“I still think we should’ve just hit the park,” I muttered, slumping deeper into the velvet cinema seat as the previews began to roll. It was the third time I’d complained since we arrived.
Mom twisted toward me, a handful of popcorn frozen halfway to her mouth. “Zoe, it’s my treat. Before you start ‘adulting’ and spending your first paycheck on us, let me spoil my baby girl a little.”
She popped a kernel between her lips and flashed a grin that belonged to a twenty-five-year-old, not a woman in her forties.
Blake sat between us, his massive frame taking up more than his share of space. One thick, muscular arm draped casually along the back of Mom’s seat, his long fingers lazily tracing the curve of her shoulder. As the screen flickered, he caught my eye and let a doting smile tug at the corner of his mouth.
A flush of heat creeping up my neck that had nothing to do with the stuffy theater.
It had been like this since the minute he hauled his life into our house—He was my mother’s new husband.
I watched the way his broad shoulders threatened to rip the seams of his fitted shirt. My eyes tracked the corded veins mapping his forearms, ending in heavy, capable hands. He carried a devastating, dominant gravity that seemed to suck the oxygen out of every room he entered. Every time our eyes locked, a suffocating heat pooled low and heavy between my thighs.
I felt whenever he brushed past me in the hallway, close enough for me to inhale the intoxicating scent of cedarwood, expensive bourbon, and raw male heat.
God, I was fucked up over him.
And I knew it was forbidden.
It was pure torture watching him haul Mom against his chest, or leaning down to murmur some low, gravelly secret into her ear that earned him her private, breathless laugh. A toxic spike of jealousy twisted in my gut. Why did she get to whimper for him behind closed doors while I was left starving for a single look?
On the screen, a half-naked actress was straddling a man in a neon-lit hotel room. She threw her head back, her lips parting in a loud, exaggerated moan that vibrated through the theater’s surround sound.
At first, Mom’s hand was just resting innocently high on Blake's thigh. But as the scene on screen turned graphic, her fingers began to trace slow, agonizing circles over his dark denim. She grew bolder with every passing second.
Just as the actress ground her hips down, Mom’s hand slid aggressively higher. Her knuckles deliberately brushed the thick, unmistakable ridge straining against his zipper.
I saw the exact second Blake’s jaw locked. His free hand curled into a white-knuckled fist on his knee. The movie’s audio intensified, the wet, rhythmic slaps of cinematic sex filling the silence between us.
He leaned in, his lips practically grazing Mom's ear. “You’re playing dirty,” he warned. His voice was a dark, tectonic rumble that sent a shiver straight to my core.
Mom let out a wicked little giggle that mimicked the gasps from the speakers. “You love it,” she whispered, her fingers giving him a firm, possessive squeeze through the heavy fabric of his jeans.
Did they even remember I was there? I pressed my bare thighs together, desperately trying to stifle the slick, throbbing ache between my legs. The heavy bass of the movie vibrated through the floorboards, but I was hyper-focused on the rustle of denim and the ragged edge of my stepfather’s breathing.
Blake’s hand slid down her spine until his large palm clamped over the swell of her ass. He squeezed the soft flesh hard through her thin sundress, drawing a sharp, needy gasp from her. She arched into his grip for a heartbeat before pulling away and smoothing her dress as if nothing had happened.
A few minutes later, Mom leaned in close to him and whispered something I couldn’t quite catch.
“Restroom,” she announced to me in a casual voice. She slipped past Blake’s parted knees, her hips swaying with deliberate grace as she disappeared up the dark aisle.
Blake stayed glued to his seat for ten agonizing seconds, taking deep, jagged breaths. He was clearly waiting for the massive, straining bulge tenting his jeans to subside. It didn't. In the flickering light of the screen, it was impossible to miss. And I was staring.
Then he leaned toward me. I was suddenly enveloped in his scent—the cedar, the heat, the sheer man of him.
“Gonna grab a refill,” he muttered. His voice was wrecked. “Want anything?”
I shook my head, my tongue too heavy to function. He stood up slowly, yanking the hem of his hoodie down to conceal the iron-hard erection straining his zipper. Then he followed her path, leaving me alone in the flickering dark.
My heart hammered a frantic, deafening rhythm against my ribs. I counted the seconds. Thirty. Forty. The pulse between my legs was a demanding, relentless throb.
I stood up.
The hallway was dim, smelling of stale butter and floor wax. I wandered aimlessly until I spotted the restroom door standing ajar, a thin sliver of light spilling onto the carpet.
I heard it before I saw it—a wet, rhythmic sound that made my lungs seize. I edged closer on silent feet, and peered through the gap.
Holy shit.
Mom’s back was to the door, her dress hiked up around her waist, her panties discarded on the tile. Blake had her bent over the sink, one massive arm reaching around to wrap firmly around her throat, pulling her back into a sharp arch, the other clamped onto her hip with bruising force.
His jeans were shoved just low enough. His thick, veined cock was driving into her in rough, hungry strokes. Each thrust made her body jolt, the wet smack of skin against skin echoing off the tiles.
“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he growled, forcing her head back, exposing the flushed column of her neck in the mirror before he slammed back into her.
“Harder, Blake—don’t stop, please!” Mom’s voice was shaky, desperate.
I couldn’t move. I couldn't breathe. Seeing him like this—this feral, broad-shouldered animal claiming her—shattered the image of the cool, patient man I knew. This man was a monster. A thick, ruthlessly dominant monster, and the primal energy radiating off him was suffocating.
My knees nearly buckled. A sudden, heavy wetness pooled in my underwear.
His hips snapped against hers with feral force. Every thrust shoved a helpless sound out of her, making her thighs quake as slick trails ran down her skin. I watched him bury himself to the root, pulling out glossy and dripping before driving back in like he was marking territory.
That should be me. The thought was a physical blow. That should be my body burning under his weight.
I clamped my thighs together, trying to trap the ache. I wanted to claw the door open, shove her aside, and beg him to ruin me the same way—only harder, rougher.
Blake sped up, grunting low with every snap of his hips. His balls slapped against her obscenely loud. Mom’s fingers scrabbled at the porcelain edge of the sink.
“Yes—right there!”
His palm cracked down on her ass, leaving a bright red handprint that made her whimper.
“You’re mine,” he rasped as he chased the finish.
The muscles in his back flexed like coiled steel, sweat glistening at the nape of his neck. It was pure torture. Mom seized first, a choked cry slipping out as she clenched around him.
Blake buried himself balls-deep one last brutal time. A deep, guttural groan ripped out of him as he ground slow circles, his hips locked tight. He pumped thick, hot ropes deep inside her, filling her until she overflowed. When he finally pulled free with a wet, obscene pop, slick strings of heat still connected them.
Then, he stopped.
With agonizing slowness, he turned his head. His gaze sliced through the narrow sliver of the doorway, pinning me perfectly in the dark.
Our eyes collided.
The air vanished from my lungs. Every rational thought was incinerated by one terrifying realization:
He’d known I was there the whole time.