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The man I loved had already fallen for another woman while I was still in his bed, still pretending that what we had was enough. Worse still, I was carrying his child. We had just finished making love, slower than usual, almost tender. Then his phone buzzed. He reached for it immediately, and a small smile touched his lips. "Victoria," he said. "She just sent over the revised projections. This could be massive for the firm." "Do you like her?" I tried to ignore the knot in my chest. Damien sighed and set his phone down. "Soph... don't do this." But the cracks were already showing. Over the next few weeks, he grew distant. Canceled plans. Longer meetings. "Sophia... we need to talk." "About what?" "This. Us. The arrangement." He hesitated, jaw tight. "I think we should end it. It's run its course." My heart stopped. "Because of Victoria? You love her, don't you?" He didn't say yes. But he didn't say no. That silence told me everything. I walked out of his penthouse with my heart in pieces. No confrontation. No scene. But my body had other plans. Eight days after the breakup, I discovered I was carrying his child. Yet before I could even say the word pregnant, he had already blocked me completely. ____________ The city lights glittered like scattered diamonds against the floor-to-ceiling windows of Damien Voss's penthouse. At thirty-eight, Damien moved through the world with the quiet confidence of a man who had built an empire from nothing and who rarely allowed anyone close enough to see the cracks. Sophia Vale was twenty-four. For two years, that twelve-year gap had been the least complicated thing between them. Their arrangement was simple, clean, and brutally honest-at least on paper. Friends with benefits. No dates. No expectations. No staying the night unless exhaustion won. They had met at a mutual friend's rooftop party when Sophia, fresh out of her master's program and bartending to pay off student loans, had called him an "arrogant suit" for complaining about the watered-down whiskey. He had laughed-actually laughed-and later that same night found her in the hallway outside the restrooms. One sharp-tongued argument had turned into the hottest k1ss of her life against the wall. Two days later they set the rules. Rule one: This was se.x. Nothing more. Rule two: No jealousy. No questions about other people. Rule three: When it ends, it ends cleanly. For two years, they had both pretended the rules were enough. --- Sophia let herself into the penthouse with the spare key he'd given her after six months. She never used it without texting first. Tonight she had. *On my way. Rough day.* His reply had been typical Damien: *Door's open. So am I.* She found him in the kitchen, sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up, pouring two glasses of the expensive Cabernet he kept for her. His dark hair was still damp from a shower, and the faint scent of his cologne-woodsy, expensive, maddening-wrapped around her the second she stepped inside. "Bad board meeting?" she asked, slipping off her heels. "Long." His voice was low, rough at the edges. He handed her the wine, eyes dragging down the simple black dress she wore. "You?" "Final edits on the manuscript from he.ll. My editor wants it bleeding by Monday." She took a sip, letting the rich wine sit on her tongue. "I might actually murder someone." Damien's mouth curved-the half-smirk that always made her stomach flip. "Violent little thing tonight." He didn't ask for details. She didn't offer any beyond that. That was their rhythm. He was the CEO of Voss Capital. She was an aspiring thriller editor who moonlighted as a freelance writer. Their worlds barely overlapped except in this penthouse, in his bed, and occasionally in the shower. He set his glass down and crossed the space between them in three strides. Big hands framed her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones with surprising gentleness before the k1ss turned hungry. Sophia melted into it like she always did, fingers curling into his shirt, tasting the wine on his tongue and the familiar heat that had become her addiction. They never made it to the bedroom the first round. Damien lifted her onto the marble island, shoved the dress up her thighs, and dropped to his knees with the same focused intensity he brought to hostile takeovers. Sophia's head fell back against the cabinets as his mouth worked her, two years of knowing exactly how she liked it-slow, then relentless, then slow again until she was shaking and cursing his name. When she came, it was sharp and bright, his name torn from her throat. He stood, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and k1ssed her so she could taste herself. Then he was inside her-hard, bare, perfect. The rule about condoms had died after the first health checkups and her IUD. Nothing between them. Just skin and need and the wet sound of bodies that knew each other too well. "F.ck, Soph," he groaned against her neck, thrusting deep. "Missed this." She didn't say she'd missed him too. She never did. Instead she bit his shoulder through his shirt and rocked her hips to meet every stroke, chasing the second wave that always came harder when he was this deep. They came together that night-messy, loud, clinging. Afterwards he carried her to his bed even though the rules said she should leave soon. She let him. Lying in the dark, her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow, Sophia traced idle patterns on his stomach. "Damien?" "Hm?" "We've been doing this for two years." His hand paused where it had been stroking her hair. "Yeah." She waited for him to say something more. He didn't. Sophia swallowed the strange tightness in her throat. "Just making sure we're still on the same page." His chest rose and fell