Stepdad's Pet; His Son's Plaything

EMMA'S POV

The first thing I heard wasn't the rain against the window or the settling of the old house. It was the smack. A sharp, wet sound of palm meeting skin that echoed through the vents and straight into my bedroom.

I sat bolt upright in bed, my heart thudding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. For a split second, I thought someone was being hurt. Then came the moan-low, guttural, and unmistakable.

My mother, Ruth, was screaming. Not in pain, but in a state of absolute, shattering undoing. And the man making her sound like that was Jordan. My "perfect" stepdad.

I stared at the wall separating our rooms, my breath coming in shallow hitches. I was twenty-one now, back from university for the holidays, but in this house, I was still the "smartest girl in the world" to him.

Jordan had married my mom six years ago, stepping into the void my biological father left with a grace that was almost saintly. He was the man who had tied my shoes, the man who drove me to every dance, the man my friends at school whispered about with envious sighs.

"Your dad is such a DILF, Emma," they'd giggle. I'd always laughed it off, but deep down, the word 'Daddy' had started to feel heavy in my mouth for all the wrong reasons.

Smack.

"Fuck, babe! Please!" my mother wailed.

"You like it rough, don't you, baby?" Jordan's voice was a deep, tectonic rumble. It wasn't the voice he used at the breakfast table. This was dark. Dominant. "Tell me how much you love it when I fuck you like this."

The sound of their bodies colliding-a rhythmic, relentless thudding-vibrated through the floorboards. I felt it in my teeth. I felt it in the pit of my stomach.

A toxic cocktail of jealousy and heat flooded my veins. I hated her in that moment. I hated that she was the one under him, feeling the weight of that powerful body, hearing those filthy commands directed at her. I wouldn't tell him to stop. I wouldn't beg for mercy. I'd beg for more.

My hand moved instinctively. I didn't even think about it; the desperation was a living thing. I shoved my silk nightgown up to my waist, my skin tingling in the cool air. I was already soaking, the mere sound of Jordan's voice acting like a key in a lock I'd kept hidden for years.

"Good girl," Jordan growled through the wall.

I closed my eyes, imagining it was me he was calling a good girl. I imagined those large, capable hands-the ones that had patted my head and signed my report cards-clutching my hair and pulling my head back. I slid my fingers down, gasping as I found the center of the ache.

Every time I heard the bed frame bang against the wall, I matched the rhythm. I was losing myself in the fantasy, the boundary between "stepdaughter" and "woman" dissolving in the dark. I was Emma, and I wanted the man who had raised me to ruin me.

I was so close, my back arching off the mattress, my breath hitching in a series of broken sobs, when the door to my room creaked open.

I didn't hear it. I was too far gone, whispering "Jordan... please, Jordan..." into my pillow.

The light from the hallway spilled across the carpet in a long, jagged blade.

"Emma?"

The voice was younger, sharper, but carried that same underlying rasp of the bloodline. I froze. My hand was still buried between my legs, my gown hiked up to my chest, my face flushed with a forbidden climax.

Reign didn't just stand there. He didn't offer an apology or a polite retreat. He watched me, his chest rising and falling in a jagged rhythm that matched the frantic pounding coming from the master suite.

"Emma," he rasped, the name sounding like a threat.

I tried to pull the silk of my gown down, my face burning with a fever that wasn't just shame-it was residual heat from the sounds of Jordan through the wall. "Reign, get out. You're supposed to be..."

"I'm exactly where I need to be." He moved with a sudden, predatory speed, kicking the door shut. The lock clicked-a final, definitive sound.

He didn't waste time with words. He lunged onto the bed, his weight pinning my thighs down. His hands, calloused and large-so much like his father's-grabbed my wrists and pinned them above my head. Before I could even gasp, his head dropped.

He didn't kiss me. He went straight for the source of my undoing.

Reign buried his face between my legs, his tongue sharp and relentless. I let out a choked scream, my back arching off the mattress as he devoured me. He was aggressive, his teeth grazing my sensitive skin, making me sob as he forced my body to respond to him. It was a different kind of hunger than the one I imagined Jordan having; Reign was starving, and he was eating me alive.

"Reign, stop..." I gasped, but my fingers were already winding into his dark hair, pulling him closer.

He ignored me, his tongue swirling with a punishing pressure that made my vision blur. I looked up at the ceiling, the thudding from the other room still vibrating through the house. Thump. Thump. Thump. My mother's cries were reaching a piercing crescendo, and Reign was matching it, his mouth working me into a state of total delirium.

Just as I felt the world start to tilt, Reign pulled back. He stripped his jeans off in one fluid motion, the moonlight catching the lean, hard muscle of his back.

"Look at me, Emma," he commanded.

