3. Violet #2
Those four words send dread through me. Nothing good ever follows "we need to talk."
But I nod, following him to the sitting area. We sit on opposite ends of the elegant sofa, me in my towel, him in his suit. The distance between us feels deliberate.
Vincent runs a hand through his hair, disheveling the silver-streaked black. He looks at me, away, then back again like he can't help himself.
"Last night was a mistake," he starts.
"No." My voice comes out stronger than I expected. "It wasn't."
His eyes narrow. "Violet?—"
"I was a virgin." I force the words out, need him to acknowledge what happened. "You took my virginity last night. On the plane."
His reaction is visceral. His hands clench on his thighs, muscles going rigid beneath the expensive fabric. His pupils dilate, and for a moment I see naked hunger flash across his face before he masters it.
"I know," he says quietly. "I shouldn't have. You're too young?—"
"I'm twenty-one."
"I was married to your mother."
"For less than a year. And she left. She abandoned both of us."
His jaw works. "That doesn't make this right."
I lean forward, letting the towel gape slightly. His eyes drop to my cleavage before snapping back up.
"I wanted you to be my first," I say clearly. "That's why I wrote the note. That's why I gave you permission."
"You don't understand what you're asking for?—"
"I'm not asking. I'm telling you what I want." Heat rises in my cheeks but I push forward. "I've been attracted to you for two years, Vincent. Living in your house has been torture. Seeing you every day, wanting you, knowing you wanted me too but wouldn't do anything about it."
His eyes flash. "You're twenty-one years old with your whole life ahead of you. Boys your own age who won't ruin your reputation?—"
"I don't want boys my own age." The words come out fierce. "I want you. And I know this is wrong. I know you were married to my mother. I know what people would think if they found out. I don't care."
"You should care." But his voice lacks conviction.
I move closer, drawn by the need to touch him. My hand lands on his thigh, feeling hard muscle beneath the fabric.
"I want to continue what we started," I say quietly. "I want you to use me while I sleep. That's what the note meant. Whenever you want. However you want. I trust you completely."
Vincent's control visibly frays. His hand covers mine, grip almost painful. "You don't know what you're saying."
"I know exactly what I'm saying." I look up at him through my lashes. "Don't you want me?"
For a moment, nothing happens. Vincent sits frozen, his hand crushing mine, his breathing harsh.
Then he breaks.
His hands grip my waist, lifting me effortlessly onto his lap. The towel rides up around my hips as I straddle him. Before I can process the movement, his mouth crashes against mine.
Our first real kiss. No cover of sleep between us. No hiding.
I open immediately, desperate for this. Vincent's tongue invades my mouth, tasting me, claiming me. His kiss is demanding, skilled, nothing like the fumbling attempts from college boys I've allowed over the years.
I moan into his mouth, my hands fisting in his shirt. He tastes like coffee and mint and something uniquely him. His hands grip my hair, tilting my head for better access. His other hand splays across my lower back, pulling me closer until I'm pressed flush against him.
I can feel his erection through his suit pants, hard and thick beneath me. The towel is bunched between us, barely covering anything. I grind down instinctively, seeking friction.
Vincent growls low in his throat, the sound vibrating through me. His mouth moves to my jaw, my neck, biting hard enough to leave marks.
"You're mine now," he growls against my skin.
The possessive claim sends shivers through me. "Yes. Yours."
His hands are everywhere—gripping my hair, squeezing my waist, sliding under the towel to palm my ass. Every touch brands me, reinforces his ownership.
This is so different from the plane. Then, I was asleep, with hazy memories of what happened. Now I can respond fully, show him exactly how much I want this.
"Vincent," I gasp as he bites my shoulder. "Please?—"
He knows what I'm asking for. His erection presses insistently against my core, separated only by his pants and the thin towel. I need him inside me again. Need to feel that fullness, that stretch, that claiming.
I reach for his belt with shaking hands.
Vincent catches my wrists, stopping me.
"No."
The single word is firm, commanding. I blink up at him in confusion.
"You're too sore," he says, his voice rough but controlled. "Your body needs time to heal."
"But I want?—"
"I know what you want." He cuts me off, gray eyes intense. "And I'm going to give it to you. Just not the way you're expecting."
Before I can ask what he means, Vincent lifts me off his lap and lays me back on the couch. The towel falls open, exposing me completely. I should feel vulnerable, laid out like this in full daylight. Instead, I feel powerful. Desired.
Vincent stands over me, his eyes roaming my body with undisguised hunger. This is the first time he's seen me fully naked in the light. No darkness to hide in, no clothing to obscure.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, almost to himself.
His hands slide up my legs, pushing them apart. His gaze lands on the bruises marking my hips, and satisfaction curves his mouth.
"Mine," he says, touching them possessively.
Then he kneels between my spread thighs.
I tense, suddenly nervous. No one's ever—I've never?—
"Relax." Vincent's command is absolute, his hands spreading my legs wider. "I'm going to take care of you, stepdaughter."
I open my mouth to correct him, to tell him I'm not his stepdaughter anymore—my mother left him already, the divorce papers are signed—but before I can form the words, his mouth descends on me, hot and demanding, and every thought scatters like smoke.
I forget how to think. I forget my own name.
"Oh—!" The sound tears from my throat as his tongue drags through my folds.
Vincent knows exactly what he's doing. His tongue circles my clit with perfect pressure, not too hard, not too soft. He explores me thoroughly, learning what makes me gasp, what makes my hips buck.
I'm already sensitive from last night, every nerve ending amplified. When his fingers join his mouth, teasing my entrance, I nearly come apart.
"Vincent—"
He slides one finger inside me carefully, testing. The stretch makes me wince—I'm still sore—but the pleasure quickly overtakes discomfort.
His mouth never leaves my clit. Licking, sucking, even gentle bites that make me cry out. He adds a second finger slowly, working me open with patient skill.
I'm soaking wet, my arousal coating his fingers as he pumps them steadily. The dual sensation of his fingers inside and his mouth on my clit is overwhelming.
My hands find his hair, gripping the silver-streaked black strands. I can't believe this is happening. That my stepfather is between my legs, doing this to me, making me feel things I didn't know were possible.
The taboo nature only makes it more intense. Every stroke of his tongue reminds me this is wrong. Every curl of his fingers inside me reinforces that we've crossed a line we can never uncross.
I don't care. I want more.
"Vincent—I'm—oh God—" My thighs start trembling, the orgasm building fast.
His fingers curl inside me, hitting a spot that makes white spots explode across my vision.
"Come for me," he orders against my pussy.