CHAPTER NINE – THE MAN OF THE HOUSE AND THE SASSY BRAT
Talon
If there is such a thing as a point of no return, I am elbow-deep in it right now, chopping rosemary for a rack of lamb while the entire cabin glows with a constellation of candles.
The kitchen smells like woodsmoke, garlic, and my own guilty ambition.
Every surface is clean, the counters wiped until the granite gleams, even the floor swept.
I’ve run a lint roller over the couch. I’ve put the best sheets on the bed, the ones with a thread count so high they might as well be velvet.
It’s a seduction because I’ve decided tonight I’m going to claim Kat’s virginity, ruin her for anyone else, and cross the last red line I said I’d never touch.
I’m an asshole for planning it, worse for wanting it so bad I can barely focus on the prep work.
If I were a better man, I’d pour a whiskey, and call the whole thing off.
But I’m not a better man. I’m Talon McKnight.
The money’s already been transferred. I’m halfway hard and I haven’t even set the damn table yet.
I uncork a bottle of Opus One—a hundred-dollar wine, just to set the tone—and let it breathe while I finish the lamb.
The playlist is all slow jazz, the real stuff, Chet Baker and Billie Holiday, nothing that could be mistaken for irony.
I plate the salad, slice the bread, and arrange everything on the wooden table with a precision that borders on compulsive.
At the center is a candlelit hurricane lantern, the flame flickering with romance.
This is what a last supper looks like, I think, and for a moment I wonder if I’m the executioner or the man on the block.
Kat’s been upstairs for an hour. I told her, “dress for dinner—something soft, something that makes you feel beautiful.” She gave me a look, the kind that says you’re either a lunatic or a genius, and vanished up the stairs with a garment bag over her arm. I haven’t seen her since.
Now it’s almost seven, and I’m in the living room, wiping imaginary dust from the mantel when I hear her heels click on the hardwood. I turn and almost forget how to breathe.
Kat stands at the edge of the room in a pink wrap dress, the color so pale it borders on indecent.
The dress is silk, or maybe something that wants to be silk, and it clings to her body in a way that makes my cock throb.
The neckline is just low enough to hint at her bra, and the hem rides so high I can see the long, smooth run of her thighs.
Her hair is down, brushed to a golden sheen, and her lips are painted the softest rose.
On her feet: matching pink heels, strappy and delicate, a sharp contrast to her usual relaxed vibe.
For a second, I think Kat’s as nervous as I am, but then she cocks her head, gives me a sly smile, and says, “Is this a date, or is this part of a new research project?”
I laugh, but there’s a tremor in it. “A little of both.”
She takes a step closer. The dress rides up another half inch, threatening to reveal everything. “What’s the scenario this time?” she asks, voice teasing but uncertain. “Am I supposed to be a debutante? A mail-order bride? Or is this a Real Housewives thing?”
I shake my head. “No costumes. No props. Just you.” I pause, letting my gaze linger on her legs, her waist, her impossibly beautiful face. “Though if you want, we could try something new. I have an idea.”
She arches a brow, a challenge. “Hit me.”
I don’t hesitate. “We’re a family,” I say, keeping my voice low. “You’re my stepdaughter. We’ve both been fighting our attraction for months, but ever since your mother died, we’ve been circling each other, pretending it’s not what it is.”
Kat’s eyes go wide, her bust rising with excitement. “That’s so wrong.”
“Exactly,” I say. “That’s why it’s perfect.”
There’s a beat, a loaded silence as she processes. I half-expect her to bolt, to call me a pervert and storm upstairs, but instead she smiles, the real kind, crooked and sweet.
“Fine,” she says. “Let’s see if you can keep up, old man.”
I’m not sure which one of us is more relieved.
We sit at the table. I pour the wine. Kat waits for me to serve the lamb, then dives in with the appetite of a girl who never once dieted for a man in her life.
She mops the sauce with bread, drinks the wine in slow, elegant sips, and makes a point of never breaking eye contact.
I’m sweating, just a little, despite the cool air.
The conversation is safe at first—weather, her classes, a joke about the “hermit” I haven’t seen since last spring. I ask about the book she’s reading, some bodice ripper with a Fabio-like model on the cover. She asks about my writing, and I tell her it’s going slow, which is only half a lie.
But then the roleplay slips in, almost accidental.
“So what does your stepdad have to do to get your attention?” I say, swirling the wine.
