2. Faye
FAYE
The first thing I notice is the dampness between my thighs.
My fingers twitch against the sheets, my skin prickling with heat. The room is too warm, the air thick, like the moment before a summer storm. I blink, my eyelids heavy, my body still tangled in the remnants of sleep.
Then I see them.
Dark stains on the pale cotton of my sheets. A few splatters near my hip, another closer to my knee. My breath catches, my stomach twisting.
I sit up too fast, my head spinning. My camisole is twisted around my waist, the fabric damp where it clings to my skin. My panties are on, but they're off—too like they've been tugged back.
My pulse hammers in my throat.
The contract.
The last page.
The blank line waiting for his signature.
He was here.
I swallow hard, my fingers digging into the mattress. My skin burns, and I feel something coiling low in my belly.
But all I can imagine is what happened. The way his hands would've felt, rough and calloused, sliding up my thighs. The way his breath would've hitched when he saw how wet I was.
I press my thighs together, my clit throbbing.
He finally really looked at me.
ButI have been looking at him for two years already.
I can still remember the first time I saw him.
I was eighteen, fresh out of high school, my head full of dreams about taking over the winery.
He walked into the tasting room like he owned the place…
which, I'd later learn, he wanted to. Tall, six-foot-five, broad-shouldered, his silver-streaked hair catching the light like polished steel.
His eyes were sharp, amber and hazel swirling together, like whiskey in a glass.
I'd never seen a man like him before.
Older, forty-one years old then, commanding. Dangerous.
He'd looked at me, and I'd felt it everywhere. My skin had prickled, and ever since, I can't stop thinking about him.
I'd also dreamed about him.
I'd told myself it was just a crush. A stupid, schoolgirl fantasy. That it would fade.
It didn't.
It almost did… when he married my mother.
But then I found out that it was transactional.
My mother had sat me down, her expression carefully neutral. "Flynn and I have an arrangement," she'd said. "He's investing in the winery."
I'd nodded, my throat tight. "Why marry?"
She'd hesitated. "Banks threatened to foreclose on our winery. He invested millions to save the vineyard, and marriage is a contract that will protect us both."
I'd just nodded again, my fingers digging into my palms.
That's why I couldn't stop wanting him.
And now?
I took the chance.
He's seen the contract.
And he agreed.
The stairs creak under my bare feet, each step heavier than the last. My skin still hums, my thighs slick with the ghost of his touch. I clench my fists, nails biting into my palms, as if pain could anchor me.
The scent of coffee and bacon hits me before I round the corner. My stomach growls, but hunger isn't the only thing twisting inside me.
Flynn stands at the stove, his back to me.
The morning light spills through the kitchen window, catching the silver streaks in his hair, the dark strands on top still damp from a shower.
His shoulders stretch the fabric of his black Henley, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle and veins.
His hands—rough, calloused, capable—move with practiced ease, flipping bacon in the pan.
I swallow hard.
He turns slightly, his profile sharp in the golden light. The stubble along his jaw and upper lip glistens. His lips press into a thin line, his focus absolute.
My breath catches.
He's handsome.
Not in the way models in magazines are handsome. Not polished or pretty. Dangerous. Like a storm rolling in over the vineyards, all dark clouds and jagged lightning.
"You're up." His voice is low, rough.
I don't answer.
He glances over his shoulder, his amber-hazel eyes locking onto mine. They're darker in the morning light, like whiskey left in the sun. His gaze flicks down, taking in my bare legs, the oversized T-shirt I threw on.
My face burns.
"Sit." One word. One syllable. And yet, it sends a shiver down my spine, my thighs pressing together.
I force myself to move, my legs unsteady. The chair scrapes against the tile as I pull it out, the sound too loud in the quiet kitchen. I sit, my fingers twisting in the hem of my shirt.
Flynn turns back to the stove, his movements fluid, controlled. The bacon sizzles, the scent rich and salty. He cracks eggs into a bowl, the shells clinking against the ceramic. His hands are steady, sure.
I watch the way his muscles shift under his shirt, the way his back flexes as he stirs the eggs. My mouth goes dry.
He sets a plate in front of me, the eggs fluffy, the bacon crisp. A fork clatters beside it.
"Eat." His voice is gruff, his eyes never leaving mine.
I pick up the fork, my fingers trembling. The first bite is heaven, salt and fat and warmth, but I barely taste it.
Because of him.
All I can think about is the way his hands would feel on my skin. The way his stubble would scratch against my thighs. The way his voice would sound, rough and low, as he tells me exactly what he was going to do to me.
I shift in my seat, my clit throbbing.
Flynn leans against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest. His biceps bulge, the fabric of his shirt straining. He watches me, his gaze heavy, like he can see every filthy thought running through my head.
My breath hitches.
He smirks.
And I know.
He's not going to make this easy.
The fork scrapes against the plate, too loud in the silence between us. I stab a piece of egg, my fingers slick around the metal. The food tastes like ash.
Flynn doesn't eat. He just watches me, his arms still crossed, his biceps straining against the sleeves of his shirt. His gaze is heavy, like a hand pressing down on my chest.
I swallow, my throat tight. "You don't have to stare at me while I eat."
His lips twitch. "You stare at me all the time."
Heat floods my cheeks, my nipples tightening under my shirt. I shift in my seat, my thighs pressing together. "That's not?—"
"True?" He pushes off the counter, his boots thudding against the tile as he steps closer. "You think I don't notice, Faye?"
