Somno Stepdad's Daddy Obsession (Stepdad's Sleep-Play #2)

1. Flynn

FLYNN

Gravel bites into the soles of my boots with every step, the sound sharp against the hush of dawn.

The mist hasn't burned off yet, clinging to the vines like a ghost reluctant to let go.

It softens the edges of everything… the rolling hills, the gnarled trunks, even the weight pressing down on my chest.

This place was never silent when my wife, Evelyn, was here. She'd be out here before the sun, clipboard in hand, already barking orders about irrigation leaks or the fertilizer schedule.

Now, the only thing left of her is the dream she never got to bottle.

The winery's first luxury reserve collection.

And the responsibility she dumped in my lap.

No, our lap.

The thought drags my gaze toward the southern rows before I can stop it.

My stepdaughter, Faye's, already there, bent over a cluster of grapes, making her five-foot-one size smaller. The morning light hits her just right, turning her glossy jet black hair into a river of blue-black silk.

She moves like the world's not even there…

shoulders squared, back straight, fingers working with a precision that comes from years of doing this in her sleep.

Lean muscle shifts under her skin as she stretches, the hem of her tank riding up just enough to flash a strip of sun-kissed skin above her waistband.

My throat tightens.

She's been out here since sunrise, same as every day. Dirt streaks her jeans, smudges her cheek, but she doesn't slow down. Doesn't even look up when I approach, just keeps snipping away the imperfect grapes.

Evelyn's will didn't leave us much choice. Before Faye can inherit Bennett Estate Winery, we've got to run this place together for one full season. Winter pruning to harvest bottling.

Side by side. Every damn step.

My late wife always did have a twisted sense of humor.

I veer toward the irrigation lines, pretending to check for leaks while keeping Faye in my peripheral vision. She doesn't stop. Doesn't even glance my way. Just keeps working, like if she moves fast enough, she can outrun the exhaustion dragging at her shoulders.

Yesterday, I watched her skip lunch.

Again.

By late afternoon, she was still out here, knees in the dirt.

"You eat breakfast yet?" The question slips out before I can stop it.

She blinks up at me, like I've just interrupted some deep conversation she was having with the grapes. "I'll eat later."

"You always say that."

"And I always mean it."

She doesn't.

Doesn't get much sleep either.

The dark circles under her eyes also tell a different story. Yet she's still beautiful.

But also stubborn.

I shake my head and turn away before she can argue. No point in starting something I can't finish.

But as I head back toward the winery, I catch her watching me.

Just a flicker. A second, maybe less.

Then she's back to the vines, fingers flying like she's trying to erase the moment.

Coincidence. Has to be.

Except it's not the first time. Yesterday, I turned around and found her staring. The day before that, too.

Every damn time I look over my shoulder, she's there… until she realizes I've caught her. Then she's suddenly very interested in the grapes.

Maybe she's just making sure I'm pulling my weight.

Maybe she's wondering if I'm still drowning in grief.

Or maybe I'm just desperate for something I've been dreaming about.

Yeah. That's all it is.

I'm imagining things.

The office door creaks open, and Faye steps inside without knocking. Her cerulean eyes flick to mine for just a second before she crosses the room and sets a stack of documents on my desk.

"These need your signature," she says, voice steady. "Mostly supply orders and maintenance requests. The last one's the contract for the new fermentation tanks."

She doesn't wait for me to respond.

Just turns on her heel and walks out, leaving the scent of flower—maybe the lavender soap she uses—lingering in her wake.

The pen in my hand stills over the ledger I was going through before she came in. Numbers blur as the weight of her presence lingers.

I exhale through my nose, forcing my gaze back to the columns of ink.

The numbers don't add up right. Again.

My jaw tightens.

I force myself to focus.

The pen scratches against paper as I finally figure it out. My fingers pause mid-motion when I catch sight of the contract buried beneath the stack. The one Faye handed earlier.

A slow exhale escapes me. Faye's handwriting curves across the top margin—Priority: Reserve Collection—neat, precise, the same way she handles everything.

My thumb traces the edge of the paper, rough against my calloused skin.

She's been pushing herself too hard. Skipping meals, working until her hands shake.

I exhale slowly and reach for the papers.

The first few are exactly what she said. Invoices, work orders, standard vineyard business. I sign them without really reading, my mind still on the way she'd looked at me earlier in the rows. The way her gaze had lingered just a second too long.

Then I flip to the last page.

My fingers still.

