Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
For exactly one heartbeat I go rigid, shocked by the audacity, by how right it feels, and then my lips open and his tongue sweeps in, tasting of whiskey and fire. The beard burn on my chin is immediate, and I can’t help the sound that comes out of me—half whimper, half moan.
He drinks it in, his hand migrating from my jaw to the nape of my neck, threading into my hair. I clutch at his shirt, feeling the hard muscle beneath, the warmth of his body radiating through the thin cotton.
His other hand glides down my ribs, pausing at the waistband of my skirt. I’m trembling now, full-body, electric. He traces a circle just above my pelvis, teasing. He breaks the kiss, voice husky.
“Tell me to stop, and I will.”
He says it like a challenge, daring me to pull back. But I don’t, can’t, even though our embrace is totally taboo. Instead, I tilt my head up, inviting him, needing him.
He slides his palm flat across my stomach, the skin there hypersensitive, then dips his fingers into the waistband of my skirt and under the band of my panties. There’s nothing slow or shy about it; he knows exactly what he’s doing. His fingers part the lips of my pussy, two of them pressing into the wet heat, his thumb finding my clit like he’s mapped it already.
I gasp, then bite my lip. The only sound in the room is the fire, and the steady, obscene slick of his touch.
He presses his mouth to my ear. “Fuck, sweetheart. You’re soaked.”
I whimper, pushing into his hand. He strokes me with slow, devastating control, circling my clit with his thumb while his fingers work me, never rushing, never letting me forget who’s in charge.
He murmurs, “I love how wet you are. Only the young ones gush like a fucking fountain.”
My whole body is tight, every nerve a live wire. I clutch at his wrist, not to stop him but to ground myself, to keep from flying apart. The pleasure is sharp, exquisite, and terrifying. I want to cry out, but I bite down harder, the inside of my cheek raw.
He pulls me into another kiss, this one deeper, more possessive. His hand never stops moving, and the ache between my thighs builds, relentless.
Then, suddenly, a door slams somewhere outside. Jeannine’s heels clatter against the hardwood, her voice echoing as she yells something about napkins.
Kent’s grip tightens for a split second, and then he releases me, withdrawing his hand and pulling back with surgical precision. He stands, smoothing his shirt, the only evidence of what just happened the wild throb in my core and the trembling in my hands.
He retrieves the phrasebook, dusts it off, and sets it on the table as if nothing happened. I stare into the fire, heat blooming along my cheekbones, lips tingling. I try to steady my breathing, force my body back into stillness.
He glances over, blue eyes unreadable, and says quietly, “You should go help your mom with dinner. Jeannine’s probably freaking out.”
I nod, unable to speak. My knees are weak when I stand, my panties slick, the soft cotton chafing in a way that’s almost unbearable.
Then I slip away, cheeks heated and my entire body on fire. Thanksgiving dinner proceeds as usual, even if there are harsh streaks on Kent’s cheekbones, and despite the fact that I barely say anything. Everything proceeds without a hitch, thank god, and within a few hours, I’m back at my apartment, and lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling. Did that really happen? Did I just kiss my stepfather passionately, with my mom still in the house? Did he finger my pussy and rub my sensitive clit as I panted into his mouth? It feels like a fever dream, and yet the hot rush of blood through my veins tells me it’s not.
But Kent and I never talked about what happened, not that night, not ever. We go about our lives per usual, pretending that nothing went off the rails. And in some ways, I almost believe it. But at the most unexpected moments, I’ll catch him watching me from across the room, his gaze hungry and fierce. Or I’ll see that same dark flush on his cheekbones, and know that he’s aware of me a mere twenty feet away, although he’s talking with another person.
The memory hangs over everything, a storm cloud that never quite breaks. Even now, months later, it pulses behind my eyes, every time I hear his name, every time I smell whiskey or see the flash of lightning on a windowpane. Sometimes, I lie awake in my narrow bed, wishing he would come in and finish what he started. But that’s wrong right? After all, Kent’s my stepfather, so we’re nothing but two ghosts pacing the same haunted house, forever circling but never touching, except in the dark, except in dreams.