once. "Rules haven't changed." "Right." She forced a small smile even though he couldn't see it. "Good." She fell asleep there anyway. --- The next six months blurred the same way. Late-night texts. His car waiting outside her tiny apartment when she worked past midnight. Weekends where they barely left the penthouse-cooking together (him teaching her, mostly failing), watching old noir films, fu.cking on every surface until she was sore and glowing. Sometimes he would watch her while she read on his couch, legs tucked under her, glasses perched on her nose. She would catch him and raise an eyebrow. "Taking a picture, Voss?" "Memorizing," he'd answer, voice quiet in a way that made her heart do stupid things. But he never asked her to stay. She never asked what they were. Friends with benefits. Nothing more. Until the night everything started to crack. --- It was a Thursday. Sophia had brought takeout-Thai, his favorite-and they ate on the balcony overlooking the river. Summer air was thick and warm. Damien was quieter than usual, checking his phone more often. "Everything okay?" she asked. He set the phone face-down. "New investor. Pain in the as$. Blonde, talks too much, thinks she can charm her way onto the board." Sophia poked at her noodles. "Sounds fun." He snorted. "Not really." Later, after se.x-slower this time, almost tender-he pulled her back against his chest and murmured against her hair, "You smell like home." Sophia froze. He had never said anything like that before. She turned in his arms, searching his face in the low light. "Damien?" His eyes were unreadable. For a second she thought he might say something real. Something that would change the rules. Instead he k1ssed her forehead. "Get some sleep, Soph." She lay awake long after he drifted off. The next morning she left before he woke up-something she rarely did. She left a note on the kitchen island. *Early meeting. Thanks for last night. -S* No heart. No xoxo. Just like the rules said. Three years. That was how long Sophia Vale had been caught in Damien Voss's orbit-two years and ten months of late-night texts, stolen hours in his penthouse, and a connection that had started as pure physical release but had quietly become the axis her world turned on. The rules had always been clear. Friends with benefits. No strings. No future. No jealousy. But rules were easier to write than to live by when the heart refused to listen. --- The shift with Victoria Lang had been gradual at first, then undeniable. Victoria was thirty-two, sharp as a blade, and carried herself with the kind of effortless confidence that came from old money and newer ambition. She had entered Damien's professional life like a storm-smart, challenging, and beautiful in that polished, untouchable way. Sophia noticed the change in small things. Damien started mentioning her name casually during their nights together. "Victoria had an interesting take on the European markets today." "Victoria pushed me on the valuation. She's not afraid to call me out." At first, Sophia brushed it off. Business was business. But the late meetings grew longer. The canceled plans became routine. And the way Damien spoke about Victoria carried a spark of admiration that used to be reserved only for her. One night, after a particularly intense round of se.x where he had taken her against the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, Damien lay beside her, fingers tracing lazy circles on her bare hip. His phone buzzed on the nightstand. He reached for it immediately. A small smile touched his lips as he read the message. "Victoria?" Sophia asked, trying to keep her voice light. "Yeah. She just sent over the revised projections. This could be massive for the firm." Sophia turned on her side, studying his profile. At thirty-nine, Damien was in his prime-strong jaw, dark hair with the faintest threads of silver at the temples, and the kind of presence that commanded rooms. Twelve years older than her, he had always felt like safety and danger wrapped in one expensive suit. "Do you like her?" The question slipped out before she could stop it. Damien set the phone down and looked at her. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes-conflict, maybe guilt. "She's a good business partner. Brilliant, actually." "That's not what I asked." He sighed and pulled her closer, pressing a k1ss to her forehead. "Soph... don't do this. We have rules for a reason." She swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded. "Right. Rules." But the cracks were already widening. --- Over the next few weeks, the distance grew. Damien became more distracted, more restless. Their encounters felt urgent, almost desperate, like he was trying to hold onto something he knew was slipping away. He would text her at odd hours, show up at her apartment, and lose himself in her body as if trying to silence whatever was happening in his head. Yet he never stayed the full night anymore. One rainy Thursday evening, Sophia arrived at his penthouse with takeout, hoping for a quiet night like the old days. Damien opened the door looking exhausted but wired. "Victoria just left," he said automatically. The words landed heavily. Sophia forced a smile and set the bags on the kitchen island. "Busy day?" "Productive." He ran a hand through his hair. "She sees things I don't sometimes. Challenges me." They ate in near silence. Afterwards, when he pulled her into his arms and k1ssed her, it was fierce and consuming. He took her to his bed and made-love to her with a intensity that bordered on regret-slow, deep, almost reverent. Sophia clung to him, memorizing every touch, every groan, every whispered "Soph" against her skin. When it was over, they lay tangled in the sheets. Damien stared at the ceiling, one arm behind his head. "Sophia... we need to