Slap. Slap. Slap.
The rhythmic, metallic groaning of the Jeep’s suspension echoing across the open driveway was weird enough. But it was that heavy, wet, unmistakable sound of bare flesh repeatedly meeting flesh that made my hand stall on the screen door.
I was turning eighteen today, and I was finally getting the birthday camping trip I’d begged Mom for since I was ten. I had only come downstairs to “help” load the bags like the good daughter I pretended to be.
Curiosity overpowering my common sense, I stepped off the porch. I took one slow, involuntary step onto the concrete, then another, blindly tracking those filthy, rhythmic sounds around the corner of the garage.
The absolute second the front of the Wrangler came into full view, my feet permanently rooted themselves to the ground.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I definitely wasn't supposed to see this.
Mom was bent completely in half over the hot metal hood of the Jeep. Her floral skirt was shoved violently up around her ribs, her panties dangling uselessly from one ankle. And Paul...
Paul stood directly behind her, completely shirtless, his faded jeans shoved down just far enough to free his impossibly thick, heavily veined cock. He drove his hips forward in savage, punishing strokes, burying himself hilt-deep with so much brutal force that the heavy vehicle rocked on its tires.
"Fuck—yes—harder, Er—" Mom tried to scream, but Paul’s massive hand suddenly clamped hard over her mouth, ruthlessly swallowing the rest of her desperate, breathless whine.
"Shhh. Keep that pretty mouth shut," he snarled, his voice a dark, feral rumble that vibrated straight down to my core. "Unless you want the whole damn street to see how greedy you are, you take it quietly."
Her muffled words melted into a breathless, desperate plea against his skin. "Mmmph—God, your cock feels so fucking good!"
Paul’s free hand crashed down across her bare ass cheek with a deafening SMACK. A stark red handprint bloomed instantly across her skin.
"That’s right. Take every inch of it quiet for Daddy," he commanded, his grip on her jaw tightening. "This tight pussy belongs to me. Tell me who owns you."
He slammed back into her, a violent, wet squelch echoing in the crisp air as his hips snapped forward. Water from the garden hose still dripped down his corded chest and hard abs, mixing with a thick sheen of sweat as he pounded her like a ruthless, territorial animal.
I never expected my stepdad to have this side—so dominant, primal, and unapologetically feral.
I should have run back inside.
Instead, my knees nearly buckled. A heavy, liquid heat instantly flooded between my thighs, soaking my panties in seconds.
My clit throbbed with a sharp, demanding ache. My own breathing turned to ragged, shallow pants, my pulse helplessly syncing with the brutal, unrelenting rhythm of his thrusts. Without thinking, my hand slipped beneath the elastic of my shorts. My fingers dipped into my own mess, pressing hard, grinding against the throbbing heat.
I squeezed my eyes tight, my imagination instantly superimposing me into her place. I could almost feel the scorching, sun-baked metal pressing against my bare stomach, burning my skin. Then came the phantom weight—dense, sweat-slicked, crushing the air out of my lungs. I felt the rough scrape of calloused palms hooking under my hip bones, fingers digging deep into the soft flesh, anchoring me. That massive, aggressive thickness stretching me open, tearing through the ache, was overwhelming.
My hips twitched involuntarily as I neared the edge, a soft moan slipping past my lips. With a harsh gasp, I forced my eyes open, desperate to drink in the real thing to finish me off.
Then, our eyes locked.
For one endless, heart-stopping second, he saw me—his stepdaughter—standing there watching him rail my mother. But his thrusts only got rougher, deeper, like the sight of me fueled his fire even more. His dark green eyes burned into mine, raw hunger flashing across his face before he forced his expression back to neutral.
My stomach dropped. I stumbled backward, nearly tripping, and ran.
I didn’t stop until I was locked in my bedroom, my back slammed against the door, panting like I’d just sprinted a mile. My fingers were still sticky with my own wetness.
Oh my God.
I pressed my forehead to the wood, breathing hard. Shame and filthy need warred inside me. My skin felt too tight, flushed with a feverish heat that settled heavy and throbbing between my thighs.
Then I forced myself to move, because standing there was pure torture.
I zipped the last of my clothes into the duffel bag with shaking hands, trying to shove the imagery out of my head. It barely worked. Every time I blinked, I saw him—the sweat gleaming on his flexing muscles, the brutal rhythm of his hips, and those dark eyes locking onto mine.
