Chapter 2: Morning After the Almost

I woke with my thighs slick and my clit still throbbing from the memory of last night. The loft bed felt too small, sheets twisted around my legs like they were trying to hold me down. Every time I shifted, the ache between them flared—his thick shaft pulsing against my soles, the way my toes had curled around him under those churning jets. I pressed my face into the pillow and bit back a moan. He’s my stepdad. But fuck, I came harder thinking about him than I ever did with anyone else.

Downstairs the coffee maker hissed. I slipped into my tiniest sleep shorts and a thin white tank top, no bra, nipples already peaked from the cool mountain air drifting through the open window. Mom’s snoring still rumbled from the master bedroom—deep and uneven, like she’d polished off that third bottle before passing out. She’d been hitting the Pinot hard since the drive—three bottles in two nights already. Good. I padded down the stairs barefoot.

Mark stood at the counter, shirtless, broad back flexing as he poured two mugs. Steam curled up around his shoulders, catching on the dark hair dusting his chest. Sunlight slanted through the kitchen window and highlighted every ridge of muscle earned from years on construction sites. He turned, and our eyes locked. No words. Just that thick, heavy silence that made the air feel electric. His gaze dropped to my chest, then lower, lingering on the way the shorts rode up my thighs. I didn’t look away. The charged look said everything the text from last night hadn’t.

Mom was still dead to the world upstairs, hungover and useless. Mark handed me a mug, fingers brushing mine longer than necessary. “Sleep okay, kiddo?” His voice was rough, low, like he’d been replaying the same memories I had. I sipped, letting the heat burn my tongue. “Not really. Kept thinking about ... the water.”

He didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched. The kitchen felt too small. I wanted to climb him right there, but Mom’s distant snores kept us leashed. Instead he set his mug down. “Hike? Clear our heads before she wakes up.”

We took the trail behind the cabin, pine needles soft under our boots, morning mist still clinging to the evergreens. He walked close, shoulder bumping mine on the narrow path. Every time the ground got rocky he reached back, hand settling on my hip, fingers splaying wide like he owned the spot. The touch lingered—thumb stroking the bare skin above my waistband. I kept calling him “Daddy” in that playful voice I’d always used, but now the word dripped with new weight. Each time it left my lips his grip tightened.