I glare at him, my pulse spiking. "That's not what I was going to say."
"No?" He tilts his head, his eyes gleaming. "Then what were you going to say, princess?"
The nickname sends a jolt through me. I hate how much I like it. Hate how my body reacts to him, like he's flipping a switch I didn't know I had.
I set my fork down, my hands trembling. "I was going to say that's not staring. It's not appropriate."
Flynn chuckles, low and dark. "Appropriate." He says the word like it's something dirty. "You offered an unusual contract last night, Faye. And now you're worried about appropriate?"
My face burns, my breath coming faster. "Then why did you sign it?"
"Why not?" He leans forward, his hands braced on the table, his face inches from mine. His breath is warm, smelling of coffee and mint. "Are you worried because I'm your stepfather?"
I lift my chin, my heart hammering. "No."
His eyes flash, his jaw tightening. "Good. Because we're not related by blood."
I scoff, my fingers curling into fists. "And I know about your arrangement. The contract."
Flynn goes still, his gaze sharpening. "Did she now?"
I nod, my throat dry. "She said she never saw you as her husband."
His lips press into a thin line, his eyes darkening. "It's true."
I swallow hard, my chest aching. "What about you?"
"She was just a business partner." His voice is rough, his gaze burning into mine. "Nothing more."
I nod, my breath hitching. "What about me? Just a stepdaughter?"
Flynn reaches out, his fingers brushing my cheek, his touch searing. "Would I have signed the contract if you were just a stepdaughter?" His thumb traces my bottom lip, his touch possessive.
My fingers dig into the edge of the table, the wood biting into my skin. The kitchen feels too small, the air too thick. Flynn's thumb still brushes my lip, his touch sending sparks across my skin.
I pull back, my breath uneven. "Speaking of the contract. We need rules."
His eyes darken, but he doesn't move. "For what?"
I nod, my pulse hammering. "For... whatever this is."
Flynn exhales, slow and controlled, like he's reining himself in. He straightens, his hands dropping to his sides. "Alright. Rules."
I swallow, my throat tight. "No sleeping pills."
His jaw tightens, but he nods. "Agreed."
I twist my fingers together, my nails leaving half-moon imprints in my palms. "And if I say stop?—"
"You say stop, I stop." His voice is rough, final. "No questions. No hesitation."
I exhale, my shoulders loosening just a little. "Okay."
Flynn steps back, his gaze never leaving mine. "What else?"
I bite my lip, my face heating. "I... I don't know yet what I like. What I don't like. And if there's something you want, you have to tell me. If something's too much, or not enough, or?—"
"Faye." His voice cuts through my rambling, low and steady. "I'll know."
I blink. "What?"
His lips twitch, just a little. "I know your body better than you do." He leans in, his voice dropping to a growl.
My face burns, my clit throbbing. I press my thighs together, my breath coming faster. "How is that possible? It's my body."
"If you could have seen what happened yesterday." He smirks.
I glare at him, my hands trembling. "I was asleep, of course I wouldn't. What happened?"
His thumb traces my jaw, his touch gentle. "I took care of you." His voice drops, rough and low. "Made sure you were satisfied."
My breath catches, my nipples tightening under my shirt.
Flynn's eyes darken. "I do have something I want to bring you." His gaze softens, his thumb brushing my bottom lip. "You work too hard, and you don't take care of yourself." His voice drops, rough and low.
"What do you mean?"
"You're not eating enough."
I glare up at him, my pulse spiking. "I eat."
"When?" His voice is low, dangerous. "When I put food in front of you? When I force you to take a break?"
My throat tightens. I open my mouth, but no words come out.
His jaw clenches, his eyes burning into mine. "You think I don't notice? The way you skip lunch because you're ‘too busy'? The way you collapse into bed, dead to the world?" He leans in, his breath hot against my ear. "You're running yourself into the ground, Faye."
I swallow hard, my chest aching. "I have to. The winery?—"
"Isn't going to survive if you don't." His fingers brush my cheek, rough and calloused. "You want to inherit this place? Fine. But you're not doing it by killing yourself."
My breath hitches, my eyes burning. "What do you want me to do?"
His voice drops to a growl, low and rough against my skin. "You're going to eat three meals a day. No excuses."
My breath hitches, my fingers twisting in the hem of my shirt.
"You're going to drink water. Not just coffee, not just wine. Water."
I swallow hard, my throat tight.
"You're going to sleep eight hours. No working late, no sneaking downstairs to check the vats."
The word slips out before I can stop it, sweet and sharp on my tongue.
"You're so strict, daddy."
Flynn goes still. His fingers freeze against my cheek, his breath hitching just once. The air between us crackles, thick with something raw and electric.
His eyes darken, the amber flecks in his irises burning like embers. "What did you just call me?"
I swallow, my pulse hammering. My lips part, but no sound comes out. I didn't mean to say it aloud. Not really. But now that it's out there, I can't take it back.
His jaw tightens, his fingers flexing against my skin. "Say it again."
I shake my head, my breath coming faster. "I?—"
"Say it." His voice is rough, commanding. His thumb presses against my bottom lip, forcing my mouth open. "Now."
My face burns, my clit throbbing. I lick my lips, my tongue brushing his thumb. "Daddy."
A growl rumbles in his chest, low and dangerous. His hand slides to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair. He yanks me forward, his mouth crashing against mine.
And I know.
I've just lit a fuse.
And I have no idea how to stop it.