He didn't wait. He grabbed my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh, and drove into me with a singular, forceful thrust.

I cried out, the air leaving my lungs. He was thick, filling me in a way that made my head snap back against the headboard. He started a brutal, rhythmic pace, his body slamming against mine with a violence that made the bed frame groan.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

The sound of his skin hitting mine echoed the sounds of Jordan hitting my mother. I closed my eyes tight, the sweat dripping from Reign's forehead onto my chest. In the dark, with the friction and the heat, the lines began to bleed together.

He pushed up my nighty further and cupped my breast with his warm mouth. I was about to scream when he stuffed my night into my mouth to stifle my moans. While his fingers worked on my clit.

I felt Reign's other hand on my waist, but in my mind, they were larger. I felt the weight of him, but I imagined the scent of Jordan's expensive bourbon instead of Reign's tobacco.

"Harder," I whispered, my voice a broken wreck. "Don't stop."

Reign growled, his pace turning frantic. He flipped me over, pushing my face into the pillow and taking me from behind-the exact position I knew Jordan was using on my mother just a few minutes ago. The synchronization was intoxicating. Every time Jordan thrust into Ruth, Reign thrust into me.

I was being split open by the son, but in the white-hot haze of my climax, I was screaming for the father. I imagined Jordan's hand wrapped around my throat, his voice telling me I was a good girl as I shattered.

Reign let out a guttural roar, his body tensing as he emptied himself into me, his weight crushing me into the mattress. For a few seconds, the house was silent, save for our combined, ragged breathing.

Reign collapsed beside me, his hand resting possessively on my breast. He didn't say a word about his father. He didn't ask why I was touching myself to the sound of the master bedroom. He just stared at the ceiling, a dark, satisfied smirk on his face.

I lay there, my body aching and used, staring at the wall. My stepbrother that we were almost always fighting was in my bed, his scent marking my sheets. But as I listened to the silence from the hallway, all I could think about was the man who had started the fire Reign had just tried to put out.

The son has had his turn. But it was the father I was coming for next.

EMMA'S POV

Three days.

Three days since Reign had kicked my door shut and used me as a physical outlet for the obsession he didn't know we shared. We hadn't spoken a word about that night.

In the daylight, we were the same bickering step-siblings we had always been, but the air between us had curdled. When we passed each other in the narrow hallway, his shoulder would brush mine with enough force to stagger me, his dark eyes lingering on the high collar of my shirt as if he could still see the marks he'd left on my skin.

He looked at me with a smirk that said he owned a piece of my soul, but he was wrong.

Reign was a distraction-a loud, crashing wave. Jordan was the deep, silent ocean I wanted to drown in.

The afternoon sun was relentless, carving long, golden rectangles across the expensive Persian rugs of the living room. It was that heavy, drowsy time of day when the house felt like it was holding its breath.

My mother had retreated upstairs nearly an hour ago, complaining of a migraine brought on by the summer heat. Reign had roared out of the driveway on his motorcycle shortly after, the fading rumble of his engine leaving a vacuum of silence behind.

I was curled up on the sofa, a book forgotten in my lap, when Jordan walked in.

He looked different when he thought no one was watching. The "over protective father" facade was gone, replaced by a weary, raw masculinity that made my throat tight.

He had discarded his suit jacket, his charcoal silk tie hanging loose around his neck. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the strong, corded muscles of his throat and the dusting of dark hair at the top of his chest. He didn't see me at first; he just sighed, a deep, tectonic sound, and sank into his oversized leather armchair.

"Quiet house today," he noted, finally noticing me. His voice was like velvet over gravel, sending a familiar shiver down my spine.

"The quietest," I murmured, sliding off the sofa. I didn't walk toward him; I stalked. Every step felt like a transgression. "Mom is out for the count, and Reign is... well, you know Reign. Chasing trouble somewhere."

I didn't stop until I was standing right in front of him. In this house, I had perfected the role of "Daddy's Girl." It was the ultimate camouflage. It allowed me to touch him, to lean on him, to occupy his personal space in a way that would have looked scandalous for anyone else.

I sank to the floor, kneeling between his legs, and rested my chin on his knee. "You look exhausted, Jordan. Is work that bad?"

"Just meetings that could have been emails, Emma," he sighed, his large hand coming down instinctively to rest on my head. His fingers threaded through my hair, a gesture that was supposed to be paternal, but I felt the way his hand trembled slightly.

I leaned into the touch, turning my face so my cheek pressed against the firm, warm muscle of his thigh. I could smell him-the scent of cedarwood, expensive stationery, and that faint, intoxicating hint of bourbon. It was the scent of authority. The scent of a man who provided everything, but held back the one thing I truly craved.