talk." Her stomach tightened. She sat up, pulling the sheet around her chest. "About what?" He hesitated, jaw clenched. "This. Us. The arrangement." The air felt thinner. "I think we should end it," he said quietly. "The FWB thing. It's run its course." Sophia felt the words like a physical blow. She stared at him, searching for any sign that this was a joke or a momentary doubt. There was none. "Because of Victoria?" Her voice came out smaller than she wanted. Damien sat up too, the sheet pooling at his waist. "It's not just her. It's everything. I'm thirty-seven . I'm at a point in my career where things are accelerating. You're twenty-five, building your own life. This was never supposed to be permanent." She laughed bitterly, tears stinging her eyes. "It wasn't supposed to feel like this either." He reached for her hand, but she pulled away. "I care about you, Soph. I do. These three years... they meant something. But I can't keep doing this half-thing. It's not fair to either of us." "Not fair," she repeated. The numbness was setting in. "So you're ending it. Just like that." Damien looked pained. "I'm sorry." Sophia dressed in silence, her hands shaking as she buttoned her blouse. At the door, she paused and looked back at him one last time-the man who had been her secret addiction, her comfort, her weakness. "Take care, Damien." She walked out without waiting for his reply. The elevator ride down blurred behind unshed tears. Outside, the rain had picked up, soaking her as she stood on the sidewalk trying to breathe. Three years gone in one conversation. --- The next few days passed in a haze. Sophia threw herself into work, editing manuscripts late into the night, ignoring the persistent ache in her chest. She deleted their old texts. Removed his spare key from her bag. Tried to convince herself it was for the best. But her body had other plans. The nausea started subtly-mornings where coffee made her stomach turn. Fatigue that no amount of sleep could touch. Mood swings that left her crying over commercials. At first she blamed stress, the breakup, the endless rain. On the eighth day after the breakup, she stood in the pharmacy aisle staring at pregnancy tests. It felt ridiculous. They had been careful... mostly. Her IUD was still in place. But something in her gut whispered otherwise. She bought two tests and went home. In the quiet of her small bathroom, Sophia stared at the plastic stick on the counter, heart pounding as the minutes ticked by. When the timer went off, she forced herself to look. Two pink lines. Clear. Undeniable. Pregnant. She slid down the wall, knees drawn to her chest, and let the tears fall freely. The weight of everything crashed over her at once-Damien's distant eyes, his decision to end things, the growing infatuation with Victoria, and now this. A baby. His baby. Alone. --- Sophia stared at the two pink lines until her vision blurred. Twenty-five years old, freshly single after three years of the most intense not-relationship of her life, and now pregnant by a man who had just ended things because his life was "accelerating" in another woman's direction. She couldn't tell him over the phone. Not something this big. Not when the conversation would decide the rest of both their lives. --- For the first three days after finding out, Sophia tried to be reasonable. She sent her first message the same evening she took the test. **Sophia:** Damien, I really need to see you. Can we meet for coffee tomorrow? It's important. Not something for text or call. No reply. The next morning she tried again. **Sophia:** Please. Just thirty minutes. Name the time and place. Still nothing. The message sat on "delivered" but unread. By day four she was calling. The first call rang four times before going to voicemail. She left a short message, voice steadier than she felt. "Damien, it's Sophia. I'm not calling to beg or fight about us ending things. I just need to meet you face to face. One coffee. Please call me back." He didn't. She tried twice more that day-once in the afternoon, once at night. Both calls went straight to voicemail. The second time she didn't leave a message. She simply sat on her couch in the dark, phone in her lap, fighting the nausea that had nothing to do with morning sickness and everything to do with the growing fear that he was already erasing her. --- Damien Voss, thirty-seven, sat in the private dining room of an upscale rooftop restaurant with Victoria Lang across from him. Candlelight softened the sharp lines of her face, and she looked stunning in a deep emerald dress that complemented her blonde hair perfectly. She was saying something about the upcoming merger-brilliant, strategic points as always. He nodded, smiled at the right moments, and tried to focus on the woman he had convinced himself was the future. Victoria reached across the table and brushed her fingers over the back of his hand. "You've been quiet tonight. Everything alright with the firm?" "Fine," he said automatically. "Just a lot on my mind." What he didn't say was that something was missing. The spark he had expected with Victoria-the effortless connection, the intellectual match that should have made everything click-was there on paper but felt hollow in practice. Their conversations were stimulating. Their chemistry was pleasant. But when he k1ssed her goodnight, it didn't burn. When she laughed at his jokes, the sound didn't settle warm in his chest the way Sophia's quiet, sarcastic chuckles used to. Sophia. He had been ignoring her messages for four days now. Every time her name appeared on his screen, guilt twisted sharply in his gut. He told himself it was better this way-clean break, no dragging things out. She would move on. He would move on. Victoria represented stability and ambition. Sophia had always been chaos wrapped