It's not a contract for fermentation tanks.

It's something else.

Her signature sprawls across the bottom in bold, confident strokes.

I, Faye Bennett, hereby agree that Flynn Donovan may do anything he desires while I am asleep. No limits. No restrictions.

Below it, a blank line waits for my signature.

The paper trembles slightly in my grip.

I shouldn't be feeling this.

I shouldn't be imagining the possibilities.

My pulse thuds in my throat.

I read it again.

Slowly.

The words don't change.

Anything I desire.

While she's asleep.

My grip tightens, crumpling the edge of the paper.

This isn't right.

Faye wouldn't… She couldn't…

But there it is. Her signature. Bold. Unmistakable.

I exhale through my nose, jaw clenched.

She's exhausted. Overworked. Probably playing a prank on me.

That's the only explanation.

The pen in my hand feels heavier than it should. My fingers flex around it, knuckles whitening.

I should walk out there and tell her she's being reckless.

But I don't move.

Because the heat pooling low in my gut doesn't care about what's right or wrong.

I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking under my weight, and stare at the words again. My pulse thrums in my throat, thick and heavy. The office suddenly feels too small, the air too thick.

Faye.

Asleep.

The thought slams into me with the force of a freight train, and I have to grip the edge of the desk to steady myself. My cock twitches against my zipper, hardening at the mere idea of her sprawled across her bed, limbs loose with sleep, completely unaware of what I could do to her.

I could touch her.

Taste her.

Take her.

The images flash through my mind like a filthy slideshow. Her tits rising and falling with each slow breath. Her lips parted just enough to let out the softest whimpers. The way her body would arch into my touch, even in sleep, her subconscious recognizing its master before her mind caught up.

My breath comes faster.

I shouldn't want this.

She's my stepdaughter.

She's half my age.

But none of that matters when I imagine the way her nipples would pebble under my fingers, the way her thighs would part when I pressed my palm between them, the way her cunt would grow slick and hot even while she dreamed.

I could make her come without ever waking her.

I could fill her with my cock and leave her dripping with my seed by morning.

I could claim her in the most primal way possible, and she'd never even know.

The thought is intoxicating.

Dangerous.

Forbidden.

Even if I never thought about doing it before.

But with her… I want to.

My hand hovers over the blank line, the tip of the pen pressing into the paper. The metal is cool against my fingers, a stark contrast to the fire raging through my veins.

One signature.

That's all it would take.

One signature, and she'd be mine in ways she's not ready to understand.

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry.

I shouldn't.

But God help me, I want to.

The pen touches the paper.

And I sign my name and stand.

The hallway stretches too long, each step echoing like a drumbeat in the quiet house. My pulse hammers in my throat, my fingers flexing at my sides. The contract burns a hole in my pocket, the weight of my signature pressing against my thigh with every stride.

Faye's door is slightly ajar, a sliver of golden light spilling into the darkness. I push it open without a sound.

She's there.

Spread across the bed like an offering.

Her jet-black hair fans across the pillow, glossy and tangled from sleep. The sheets are twisted around her legs, one bare thigh peeking out, pale and smooth. She's wearing a thin camisole, the fabric clinging to her curves, the neckline dipping just low enough to tease the swell of her breasts.

My breath catches.

She's beautiful.

Too beautiful.

Guilt coils in my gut, sharp and bitter. What the hell am I doing? She's exhausted from working herself to the bone, and here I am, creeping into her room like some kind of predator.

I should leave.

I should.

But then she shifts.

A soft sigh escapes her lips as she rolls onto her side, the movement pulling the camisole tight across her chest. The fabric rides up, exposing the soft curve of her belly, the dip of her waist. And lower… just a hint of lace peeking out from beneath the hem of her panties.

My cock throbs, hard and insistent against my zipper.

She moans in her sleep, a quiet, breathy sound, and my resolve shatters.

I step closer. My shoes are silent as I cross the room, my shadow falling over her like a shroud.

"Faye," I murmur, my voice rough.

She doesn't stir.

I crouch beside the bed, my fingers hovering just above her shoulder. "Faye," I say again, louder this time.

Nothing.

She's out cold.

A slow exhale escapes me, my chest tight. This is wrong. So fucking wrong.

But then her lips part on another sigh, and my control snaps.

I reach out.

My calloused fingers brush against her arm, tracing a path up to her shoulder. Her skin is warm, soft. She shivers under my touch, a quiet whimper slipping from her throat.