy moans, my fingers tangling in his dark hair, pressing his head deeper into my boobs, arching my back to feed him more.

"I'm your mum's husband. I'm your stepdad, old enough to be your real dad," he murmured again, his right hand tracing, torturous path down my trembling stomach, between my thighs to brush against my soaked panties.

"I said I don't care!!!" I growled, grabbing his wrist and forcing his fingers faster.

"Fuck the age, fuck the rules, make me yours!"

Videos I watched on Google about step daughter and step dad were all fiction until now. In my front, it's happening.