in warmth, the one person who could make him forget the weight of his empire for a few hours. But he couldn't shake the memory of her face the night he ended it. The way her voice had gone small when she asked if it was because of Victoria. He downed the rest of his whiskey and forced a smile at the woman across from him. "You're right," he told Victoria. "Let's talk expansion plans. I want your vision on the London office." She lit up, launching into detailed analysis. Damien listened, nodded, and tried desperately to feel the excitement he knew he should feel. --- By the end of the first week, Sophia was desperate. She had thrown up twice that morning. Her editor had noticed she looked pale during their video call and asked if she was okay. She lied and said it was just stress. She tried one more time. **Sophia:** Damien, I'm not trying to force my way back into your life. This is genuinely important. Please give me 20 minutes. Any cafe near your office. Tomorrow at 10? I'll wait. She stared at the screen for twenty minutes. The two blue ticks appeared. He had read it. No response. Anger and hurt twisted together until she couldn't tell them apart. She typed again, fingers shaking. **Sophia:** If you keep ignoring me, I'll have no choice but to show up at your office. I don't want to do that, but you're leaving me no option. This time the reply came-short, cold, and final. **Damien:** Sophia, we ended things. I told you I'd provide financial support. Send me the details through email if it's money you need. I'm in back-to-back meetings this week. I don't have time for coffee. Sophia read the message three times, feeling something inside her shatter cleanly. The man who had once carried her to bed and whispered that she smelled like home was now treating her like an inconvenience to be handled via email. She didn't cry this time. She simply placed her phone face down on the table, rested a hand over her still-flat stomach, and whispered, "It's okay, little one. We'll figure this out without him if we have to." But even as she said it, fresh tears slipped down her cheeks. --- Damien stared at the sent message, jaw tight. He was in his penthouse office, the city glittering below. Victoria had left an hour ago after they reviewed contracts together. She had k1ssed him before leaving-soft, promising-and he had k1ssed her back, telling himself this was what he wanted. Yet the second Sophia's name had appeared again, all he could feel was a heavy, suffocating guilt mixed with something dangerously close to longing. He missed her. Not just the se.x-though God, he missed that too-but the way she would curl up against him after, stealing his warmth. The way she challenged him without fear. The way she made the massive penthouse feel less empty. Victoria was perfect on paper. Sophia had been perfect in the quiet moments that actually mattered. "F.ck," he muttered, pouring another drink. He almost typed back. Almost told her to name the place and he'd be there. But then Victoria's text came through. **Victoria:** Tonight was wonderful. Can't stop thinking about our plans for next quarter... and beyond :wink: He locked his phone without replying to Sophia. Some doors, he told himself, were better left closed. --- Sophia spent the next two days in a fog of nausea and quiet determination. She went to her first prenatal appointment alone. The doctor confirmed she was roughly six weeks along. The baby was healthy so far. When the nurse asked about the father, Sophia simply said, "He's not in the picture right now." She left the clinic with a folder of information, prenatal vitamins, and a quiet resolve hardening in her chest. That evening she tried one last time. Sophia : We need to talk and it's an emergency, I am pregnant, I always wanted to tell you this face to face but you left me no option rather than through this ..... But unknown to Sohpia Damien had already blocked her .

“I mean your shaft in my kitty and his shaft in my butt. Or the other way around. You two can fight over my holes.” My husband's best friend Finn’s fingers slide through my folds alongside my husband Ryan’s mouth,their combined touch making me buck forward with a cry. Finn lines himself up, and there’s a brief stretch as he breaches the tight ring of my butt, then blooms into fullness. “You look...” Ryan doesn’t finish. He sinks into my kitty, and a pleasure so intense my brain blanks out. I’m so amazingly full. The difference in their size and shape, the way they press against each other through the thin wall inside me. “I can feel your shaft against mine,” Ryan says, and he’s talking to Finn. “I can feel you through her.” “I feel you too,” Finn says, his voice strained. “Now screw her.” I’m not sure what I was expecting, but my husband’s frantic screwing knocks me down onto Finn’s shaft, and it’s incredible. “You like that? You like both of us inside you at the same time?” ———————— “That dress should be illegal.” Ryan says it low, almost to himself, but I hear it over the bathroom fan. I smooth the emerald sequins over my hips and let him watch. The hemline hits my thighs in that perfect spot that makes my legs look long and fabulous. I can tell he agrees because he’s stalling on the third button of his sports shirt, fingers gone stupid, eyes tracking me like he’s already undressing me. I bought the dress three St. Patrick’s Days ago, and when I showed it to him, he made a rare demand: “We’re definitely going out tonight.” He hardly ever suggests outfits I should wear, but this dress? It rewires him. