My Stepdad, the World Cup Security Chief (Erotic novels #26)

Chapter 1

Every door in the U.S. Fan Village opens for my stepdad’s keycard, including mine, and he’s about to fuck my mother on the other side of this wall.

My mother, Dr. Elena Delgado, runs the medical wing with a clipboard and a God complex. My stepfather, Marcus Delgado, runs everything else—surveillance, patrol schedules, the master keycard that overrides every lock in this compound without leaving a trace except a patrol log entry.

Right now, at half past midnight, he’s running my mother.

I’m on my back in the dark, still in my tank top and cotton shorts, when the first sound comes through—a wet, rhythmic slap, skin on skin, unmistakable and accelerating. Then my mother’s voice, high and breathy, a pitch I’ve never heard from her in a medical briefing: “Marcus.

Yes. Right there. Yes.” Her signature. I’ve heard it before, years ago, through the walls of our house in San Diego. I was seventeen then, pretending to sleep with a pillow clamped over my head. I’m not pretending now.

My face burns. My thighs press together without permission.

His grunts come next—low, instructing, the same tone he uses on the radio when clearing a sector. “Take it.

Take all of it.” A sharp smack follows, palm on flesh, and my mother keens. The sound punches straight down through my stomach and settles between my legs.

I press the heel of my hand against my pubic bone, eyes wide open in the dark.

The wall vibrates with their rhythm—doggy-style, I can tell from the angle of the impact, the way her cries get muffled when her face is pushed into the mattress.

I know because I know him. I’ve catalogued everything about Marcus since I was eleven years old: the way he ties knots, the scar across his right knuckles, the cedar aftershave he’s worn since I met him.

How he bandaged my scraped knees when I was little, squatting to my level with a Batman Band-Aid and steady hands. How he taught me to drive stick shift at fifteen, patiently calm even when I stalled four times at the same intersection.

How he looked at me on my eighteenth birthday when I came downstairs in a backless silver dress and he excused himself to the bathroom. I heard a groan through the door that night too—my name, half-swallowed, cut off like he’d bitten his own wrist.

I shove my shorts down to my knees. My fingers find my clit already swollen, slick with a wetness that has nothing to do with the LA summer.

The wall delivers more: her signature “Marcus! Yes!” climbing into a wail, his growl deepening, the slap of their bodies accelerating into a final, brutal cadence.

I match the pace with two fingers inside myself, grinding my palm against my clit, my other hand twisted in the sheets.

I remember the time he accidentally swatted my rear in the kitchen—I’d worn one of Mom’s short robes, the burgundy one, and bent over to grab a pan from the lower cabinet.

His palm landed on my ass with a crack that echoed off the tile. He flushed crimson and apologized three times while I stood there clutching the pan handle, treasuring the sting.

My mother screams her climax. Marcus follows with a guttural, shuddering sound I’ve never heard him make—not on the radio, not in a briefing, not when he’s angry.

It’s a surrender noise. Then everything goes quiet except for their breathing, and then the whispers start: his low rumble, her soft laugh, the intimate murmur of two people who belong to each other.

Jealousy twists in my stomach like a blade. I’m wet and aching and nowhere near orgasm, my fingers still moving but suddenly useless.

They’re sharing something soft through that wall—love, or the habit of it—and I’m alone in my regulation bed with my hand cramping and my shorts around my knees and nothing that belongs to me.

I withdraw my fingers and wipe them on the sheet. My heart pounds against my ribs.

The wall is silent now. Somewhere in the corridor, a fluorescent light hums under the constant surveillance of cameras that Marcus controls.

He’ll walk these halls tomorrow night, running his room checks, and I’ll be in Unit 14 with a chair wedged under the doorknob out of old habit and no real barrier at all.

I roll onto my side, sticky and furious and unsleeping. My body throbs with a hunger I can’t satisfy alone.

Somewhere on the other side of that drywall, Marcus Delgado is falling asleep beside his wife, and his keycard is sitting on the nightstand, still logged into the system.

Tomorrow, I will find a way into his patrol.