I tossed another piece of popcorn into my mouth and leaned back on the couch. My stepdad sat a few feet away, slumped in the single sofa chair, the remote in hand, scrolling through the movie options.

Since Mom married him, the fifteenth of every month had turned into our little family movie night tradition. At first, it was her idea. Some sort of bonding thing, but now it had become our habit. Richard and I, popcorn, a stack of streaming choices, and a chance for me to snuggle up to him.

From the first time I saw him, I fell for him. Not the polite, fleeting kind of crush, but real desire. Maybe it was because I’ve always liked older men, or maybe it was because he’s everything my father wasn’t. Richard was strong, patient, and careful with every word he said. He had that calm confidence that filled a room before he even spoke,

My father packed up and left when I was eight, no note, no goodbye. Since then, Mom dated a few men, but none of them stayed around. When Richard showed up, everything changed. He never treated me like a burden or a kid tagging along. He talked to me. Asked about my classes, and remembered things I said weeks before. Like I was the daughter he always wanted.

My crush on him turned into something I couldn’t control. I tried to ignore it, but it only grew stronger. All through high school, I kept every guy at arm’s length because none of them were him.

Ugh. So here I was, eighteen and still a vigin, knowing I was off to college in the fall, and with no idea what to do with myself. Or us.

I pretended to focus on the movie list, though I couldn’t care less what we picked. What I wanted was the warmth of sitting near him, the little excuses that made it seem normal.

Mom leaned forward on the smaller sofa near the TV. “How about a horror movie tonight?” she said, grinning.

I froze with a handful of popcorn halfway to my mouth. Horror movies weren’t my thing, but I nodded anyway. “Sure,” I said a little too fast. Truth was, I hated horror. The jump scares, the screaming, the fake blood, but sitting close to my Stepdad while pretending to be brave? That part I liked.

Richard groaned under his breath. “Jesus. I’ll probably fall asleep halfway.”

Still, he scrolled through the list until he found the newest horror movie, clicked play, and set the remote aside.

I hopped up to turn off the lights. The room dropped into a soft, flickering glow from the screen. When I sat back down, the cushion dipped under his weight. His arm rested on the back of the couch, casual but close enough that the side of my shoulder brushed his sleeve. My pulse jumped.

Thunder rolled through the speakers as rain poured on screen. I leaned forward, pretending to be invested, but my eyes kept drifting to him. The way his brow furrowed when the scene changed, or the pull of his shirt when he rolled his shoulder.

He reached for the beer on the table. I watched his throat move as he swallowed. The way his lips parted, the slow drag of his tongue against the rim of the bottle… God. My mind filled the silence with things I shouldn’t be imagining: his mouth against my neck, his breath warm against my skin, his hand sliding to where it shouldn’t go.

On screen, the little girl in the movie wandered through a dark hallway with a flashlight. Old floorboards creaked beneath her small feet, dust swirling in the beam of light. The music swelled into an anxious pitch. Every instinct in me screamed, ‘Don’t open that door.’

Of course she did, and there was nothing there. There never is, but I knew the real scream was just around the corner. She turned and there he was, just as lightning flashed outside.

That was it.

I screamed so loud that both Mom and Richard jolted upright as popcorn scattered across the couch. I threw myself toward Richard like plastic wrap before my brain could catch up. My arms wrapped around his chest, and my eyes sealed shut. I buried my face against his shirt.”Hold me.”

When I’m scared, dignity doesn’t matter. My arms reached instinctively for him, wrapping around his solid frame. His chest was warm, steady beneath my cheek.

Mom’s laugh broke through the moment. “You’re hopeless,” she turned around and teased.

Dad chuckled softly, his hand rubbing small comforting circles on my back. “Why do you still watch these if they frighten you so much?”

I just murmured something and pulled back enough to cross my arms and mutter, “I’m cold.”

He gave me that half-amused look that always made my stomach flip. Without a word, he reached for the blanket draped over the armrest and spread it across both of us. The fabric smelled faintly of detergent and him.

