Chapter 13: Scarlet Temptation
The afternoon sun streamed through the west-facing windows of the living room, casting long, warm rectangles across the Persian rug. Dust motes danced in the slanted light. The house held its breath, a still-life of domesticity waiting to be shattered. Stone had spent the day in a state of humming anxiety, his note from the morning burning a hole in her mind. I cannot fix this. But I cannot stop.
The words were a key, turning in a lock she hadn’t known needed opening. They were permission and condemnation all at once. She’d taken a long bath, shaved her legs until they were slick and smooth, and then stood for a full ten minutes in front of her closet. She bypassed the sundresses, the jeans. Her fingers went to the back, to the single item she’d bought on a reckless, hopeful whim last semester—a purchase she’d never had the courage to wear.
Now, she wore it.
The crimson lingerie was satin and lace, a contrast against her pale skin and flame-colored hair. The cups of the bra were sheer, her nipples dark and visible through the pattern. The matching panties were high-cut, a scrap of fabric that did little to conceal. She pulled on a single black stocking, fastened it to a garter belt, and left the other leg bare. A deliberate asymmetry. A question.
She arranged herself on the dark leather couch, the material cool against her skin. One stocking-clad leg was hooked over the backrest, the other foot planted on the floor. She let her head fall back against the armrest, her hair spilling like a hemorrhage. She waited.
The click of the key in the front door was precise, metallic. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
The door opened, and there he was, backlit by the hall light. Erik stepped inside, his suit jacket slung over one shoulder, his briefcase in his other hand. He was mid-step, his body moving on autopilot towards the kitchen, his mind undoubtedly already on a drink, on the paperwork in his bag.
His gaze swept the room, passed over her, and then snapped back. He froze. Every muscle in his body locked. The briefcase slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a dull, heavy thud.
His eyes, those piercing blue eyes, went wide, then dark. They travelled the length of her: the exposed line of her throat, the swell of her breasts barely contained by red lace, the flat plane of her stomach, the junction of her thighs where her own fingers rested, lazily circling her clit over the thin satin.
She watched his face change. The weariness of the day evaporated, replaced by a stark, consuming hunger. His jaw tightened. His pupils dilated, swallowing the blue. His gaze dropped to his own body, and hers followed. The front of his tailored slacks tented, the fabric straining over the sudden, rigid swell of his cock.
“Daddy’s home,” she purred, the words smoky and low.
A muscle twitched in his cheek. He didn’t speak. He dropped his jacket, his eyes never leaving hers, and slowly, deliberately, loosened his tie, pulling the silk free from his collar with a soft hiss. He stalked toward her, each step measured, predatory. The space between them, filled with golden light and old memories, crackled.
He stood over her, his shadow falling across her body. The scent of his cologne, of the outside world, mixed with the faint, sweet smell of her arousal. He reached down, his fingers not touching her skin, but hooking under the strap of her garter. He let the elastic snap back against her thigh with a gentle, punishing twang.
“Fuck, baby girl,” he breathed, his voice gravel. “You’re all wrapped up like a present for me.”
“I am,” she said, arching her back, offering herself. “Open me.”
He knelt then, between her spread legs, his hands sliding up her stockings to her bare thighs. He pushed them wider, his grip firm. He lowered his head and pressed his mouth, hot and open, against the damp satin covering her pussy. He inhaled deeply, a shudder running through his big frame.
“You’re soaked for me already,” he muttered. “Been thinking about this all day, haven’t you? Sitting here, playing with this pretty cunt, waiting for me to walk in.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He hooked his thumbs into the sides of her panties and ripped them. The satin tore with a sharp, satisfying sound. He tossed the shredded fabric aside and stared at her, bare and wet and open to him.
His first lick was a flat, broad stroke that made her cry out. He held her down, his hands like manacles on her hips, and devoured her. This wasn’t the tender, reluctant mouth of the morning. This was a feast. He ate her with a greedy, noisy abandon, his tongue plunging inside her, then flicking rapid-fire over her clit. He suckled, he nipped, he speared her with an intensity that had her heels digging into the small of his back.