"You work too hard for us," I whispered, my hand trailing up his leg. My fingers grazed the fine wool of his slacks, tracing the line of his quad.

I felt the shift instantly.

Jordan's hand in my hair went still. His breathing, usually so measured and calm, hitched. Beneath my cheek, I felt the unmistakable, sudden surge of his reaction. He was hardening, right there, with his wife sleeping just thirty feet above our heads.

The adrenaline was a physical drug in my system. I looked up at him, my chin still on his knee. Jordan was staring down at me, his face a mask of warring emotions. The "gentleman" was losing the fight to the predator I'd heard through the wall three nights ago. His pupils were blown so wide his eyes looked almost entirely black.

"Emma," he warned, his voice a low, dangerous vibration that vibrated through my very bones. "You... you should go check on your mother. See if she needs water."

"She told me not to disturb her for anything," I breathed, my hand moving higher, my palm cupping the heavy heat blooming beneath his zipper. "And I don't want to be with her. I want to be here. With you."

The air in the room became heavy, thick with the scent of impending sin. Jordan didn't push my hand away. He couldn't. His fingers tightened in my hair, almost painfully, pulling my head back so I had to look at him.

"You have no idea what you're doing," he hissed, but his hips betrayed him, bucking upward into my hand.

"I know exactly what I'm doing, Daddy," I countered, the word hitting him like a physical blow.

I reached for his belt, the metallic click of the buckle sounding like a gunshot in the silent room. My heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs, the fear of being caught only making the fire in my gut burn hotter. I slid his briefs down, and he finally let out a choked, muffled sound of surrender.

He was massive-thick, pulsing, and hot enough to burn. He was everything I had imagined and more.

I didn't hesitate. I leaned forward, packed my hair up in a loose ponytail and took him into my mouth, the velvet heat of him overwhelming my senses.

Jordan's head slammed back against the leather of the chair, a guttural groan escaping him that he desperately tried to stifle by biting his own lip. His hands flew to my shoulders, his grip bruisingly tight as he pushed me further down, his body taking over where his morals had failed.

The risk was a living thing in the room. The living room had huge, vaulted ceilings and open archways; the maid could walk in, or my mother could wake up and call down from the landing. But that was the point. I wanted to be his secret. I wanted to be the thing that made this powerful man tremble.

I worked him with a frantic, rhythmic suction, my eyes never leaving his face. I wanted to see him come apart. I wanted to see the moment Jordan Blackwood forgot he was a husband and remembered he was a man.

He groaned again, a sound of pure agony and ecstasy. He reached down, grabbing my waist with those huge, capable hands, and hauled me up. In a blurred motion of limbs and silk, he shifted us until we were in a tangled, desperate 69 position in the armchair.

I was tasting him, my tongue tracing the length of him, while he buried his face in me, his tongue rough and demanding. The synchronization was perfect-the same rhythm I'd heard through the wall, but this time, I was the one receiving it. The adrenaline made every sensation electric. I was finally claiming what was mine.

Then, the heavy, rhythmic thud-clack of the front door echoed through the foyer.

"Emma? I forgot my sunhat!"

My mother's voice. She wasn't upstairs. She must have slipped out the back door for the garden and come back through the front.

The world stopped. Jordan's heart was drumming against my chest like a cornered animal. We were a mess of exposed skin and frantic breathing, tangled in a chair that faced the very archway she was about to walk through.

"In the living room, darling!" she called out, her footsteps clicking closer on the hardwood.

Jordan's eyes met mine, wide with a terrifying blend of horror and lingering, dark lust. We had seconds. Maybe less.

EMMA'S POV

The sound of my mother's heels on the hardwood was the countdown to a firing squad.

Click. Clack. Click.

In a blurred explosion of frantic movement, the living room transformed from a den of sin back into a family sanctuary. Jordan shoved me off him with a strength that nearly sent me sprawling onto the rug. He was a whirlwind of panicked precision-zipping, buckling, and tucking his shirt back into his slacks with trembling hands.

I scrambled to my feet, my heart hammering so hard against my ribs I was sure it would bruise. I smoothed the silk of my dress, my hands shaking as I tried to erase the evidence of his grip from my hips. My face felt like it was on fire, my cheeks swollen and tingling from the friction of him.

"Emma?" my mother's voice called out again, right outside the archway.

Jordan sank back into the armchair, his face pale, his chest still heaving as he tried to force his breathing into a normal rhythm. He grabbed a stray newspaper from the side table and spread it across his lap just as mom rounded the corner.

"There you are, honey you're back?" she said, smiling as she walked in, swinging a wide-brimmed straw hat by its ribbon. "I thought you were napping. It's so quiet in here."