When I finally headed downstairs and forced myself out the front door, the summer air hung thick with the scent of wet concrete and fresh-cut grass. Mom was gone, leaving Paul alone in the driveway, washing the exact same Jeep.
He looked up as I stepped out, water still dripping from his muscular arms. He gave me that gentle, easy grin, as if I hadn't just caught him balls-deep in my mother minutes ago. As if he hadn’t locked his dark eyes on mine when he did it.
"Morning, birthday girl," his voice wrapped around me like smoke.
His gaze drifted down, tracking the thin fabric of my shorts until it landed dead center between my thighs. My heart stopped. The light cotton offered no secrets—the shameful wetness from earlier had soaked through, forming a damning spot that betrayed exactly what I'd been doing.
When his gaze finally dragged back up to meet mine, there was a raw, knowing heat burning in his eyes. It was the look of a man who vividly remembered the sight of my fingers buried in my own wet panties.
I instinctively jerked my legs together.
"You excited?" he murmured. His voice had turned thick and slow.
Excited. The word hit me like a physical blow. My filthy mind instantly flashed to the throbbing ache between my own legs. Did he know?
Then reality crashed over me like a bucket of ice water. Birthday. He means your birthday, you idiot.
My cheeks flared hot.
"Yeah. Um, let me—let me help," I blurted out, lunging toward the hose in his hand. If I could just grab it and splash my own legs, I could blame the wetness on the spray.
"Oh, sure thing, Sunshine." A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he straightened. Water sluiced off his bare, muscular chest as he held out the nozzle. "Here. Finish rinsing the hood while I coil this up."
The hood. The image of Mom bent over it flashed violently through my mind.
I reached out. Our fingers brushed as I took the plastic nozzle. Skin on skin. Hot. Electric. I didn't pull away, and neither did he. Instead, his grip seemed to firm just a fraction. For one long second, our hands stayed locked, the rough calluses on his palm pressing against mine. His thumb twitched, barely grazing my knuckles.
He paused, slowly releasing the nozzle. His head tilted slightly, and there was a flicker of something heavy and unreadable in his gaze. "You okay? You're flushed." His voice dropped a register.
I forced a laugh, which came out breathless. "Just excited. About the trip." My pulse thundered in my ears. "It's been forever since we did something like this. All three of us."
"Yeah." His grin softened. "Feels right, doesn't it? You turning eighteen, finally getting your camping wish. Your mom's thrilled too, even if she's currently upstairs sneezing."
He wrung out the rag, water splattering against the concrete.
Of course she caught a cold.
He stepped closer to grab a towel from the Jeep's hood, his bare shoulder nearly brushing mine. I could smell him now: clean sweat, pine soap, and the faint metallic tang of hose water. My stomach clenched hard.
My thumb slipped on the nozzle's trigger, sending a rogue jet of cold water blasting directly across his broad chest.
I froze. But he laughed—a low rumble that started deep in his chest. He shook his head, sending a shower of droplets flying into the summer air. The morning sunlight caught the water tracking down his deeply tanned skin, tracing the heavy cut of his pecs and the sharp, ridged lines of his stomach. With his damp brown hair falling messily over his forehead and that blinding, wicked grin carving into his rugged jaw, he was devastatingly, unfairly handsome.
"Easy there, baby girl." He reached over, his fingers closing gently around mine on the nozzle to steady it. "Like this. Slow and steady."
Warm. Firm. Guiding. Every nerve in my body lit up at the contact. I couldn't breathe right. His chest was inches away, still glistening, rising and falling with his easy breaths. I stared at a single droplet tracing down his sternum. My core pulsed, fresh heat rushing to where I was already soaked through.
Slowly, deliberately, his gaze dropped. He tracked the exact path my eyes were glued to, following the sharp lines of his own stomach right down to where my stare was hungrily fixated on the V-line disappearing into his jeans.
"You sure you're good?" he asked.
"I'm fine," I whispered, almost breathless. "Just… happy. To be doing this."
A low, dark chuckle vibrated deep in his chest, the heavy sound traveling straight through his calloused fingers into mine.
"Happy to be washing the Jeep?" he murmured. His voice dropped an entire octave, turning thick and dangerously slow. "Or just happy watching me?"