Step-Daddy's Sin (18+)

Disclaimer:

This story contains explicit sexual content, strong language, obsessive love, and dangerously possessive characters who don't know how to play fair.

If you’re not into desperate characters, dark cravings, or unhealthy amounts of obsession and jealousy — this isn’t the book for you.

But if you’re ready for a wild, addictive ride filled with passion, obsession, and a whole lot of bad decisions that feel too good — buckle up.

You’re in for one hell of a story.

Ivy’s POV

"Miss me, Daddy?"

I smirk, stepping out of the black town car like I fucking own the world and him.

The Wolfe Mansion looms in front of me, more intimidating than I remembered. Cold, cruel, breathtaking.

Just like the man who lives inside it.

I lower my sunglasses down the bridge of my nose, letting my gaze sweep over the estate. The stone driveway gleams under the late afternoon sun, the marble lions on either side of the steps looking just as smug and judgmental as they did when I left three years ago.

Everything smells the same; money, power, polished wood, and secrets.

But I'm not the same girl who ran away at eighteen with a heart full of grief and a head full of stupid dreams.

Back then, I was scared. Lost.

Now, I'm fucking dangerous.

The heavy oak doors creak open before I even lift a manicured hand to knock. And there he is.

Alexander Wolfe.

Billionaire. Kingmaker. Devil in a goddamn suit.

And my stepfather.

For a beat, neither of us moves.

He just stands there, tall and lethal, wearing black slacks that hug those thick thighs and a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned, veined forearms—the kind you wrap your whole fucking life around when the world falls apart.

His dark eyes rake over me slowly, deliberately.

Not like a man greeting his stepdaughter.

No.

Like a predator cataloging his prey.

"Ivy, welcome home" he says, his voice rough like gravel soaked in whiskey. "Didn’t recognize you at first."

Liar.

He felt every inch of me the second I stepped out of that car.

I tilt my head, letting my long hair spill over my bare shoulder, and smile slow and syrupy. "Guess Daddy’s eyes are getting old, huh?"

His jaw ticks so hard I almost hear it crack.

"You need to stop calling me that," he growls, stepping out onto the porch, his big body blocking the sun—and the world—behind him.

God, he smells fucking dangerous.

Sandalwood. Leather.

The kind of scent that stains your sheets and your soul.

I saunter up the steps, dragging my fingertips along the stone railing as I pass, the click of my heels echoing like gunshots.

"I don’t know..." I purr, stopping inches from him, so close I feel the heat rolling off his skin. "You liked it when I was little."

"Ivy." His voice is a warning. A threat.

A promise.

I shrug, pretending not to notice the way his eyes dip to the soft swell of my cleavage. "It's just a word, Daddy. No need to get your boxers twisted."

He leans down, so close his breath brushes my lips. "You’re playing with fire, little girl."

My heart thunders, my nipples pebble under the thin silk of my top, but I keep my voice steady. Coy.

"What if I like getting burned?"

His pupils dilate. His hand fists at his side like he's physically restraining himself from grabbing me, pinning me against the goddamn doorframe, and teaching me a lesson I'll never forget.

God, I want him to lose control.

I want to see the man underneath the mask.

Instead, he drags in a breath through his nose, nostrils flaring like a caged animal.

"Your room’s ready. Dinner’s at seven. Don’t be late."

"Or what?" I tease, letting my tongue peek out to wet my bottom lip. "You gonna spank me, Daddy?"

He flinches like I slapped him—and then his mouth curves into something dangerous. Dark.

"I should throw you over my knee and beat that brat right out of you."

My thighs clench.

Oh, fuck yes.

I smile sweetly, batting my lashes. "Promises, promises."

Without another word, he turns on his heel and stalks inside, leaving the heavy door open like an invitation.

Or a challenge.

I follow, my heels clacking against the marble foyer.

The house smells like lemon polish, aged leather, and him.

It hits me right in the chest.

A rush of old grief. Of longing.

Of every lonely night I curled up in one of his button-down shirts, praying for him to just see me.

Now?

Oh, he sees me alright.

And he fucking hates that he does.

I drop my purse by the sweeping staircase, the grand chandelier above raining soft light down over us.

The air between us hums—thick with things we can’t say.

Yet.

"Did you redecorate?" I ask, twirling slowly, letting my skirt ride just a little higher.

His eyes narrow.

"No."

"Good," I murmur. "I always liked it the way it was. Cold. Empty. Just like you."

For a second, something flashes across his face. Pain. Regret.

Gone so fast I almost think I imagined it.

But I didn’t.

"Go unpack," he says roughly. "You look like trouble. I don’t have time for trouble."

I grin wickedly.

"Good thing I’m not giving you a choice."

And then, just because I fucking can, I brush past him again—this time letting my hand trail across his belt buckle.

He sucks in a breath so sharp it could slice through granite.

I laugh under my breath as I climb the stairs, feeling his molten gaze burning holes in my ass.

This time, I'm not the scared little girl waiting for scraps of attention.

This time, I'm the storm.

And Daddy’s about to drown in me.

Upstairs. My old room.

The moment I step inside, everything hits me. The pale pink bedding still looks pristine, untouched, like it’s been waiting for me to come back. The soft throw pillows are in their place, perfectly fluffed. Even the old photo of Mom on the dresser—faded edges and all—remains, like a shrine to a past I can never escape.

I sink onto the mattress, my bare toes kicking off my heels with a sigh. The familiar weight of the room presses down on me. The scent of lavender air freshener, the slight mildew from the old carpet, and… him.

Alexander. Daddy. The man who’s been in my blood for as long as I can remember.

My heart’s still pounding, but it’s not from nerves this time. It’s not because I’m back in this house, a place that holds both memories of comfort and deep-rooted pain.

No, it’s because of him. Because of how he looked at me.

His eyes—the same dark, stormy depths—still fucking see me.

But it’s different now.

Today, for the first time in my life, those eyes didn’t see the little girl I once was.

They saw me.

They saw a woman.

And, God, he hated it. Hated how I’ve changed, hated how I’ve grown into this… problem he doesn’t know how to handle.

I lean back, letting my arm drape lazily over my eyes, my body sinking into the softness of the mattress. The cool sheets against my skin remind me of how much time has passed. Of how far I’ve come.

From the shy, broken girl who left at eighteen to the woman lying here now, imagining how I’m going to drive him crazy.

What the hell am I doing?

No.

I know exactly what I’m doing.

I’m going to tease him. Break him.

Make him see me. Really see me.

Make him want me, like I’ve always wanted him.

Make Daddy sin.

To Be Continued...