She looked radiant-oblivious and soft in her floral sundress. The sight of her made my stomach turn with a toxic mix of guilt and triumph. I had just tasted the man who belonged to her, and the ghost of him was still coating my tongue.

"Just... just catching up on some reading, Emma said you were having a migraine induced sleep so I decided to wait until you wake up." Jordan managed to say. His voice was an octave higher than usual, a strained rasp that he tried to cover with a cough.

"You look flushed, honey," mom said, walking toward him with that easy, wifely grace that usually made me grit my teeth. "Is the AC not working?"

"It's just the humidity," he muttered, not meeting her eyes.

I stood by the window, my back to them, pretending to watch the birds in the garden. I could hear her moving closer to him. I could hear the rustle of the newspaper as she leaned over his chair.

"Move over, you hog," she teased playfully, nudging his leg. "I want to sit with my husband."

I turned just in time to see her slide onto the edge of the chair, forcing Jordan to shift back. She looked at me and winked.

"Honestly, Emma, you'd think I was the one intruding on your time with him. You're always resting your head on him like a little cat. Leave the poor man alone for five minutes so I can have him."

The irony was a physical weight in the air. I forced a tight, innocent smile. "Mom, are you jealous? Everybody knows I'm a Daddy's girl."

Mom laughed, a light, tinkling sound that unnerved me making me feel worse than guilty. She turned back to Jordan, her hand reaching up to cup his jaw. "You've been so tense lately. Let me give you a proper hello."

She leaned in, her eyes fluttering shut as she pressed her lips to his.

I watched, frozen, as Jordan flinched. It was subtle-a slight recoil, a tightening of his shoulders-but I saw it. He shifted his head back, trying to turn the kiss into a brief peck on the cheek, but mom was insistent. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply, forcefully.

When she finally pulled away, her brow furrowed. She touched her tongue to her bottom lip, a look of confusion crossing her face.

"Jordan?" she whispered, staring at him. "That's... that's strange."

Jordan froze. "What is?"

"You taste... sweet? And salty? Sour?" She tilted her head, her eyes searching his. "Did you have a snack? Or is that a new lip balm? It's a very distinct taste."

The silence that followed was suffocating. My blood turned to ice. I knew exactly what she was tasting. She was tasting me. She was tasting the aftermath of what I had just done to him, the aftertaste of the sin we just committed.

"I... I don't know," Jordan stammered, his hand going to his mouth as if he could wipe the evidence away. "Maybe I just forgot to brush after lunch. My stomach has been a bit off."

"Maybe," mom said, though she still looked puzzled. She leaned in to try and kiss him again, but Jordan stood up abruptly, nearly dumping her off the edge of the chair.

"I actually should go and brush now," he said, his voice regaining some of its boardroom authority through sheer desperation. "I have a conference call in twenty minutes and I feel... unkempt."

He didn't look at me as he strode out of the livingroom, his movements stiff and hurried.

I waited until I heard his footsteps clear the stairs before I spoke. "I think I'll go use the guest bathroom, Mom. The heat is making me feel a bit oily."

"Of course, dear," mom said, already reaching for the newspaper he'd dropped, her suspicion seemingly forgotten as quickly as it had appeared.

I didn't go to the guest bathroom. I went straight to the one in my bedroom, my heart still racing. I closed the door and slumped against it, my legs finally giving out. I was shaking, the adrenaline crash leaving me weak. I had almost been caught. We had all almost been destroyed.

I walked to the sink and splashed cold water on my face, trying to scrub the heat from my skin. I looked in the mirror, my eyes bright and wild. I was terrified, yes, but underneath the fear was a dark, addictive thrill. I had marked him. My mother had tasted me on his skin, and she didn't even know it.

A soft knock on the bathroom door made me jump.

"Emma?"

It was Jordan. His voice was a low, urgent whisper through the wood.

I opened the door just a crack. He was standing there, his shirt still slightly rumpled, his eyes burning with a renewed, unhinged intensity. He didn't say a word. He just pushed his way inside and locked the door behind him.

He grabbed my waist and hauled me against the sink, his hands shaking as they found the hem of my dress.

"You have to finish what you started," he growled, his face inches from mine. "I was barely able to hide it from her. I'm still... I'm going to lose my mind if you don't help me."

He stepped back just enough to show me. He was still fully, painfully erect, straining against his slacks. The gentleman was gone again. There was only the man who was willing to risk everything for a few more minutes of the forbidden.

"Right here?" I whispered, my heart leaping. "With Mom just downstairs?"

"Right here," he rasped, his hand reaching for the zipper of his pants. "I can't wait another second."

The sound of my mother humming a tune in the living room floated up through the floorboards as Jordan lifted me onto the marble counter.