“There,” he said, tucking it around my shoulders. “Better?”

I told myself to focus on the movie.But I was too aware of the man beside me.

The single armchair was a a little bit tight fit for two, so I pressed myself as close to him as possible.Today I wore a mid-length nightdress. Under the blanket, my left leg drapped over his. His warmth seeped through the thin fabric of my shorts, and I exhaled slowly, trying to calm the racing in my chest.

Dad’s hand gave a small squeeze on my shoulder, and I let myself lean into him completely.My left arm draped across his chest and my breasts pressed tight against his shoulder.

For the next half hour,I stayed curled against him, using the movie as cover—each jump scare a perfect excuse to let my thigh or breast “accidentally” graze his body..

His hands always land just right—on my waist or arm, far from where I truly want them, like sliding to my breasts or tracing the curve of my hips. Of course, he never does.

Until I felt something firm pressed against my thigh. Its shape was unmistakable. My breath hitched. The thin blanket and his loose pants did little to hide it.

I froze, my heartbeat drumming in my ears.

Carefully, I tilted my head up. Richard’s eyes were closed, his face calm, lips parted like he’d drifted off mid-movie. Typical. Horror bored him.

Yet all I could think about was what I felt beneath that blanket, and whether sleep was the real reason his body reacted that way.

Thinking about it now, I should’ve pulled away. I should’ve acted normally. But with his arm draped around me, his breath slow and steady against my hair, and that unmistakable pressure against my thigh… I couldn’t help myself.

He was asleep. Or at least, I told myself he was. What harm was there in enjoying the moment a little longer? Just for tonight.

I wiggled carefully under the blanket, testing the space between us. My chest brushed his side, then again when I pretended to adjust the blanket. My thigh slid over his leg, slow enough to look accidental. My knee nudged the bulge in his pants.

The reaction was immediate.

It grew under the thin fabric, not by much, but enough for me to feel the thickening shape against my skin. Heat rushed through me so fast I almost gasped. My imagination went wild. What he’d feel like if he actually pushed into me. How big he’d be. How deep. How my body would stretch around him.

A shiver crawled up my spine.

My pulse hammered in my throat. This was wrong. So wrong. But the more I told myself to stop, the more my hips pressed down on his thigh. The pressure against my pussy sent a sweet spark through my body.

I stole a glance at Mom. She was still curled on the other sofa, eyes glued to the screen, clutching a pillow like she expected another jump scare.

She had no idea her daughter was grinding against her husband while she slept. The shame should’ve stopped me. It didn’t.

I craved more. During the next scream on screen, I let my left hand drift—slow, trembling—until my fingertips brushed the hard ridge straining beneath his pants.

He didn’t flinch.

Emboldened, I curled my fingers around him through the fabric, stroking in deliberate, feather-light pulls—up, down, savoring every throb against my palm.

My breath caught when I felt him swell harder under my hand. I was losing myself in the rhythm, small, secret motions under the blanket, each one sending a quiet pulse of pleasure through me.I felt the slick heat between my thighs spill over, a slow, warm trail sliding down my skin.

Then something large grabbed me. Hand. His left hand.

It slid up my skirt from behind, fingers warm as they cupped and lightly squeezed my ass.

I stilled. Every muscle locked.

Dad wasn’t asleep. He knew all the filthy things I was doing.

My face burned so hot. If Mom turned around, she would see steam rising from me. I stared straight ahead, heart in my throat, terrified he’d pull away or shove me off or whisper my name accusingly. My mind spun through every awful possibility: he’d tell Mom, he’d be disgusted, he’d never look at me the same way again.

When I realized my hand was still wrapped around his cock, I slowly let go.

I swallowed hard and forced my eyes to the TV,willing to pretend nothing happened.

Mom still hadn’t noticed a thing.

I didn’t dare breathe or speak or move. Not until his breath brushed my ear and his low, deep voice broke the silence.

“Go on, baby girl, I love how this feels.”