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love being the reason his feral side comes out. He’s still staring, so I button his shirt for him. The shirt fit when he bought it, before years of firefighting turned his shoulders into this. Hauling hose and dragging two hundred pounds of gear up stairwells keeps him in shape, which makes my stomach flutter every time he walks around shirtless after a shower. I press my palm flat against his chest, and his heartbeat picks up under the fabric. Good. At least I’m not the only one who’s a mess before we even leave the house. Four years of marriage, and this man still short-circuits when I put on a tight dress. I’m not complaining. “You look incredible,” he says, and he means it. His grip tightens on my waist, and he’s about to suggest, for the millionth time, that we skip the pub entirely. “St. Patrick’s on a Saturday means O’Brien’s will be standing room only by nine,” I say, and give him a quick peck. “We need to move if we want a table.” “That dress comes off easier here.” I pull back enough to see him. Brown hair, capable hands, a guy who looks exactly the same in turnout gear as he does in jeans. Seven years together and four married, and he’s still calculating how fast he can get me out of this dress. “Ryan.” I tilt my head, fighting a smile. “We’re going to the pub. We’re going to drink a green beer and listen to the fiddle player. And if you’re a good boy, I’ll let you strip this off me when we get home.” He groans. I need him to keep that energy for another couple of hours. O’Brien’s is wall-to-wall green. Garland and clover strands loop between the dark wood booths. A fiddle player saws through a reel in the corner, and the early crowd is warmed up with several drinks already. We grab a table near the back wall. Ryan heads to the bar, cutting through the crowd the way he always does, shoulder first, and nods to the bartender, who already knows his order because this is our favorite date-night spot. I’m adjusting my dress straps when he comes back, except he’s not alone. He’s got two green beers and a man. The guy is tall, wide through the chest, and tanned like he actually goes outside. He’s wearing a green flannel with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and his beard is trimmed close. When he shifts his own green pint to his other hand, his forearm flexes, and my kitty hums to life. When he smiles at me, wet heat flares between my legs. And then I look more closely, past the smile, and see loneliness underneath. This man’s body is holding sadness like a load-bearing wall. “Nora, this is Finn,” Ryan says, and his voice does that low, lit-up warmth that only happens when he talks about…oh. This is Finn Gallagher. Ryan’s told me about Finn a hundred times. The climbing trips. The time Finn carried him down a trail with a sprained ankle. Then three years of near-silence, Finn disappearing into the mountains, barely texting. Ryan never stopped bringing him up, though, and his voice always went a little wistful when he did. He never mentioned how hot Finn was. Brown eyes with lines fanning out from the corners, and when we shake hands, his calluses drag against my palm. A zing heads straight between my legs. I want him. That fast, that simple. I shouldn’t be lusting after my husband’s old climbing buddy within fifteen seconds of meeting him, but my body doesn’t care. It clearly has no manners whatsoever. When I glance at Ryan, I almost smile. He’s an emotional wreck. “We haven’t seen each other in three years,” Ryan says, talking too quickly, explaining more than he needs to. “Finn’s in town for a wedding, and he ended up at the pub by accident. What are the odds, right? And I couldn’t believe it when I saw him.” Finn smiles at me. It’s real but guarded. He doesn’t thaw when I smile back, like he’s been alone so long he’s forgotten what to do when someone’s nice to him. “He ambushed me at the bar,” Finn says, and his voice is steady compared to Ryan’s enthusiasm. “I barely got my beer before he was dragging me over here.” They both sit and start swapping stories. Ryan is laughing more loudly than he has in months, animated in a way I haven’t seen in a long time. His hand lands on Finn’s arm and doesn’t move away. By the time he’s telling the story about the climb that was supposed to be moderate and turned out to be genuinely technical, he’s knocking shoulders with Finn like they’ve never spent a day apart. When my husband’s gaze drifts to Finn’s mouth, then drops too quickly, I press my thighs together. This look isn’t new. He’s done this before: the station holiday party, his gaze lingering on a coworker a beat too long before he looked away. The climbing instructor in Colorado, whom Ryan tracked across the gym with the same expression he gives me after I’ve been sending him flirty texts all day. Each time, he catches himself and changes the subject or moves on. I’ve been cataloguing these moments for seven years, tucking them away like deposits in a savings account I’ve been dying to spend. Tonight, watching him lean toward Finn with his whole body, his chair migrating three inches closer without him noticing, tonight is payday. All the years of watching my husband’s voice go warm and reckless when he talks about Finn. Wondering if he knows he lights up when he talks about him. Daydreaming about how hot it would be to watch Ryan with another man. Seven years of deposits, and I’ve never met a guy worth writing the check for. Until now. I’m so ready to sign my name on it that my hands are shaking under the table. This isn’t a flash. It’s a bonfire, and I’m ready to pull out the sausages and make myself a double helping. My husband brought me a gorgeous man from his past like a golden retriever presenting a stick, and he doesn’t even know what he’s done. Not yet. The evening goes the way good ones do. Drinks and stories with Ryan retelling the climbing trips and Finn correcting the details. Finn mentions he spends most of his downtime on projects — fixing engines, patching things up around his place. He says it simply, like a man comfortable