“Erik, please,” she begged, her fingers tangling in his grey-streaked hair.
He pulled back, his chin slick with her. “Please what?”
“Fuck me. Now.”
A grim, dark smile touched his lips. He stood, fumbling with his belt buckle, his fly. His cock sprang free, thick and veined and already leaking. He didn’t bother with his shirt, just shoved his slacks and briefs down to his thighs. The sight of him, half-dressed, so hard for her, was more indecent than any fantasy.
He leaned over her, bracing one hand on the couch back by her head. The other guided his cock, rubbing the broad head through her wet folds, coating himself in her. He nudged at her entrance, and with a single, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt.
The air left her lungs in a whoosh. He was so deep, so impossibly full. The leather creaked beneath them.
He didn’t move, just let her feel it, let her adjust to the stark, delicious intrusion. He looked down at where they were joined, watching himself disappear inside her.
“Look at that,” he whispered, awe and self-loathing twisting his voice. “My little girl’s cunt, taking every inch of her stepdad’s cock. You were made for this. Weren’t you?”
She could only nod, her eyes rolling back.
He began to move, a slow, deep, punishing rhythm. Each withdrawal was almost complete, each slam back in a claim. The couch groaned in time. His breath was hot on her neck. “You ruined me,” he grunted, his pace quickening. “That note… fucking lilies on the table… your mother’s handwriting… and your dirty little secret tucked inside. You’re a devil.”
“You liked it,” she gasped, meeting his thrusts. “You loved it.”
He slapped her thigh, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “I did. Christ, I did.” His thrusts became ragged, uncontrolled. He was chasing it now, chasing the feeling that would absolve him for five seconds. “Tell me you’re mine. Say it.”
“I’m yours,” she moaned. “Only yours.”
“This cunt is mine.” He slammed into her. “These tits.” He ripped the flimsy bra cups down, taking a nipple into his mouth, biting down. “This mouth.” He kissed her, deep and filthy, his tongue mimicking the thrust of his cock. “All mine.”
She was coiling tight, the pleasure a blinding white fire in her gut. “I’m gonna come,” she warned, her nails digging into his shoulders.
“Come on my cock,” he commanded, his own breathing a harsh rasp. “Come all over it. Make a mess for me.”
It broke her. The orgasm tore through her, violent and shattering, her body clamping around him in rhythmic pulses. He watched her face contort, his own strained with a terrible, beautiful ecstasy.
“Fuck,” he snarled, and with three final, brutal lunges, he came. He threw his head back, a guttural sound ripped from his throat as he pulsed inside her, hot and deep. He collapsed onto her, his weight pinning her to the couch, his face buried in the crook of her neck.
They lay there, a tangled, sweaty mess of limbs and torn clothing. The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant tick of the hall clock.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out of her. A trickle of warmth followed. He didn’t move for a long time.
When he finally pushed himself up, he wouldn’t look at her. He fixed his clothes with quick, efficient movements, tucking his still-damp cock away. He ran a hand through his hair, his back to her.
Stone lay spent, the leather cold where his body had been. She watched him, this man who was her ruin and her only home.
He walked to the hallway, picked up his briefcase and jacket. He paused, his hand on the newel post. Without turning, his voice low and hollow, he spoke to the empty air between them.
“She called. Your mom. The traffic was bad. She’s turning around. She’ll be home in twenty minutes.”
Then he walked upstairs, and a moment later, she heard the shower turn on.
Stone stared at the ceiling, the taste of him on her lips, the ache of him between her legs, the scent of sex thick in the air of her mother’s living room. The golden light had faded to a dull grey. Somewhere, a car door slammed in a neighboring driveway.
Twenty minutes.
She got up, her legs shaky. She gathered the torn red satin from the floor.