She grins, and her teeth are perfect except for the one little snaggle at the front. “Maybe stop hiding in the woods like a cryptid?”
“Maybe I have my reasons,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “Maybe I’m afraid you’ll see me for what I am.”
“And what’s that?”
I let the silence fill in the answer. She holds my gaze, unblinking, until I have to look away first.
Kat changes the subject, but it’s a feint. “This is the best lamb I’ve ever had,” she hums, slicing a perfect pink medallion. “Do you cook for all your ladies, or just the ones you want to corrupt?”
I chuckle, the guilt mixing with pride. “You’re the first.”
She dabs her mouth with a napkin, then leans forward, elbows on the table, and says, “You know, in most stepdad romance novels, the guy’s already watched the girl through a peephole, or stolen her panties. Is that where we’re headed?”
My cock twitches at the mental image. I keep my face neutral. “If that’s what you want.”
Kat laughs, loud and real. “You’re supposed to be the one with experience, right? Isn’t that the point?”
I feel myself grow hot. I can handle most women, but Kat gets under my skin in ways I didn’t know existed. I want to take her right here, over the fucking table, but I force myself to pour another round of wine and try to play it cool.
She’s watching me, carefully. “Is it true?” she asks, voice soft now. “What you said before? That you want to… ruin me?”
I put the glass down, hard enough to slosh the wine. “Yeah,” I say. “It’s true.”
She looks at her plate, then at me, and there’s something new in her eyes. Hunger, but also anticipation. The kind that draws you closer to the flame.
She says, “You’re not going to break me, you know.”
I smile, but there’s no heat in it. “We’ll see.”
The rest of dinner is a contest—who can be more normal, who can ignore the fact that we’re both one heartbeat from leaping over the table and tearing the other apart.
She brushes my hand as she reaches for the bread.
I let my gaze linger on her cleavage when I think she’s not looking.
The candles gutter and flare, shadows jumping on the walls.
Finally, the plates are cleared, the wine is gone, and there’s nothing left to pretend.
I stand, circle the table, and offer her my hand. She takes it, small and strong, her grip a little shaky.
“You ready?” I say, keeping my voice level.
She nods.
I lead her up the stairs, every step heavy with promise. At the top, I pause, let her go first. Kat walks down the hall, hips swaying, then stops at the threshold of my room.
She turns, looks at me, and for a second, neither of us moves.
“Are you ready, Daddy?” she purrs. “I know I am.”
Then she steps inside, and I follow.
The air in the bedroom is velvet—warm, golden, and thick with the sugar of melted candlewax and the faint burn of aftershave.
The bed is made, sheets turned down, and the pillows plumped into perfect squares, a crime against entropy I’ve never attempted before.
Even the wardrobe doors are closed, hiding my mess, hiding any part of me that isn’t laser-focused on the girl in the pink dress.
Kat stands just inside the threshold, one hand curled around the doorframe as if she needs something solid to keep from floating away.
Her cheeks are cherry-bright. The heels make her legs longer, her hips rounder, and the dress, with its fake innocence and real danger, makes me want to bite through it.
But I wait, because this is a moment you only get once.
She looks at me—looks through me, like she knows me already.
I say, “Are you nervous?”
She licks her lips, the gloss catching candlelight. “A little.”
I nod, pulse hammering. “Me too.”
She smiles, soft and gentle, and steps fully into the room. I close the door behind her, then turn the lock with a click that feels final.
We stand there, six feet apart, a universe of tension between us. I want to say something perfect. Instead, I just breathe her in.
“Come here, Kitten,” I say, and the words come out gentle, even though my cock is already straining the zipper.
She comes to me, arms at her sides, hands trembling just a little. I touch her face first, thumb tracing the line of her jaw, the way her pulse jumps under her skin. Then her hair, so soft it’s like a cat’s pelt. I want to memorize every inch.
“Turn around and let Daddy undress you,” I say, and she does.
I reach for the bow at the small of her back, fingers fumbling as I untie it, then let the fabric fall open.
She gasps at the chill on her skin, but doesn’t cover herself.
The dress slides from her shoulders, down her arms, pools around her ankles like rose petals.
She stands in a pink bra, g-string, and heels, her body so perfect it makes my cock ache.
I kneel, just for a second, to slide the dress away. My face is level with her ass, round and high, barely caged by a whisper of rose mesh. I run my hands up her calves, over the backs of her knees, and she shivers.
“Good girl,” I say, letting my voice go low, deeper than before.