with his own company and a good set of tools. While they talk, Finn keeps tracking Ryan’s face, but he’s sitting like a man who knows this is temporary and he’ll be walking out the door soon. Every time Ryan laughs at something Finn says, his whole face opens and my papilla stiffen. My panties are damp and have been since the handshake, which is ridiculous, because all anyone’s done is drink beer and tell climbing stories. I shift in the booth, and when the seam of my panties drags against my cherry, I have to bite the inside of my cheek. I press my thighs together and try to focus on the fiddle player. It doesn’t help. Then the Guinness hits, or maybe Finn just lets himself relax. He tells a story about finding a lost hiker at high altitude in failing light. A search and rescue call, his unit working a grid pattern, his black Lab Sadie tracking ahead of him on the ridge, and the way he tells it, quiet, no performance, makes us both lean in. Ryan keeps watching Finn’s hands wrap around his pint glass, and I can practically see the gears turning behind his eyes. He doesn’t know what he’s hungry for, but I do. Finn reads as fully aware. His gaze lingers on Ryan a beat too long, and then his expression shutters. Then Finn’s gaze finds me, and I track the slow path of it from my hair down to the sequins framing my cleavage. The appreciation and heat get buried quickly as he looks away. He’s clearly practiced at denying himself things. I could be wrong, but I think this man is starving. Then Ryan puts his arm around me, and Finn’s knuckles go white on his glass. His face gives away nothing. His hands give away everything. When was the last time someone touched Finn? I bet it’s been a very long time. The thought sends a pulse straight through me so hard I grip the edge of the booth. All that bottled-up desire, and he’s sitting three feet away from two people who’d take him apart if he’d let them. I excuse myself, and when I get to the single-room bathroom, I lock the door and grip the edge of the sink. My flushed reflection stares back at me. My kitty is pulsing and my thighs are slick and I haven’t been touched by anyone but Ryan all night. I want to invite a man I met two hours ago to come home with us. Not just to the guest room, to our bed. I want to watch my husband touch him, and I want Finn’s rough hands on my skin while Ryan watches. I want all of it, and I want it so badly my vision is blurring. Am I really doing this? The answer is yes, because if I don’t, I’ll spend the next forty years wondering what would have happened, and I refuse to be that woman at book club. I wash my hands in cold water in an attempt to cool down and walk back out before I can talk myself out of it. As the clock moves toward midnight, Finn glances at his phone and mentions he’s calling an Uber to his hotel. If he walks out that door, my chance of living the dream is gone, and Ryan will never say what he needs to say. I’ll spend the rest of my marriage watching my husband want something he’ll never let himself have. The window is right here, right now, and it’s closing. “The night doesn’t have to end,” I say, looking at Finn, keeping my tone light even though my heartbeat is hammering so loudly I’m amazed the bartender can’t hear it. “We have a guest room. Stay with us while you’re in town.” Please say yes. Ryan helps without hesitation. “She’s right. I’ll make breakfast. It’ll give us more time to catch up properly.” And more time for me to seduce you both.

The man I loved had already fallen for another woman while I was still in his bed, still pretending that what we had was enough. Worse still, I was carrying his child. We had just finished making love, slower than usual, almost tender. Then his phone buzzed. He reached for it immediately, and a small smile touched his lips. "Victoria," he said. "She just sent over the revised projections. This could be massive for the firm." "Do you like her?" I tried to ignore the knot in my chest. Damien sighed and set his phone down. "Soph... don't do this." But the cracks were already showing. Over the next few weeks, he grew distant. Canceled plans. Longer meetings. "Sophia... we need to talk." "About what?" "This. Us. The arrangement." He hesitated, jaw tight. "I think we should end it. It's run its course." My heart stopped. "Because of Victoria? You love her, don't you?" He didn't say yes. But he didn't say no. That silence told me everything. I walked out of his penthouse with my heart in pieces. No confrontation. No scene. But my body had other plans. Eight days after the breakup, I discovered I was carrying his child. Yet before I could even say the word pregnant, he had already blocked me completely. ____________ The city lights glittered like scattered diamonds against the floor-to-ceiling windows of Damien Voss's penthouse. At thirty-eight, Damien moved through the world with the quiet confidence of a man who had built an empire from nothing and who rarely allowed anyone close enough to see the cracks. Sophia Vale was twenty-four. For two years, that twelve-year gap had been the least complicated thing between them. Their arrangement was simple, clean, and brutally honest-at least on paper. Friends with benefits. No dates. No expectations. No staying the night unless exhaustion won. They had met at a mutual friend's rooftop party when Sophia, fresh out of her master's program and bartending to pay off student loans, had called him an "arrogant suit" for complaining about the watered-down whiskey. He had laughed-actually laughed-and later that same night found her in the hallway outside the restrooms. One sharp-tongued argument had turned into the hottest k1ss of her life against the wall. Two days later they set the rules. Rule one: This was se.x. Nothing more. Rule two: No jealousy. No questions about other people. Rule three: When it ends, it ends cleanly. For two years, they had both pretended the rules were enough. --- Sophia let herself into the penthouse with the spare key he'd given her after six months. She never used it without texting first. Tonight she had. *On my way. Rough day.