My Father’s Wife Chapter 04

My Father’s Wife Chapter 04

Clara’s POV

The rest of the drive was torture.

I spent every mile trying not to touch Julian again.

I kept my shoulder pressed to the door, my hands locked in my lap, my eyes fixed on the dark blur of highway beyond the glass.

I could still feel him beside me.

The heat of his arm. The rough brush of his sleeve. The memory of his voice outside that restroom door, low and knowing, as if he had already seen through every lie I was telling myself.

I was terrified that if his skin touched mine one more time, I wouldn’t pull away.

By the time we reached the Cape, it was nearly ten.

Arthur was too irritated from the drive to notice anything. He poured himself three fingers of scotch, complained about traffic and market volatility, then disappeared upstairs before the ice had even melted in his glass.

Within half an hour, the Cape house had gone quiet.

Only the ocean was still awake, crashing hard beyond the glass doors.

I couldn’t sleep. My skin felt like it was on fire.

I walked out onto the cedar deck, wearing nothing but a black silk slip dress that clung to my damp skin.

Clink.

The distinct sound of a beer bottle cap hitting the floorboards made me spin around.

Julian was standing in the deep shadows of the doorway, his silhouette tall and imposing, a cold Corona dangling from his fingers.

“Can’t sleep, stepmother?” he asked, dragging out the title like an insult.

“It’s too loud,” I said, my voice shaking as he stepped out of the shadows.

He didn’t stop until he was entirely in my personal space, his chest nearly touching mine.

Before I could draw a breath, he lifted the beer bottle and pressed the condensation-heavy, ice-cold glass directly against the side of my warm neck.

I shivered violently, a sharp gasp escaping my lips. “Julian, stop. Someone will—”

“Dad’s out cold,” he whispered, his eyes dropping to my mouth. “Tell me you didn’t want this, Clara. Tell me you weren’t thinking about me in that bathroom.”

Whatever restraint I’d been pretending to have finally gave way.

I reached out, wrapped my fingers into his tank top, and pulled him down to me.

Our lips crashed together.

It was bruising, frantic, and fueled by sudden, explosive lust.

Julian groaned into my mouth, his large hands gripping my waist and lifting me off my feet effortlessly.

He carried me down the deck stairs, our mouths never breaking contact, straight into the pitch-black shadows of the first-floor laundry room.

He slammed me back against the industrial dryer, the metal cold against my bare spine as he ripped the straps of my dress down.

His hands were everywhere—rough, hot, and heavy.

He lifted my legs around his waist, pinning me to the vibrating machine.

“Look at me,” he growled in the dark, his fingers gripping my chin.

I opened my eyes, panting, as he drove into me in one fierce thrust.

The fullness was overwhelming, every powerful stroke hitting deep, his balls slapping against me as the dryer vibrated against my ass.

I came hard around his cock, walls pulsing and milking him while waves crashed outside.