* His reply had been typical Damien: *Door's open. So am I.* She found him in the kitchen, sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up, pouring two glasses of the expensive Cabernet he kept for her. His dark hair was still damp from a shower, and the faint scent of his cologne-woodsy, expensive, maddening-wrapped around her the second she stepped inside. "Bad board meeting?" she asked, slipping off her heels. "Long." His voice was low, rough at the edges. He handed her the wine, eyes dragging down the simple black dress she wore. "You?" "Final edits on the manuscript from he.ll. My editor wants it bleeding by Monday." She took a sip, letting the rich wine sit on her tongue. "I might actually murder someone." Damien's mouth curved-the half-smirk that always made her stomach flip. "Violent little thing tonight." He didn't ask for details. She didn't offer any beyond that. That was their rhythm. He was the CEO of Voss Capital. She was an aspiring thriller editor who moonlighted as a freelance writer. Their worlds barely overlapped except in this penthouse, in his bed, and occasionally in the shower. He set his glass down and crossed the space between them in three strides. Big hands framed her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones with surprising gentleness before the k1ss turned hungry. Sophia melted into it like she always did, fingers curling into his shirt, tasting the wine on his tongue and the familiar heat that had become her addiction. They never made it to the bedroom the first round. Damien lifted her onto the marble island, shoved the dress up her thighs, and dropped to his knees with the same focused intensity he brought to hostile takeovers. Sophia's head fell back against the cabinets as his mouth worked her, two years of knowing exactly how she liked it-slow, then relentless, then slow again until she was shaking and cursing his name. When she came, it was sharp and bright, his name torn from her throat. He stood, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and k1ssed her so she could taste herself. Then he was inside her-hard, bare, perfect. The rule about condoms had died after the first health checkups and her IUD. Nothing between them. Just skin and need and the wet sound of bodies that knew each other too well. "F.ck, Soph," he groaned against her neck, thrusting deep. "Missed this." She didn't say she'd missed him too. She never did. Instead she bit his shoulder through his shirt and rocked her hips to meet every stroke, chasing the second wave that always came harder when he was this deep. They came together that night-messy, loud, clinging. Afterwards he carried her to his bed even though the rules said she should leave soon. She let him. Lying in the dark, her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow, Sophia traced idle patterns on his stomach. "Damien?" "Hm?" "We've been doing this for two years." His hand paused where it had been stroking her hair. "Yeah." She waited for him to say something more. He didn't. Sophia swallowed the strange tightness in her throat. "Just making sure we're still on the same page." His chest rose and fell once. "Rules haven't changed." "Right." She forced a small smile even though he couldn't see it. "Good." She fell asleep there anyway. --- The next six months blurred the same way. Late-night texts. His car waiting outside her tiny apartment when she worked past midnight. Weekends where they barely left the penthouse-cooking together (him teaching her, mostly failing), watching old noir films, fu.cking on every surface until she was sore and glowing. Sometimes he would watch her while she read on his couch, legs tucked under her, glasses perched on her nose. She would catch him and raise an eyebrow. "Taking a picture, Voss?" "Memorizing," he'd answer, voice quiet in a way that made her heart do stupid things. But he never asked her to stay. She never asked what they were. Friends with benefits. Nothing more. Until the night everything started to crack. --- It was a Thursday. Sophia had brought takeout-Thai, his favorite-and they ate on the balcony overlooking the river. Summer air was thick and warm. Damien was quieter than usual, checking his phone more often. "Everything okay?" she asked. He set the phone face-down. "New investor. Pain in the as$. Blonde, talks too much, thinks she can charm her way onto the board." Sophia poked at her noodles. "Sounds fun." He snorted. "Not really." Later, after se.x-slower this time, almost tender-he pulled her back against his chest and murmured against her hair, "You smell like home." Sophia froze. He had never said anything like that before. She turned in his arms, searching his face in the low light. "Damien?" His eyes were unreadable. For a second she thought he might say something real. Something that would change the rules. Instead he k1ssed her forehead. "Get some sleep, Soph." She lay awake long after he drifted off. The next morning she left before he woke up-something she rarely did. She left a note on the kitchen island. *Early meeting. Thanks for last night. -S* No heart. No xoxo. Just like the rules said. Three years. That was how long Sophia Vale had been caught in Damien Voss's orbit-two years and ten months of late-night texts, stolen hours in his penthouse, and a connection that had started as pure physical release but had quietly become the axis her world turned on. The rules had always been clear. Friends with benefits. No strings. No future. No jealousy. But rules were easier to write than to live by when the heart refused to listen. --- The shift with Victoria Lang had been gradual at first, then undeniable. Victoria was thirty-two, sharp as a blade, and carried herself with the kind of effortless confidence that came from old money and newer ambition. She had entered Damien's professional life like a storm-smart, challenging, and beautiful in that polished, untouchable way. Sophia noticed the change in small things. Damien started mentioning her name casually during their nights together. "Victoria had an interesting take on the European markets today." "Victoria pushed me on the valuation. She's not afraid to call me out." At first, Sophia brushed it off. Business was business. But the late meetings grew longer. The canceled plans became routine. And the way Damien spoke about Victoria carried a spark of admiration that used to be reserved only for her. One night, after a particularly intense round of se.x where he had taken her against the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, Damien lay beside her, fingers tracing lazy circles on her bare hip. His phone buzzed on the nightstand. He reached for it immediately. A small smile touched his lips as he read the message. "Victoria?" Sophia asked, trying to keep her voice light. "Yeah. She just sent over the revised projections. This could be massive for the firm." Sophia turned on her side, studying his profile. At thirty-nine, Damien was in his prime-strong jaw, dark hair with the faintest threads of silver at the temples, and the kind of presence that commanded rooms. Twelve years older than her, he had always felt like safety and danger wrapped in one expensive suit. "Do you like her?" The question slipped out before she could stop it. Damien set the phone down and looked at her. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes-conflict, maybe guilt. "She's a good business partner. Brilliant, actually." "That's not what I asked." He sighed and pulled her closer, pressing a k1ss to her forehead. "Soph... don't do this. We have rules for a reason." She swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded. "Right. Rules." But the cracks were already widening. --- Over the next few weeks, the distance grew. Damien became more distracted, more restless. Their encounters felt urgent, almost desperate, like he was trying to hold onto something he knew was slipping away. He would text her at odd hours, show up at her apartment, and lose himself in her body as if trying to silence whatever was happening in his head. Yet he never stayed the full night anymore. One rainy Thursday evening, Sophia arrived at his penthouse with takeout, hoping for a quiet night like the old days. Damien opened the door looking exhausted but wired. "Victoria just left," he said automatically. The words landed heavily. Sophia forced a smile and set the bags on the kitchen island. "Busy day?" "Productive." He ran a hand through his hair. "She sees things I don't sometimes. Challenges me." They ate in near silence. Afterwards, when he pulled her into his arms and k1ssed her, it was fierce and consuming. He took her to his bed and made-love to her with a intensity that bordered on regret-slow, deep, almost reverent. Sophia clung to him, memorizing every touch, every groan, every whispered "Soph" against her skin. When it was over, they lay tangled in the sheets. Damien stared at the ceiling, one arm behind his head. "Sophia... we need to talk." Her stomach tightened. She sat up, pulling the sheet around her chest. "About what?" He hesitated, jaw clenched. "This. Us. The arrangement." The air felt thinner. "I think we should end it," he said quietly. "The FWB thing. It's run its course." Sophia felt the words like a physical blow. She stared at him, searching for any sign that this was a joke or a momentary doubt. There was none. "Because of Victoria?" Her voice came out smaller than she wanted. Damien sat up too, the sheet pooling at his waist. "It's not just her. It's everything. I'm thirty-seven . I'm at a point in my career where things are accelerating. You're twenty-five, building your own life. This was never supposed to be permanent." She laughed bitterly, tears stinging her eyes. "It wasn't supposed to feel like this either." He reached for her hand, but she pulled away. "I care about you, Soph. I do. These three years... they meant something. But I can't keep doing this half-thing. It's not fair to either of us." "Not fair," she repeated. The numbness was setting in. "So you're ending it. Just like that." Damien looked pained. "I'm sorry." Sophia dressed in silence, her hands shaking as she buttoned her blouse. At the door, she paused and looked back at him one last time-the man who had been her secret addiction, her comfort, her weakness. "Take care, Damien." She walked out without waiting for his reply. The elevator ride down blurred behind unshed tears. Outside, the rain had picked up, soaking her as she stood on the sidewalk trying to breathe. Three years gone in one conversation. --- The next few days passed in a haze. Sophia threw herself into work, editing manuscripts late into the night, ignoring the persistent ache in her chest. She deleted their old texts. Removed his spare key from her bag. Tried to convince herself it was for the best. But her body had other plans. The nausea started subtly-mornings where coffee made her stomach turn. Fatigue that no amount of sleep could touch. Mood swings that left her crying over commercials. At first she blamed stress, the breakup, the endless rain. On the eighth day after the breakup, she stood in the pharmacy aisle staring at pregnancy tests. It felt ridiculous. They had been careful... mostly. Her IUD was still in place. But something in her gut whispered otherwise. She bought two tests and went home. In the quiet of her small bathroom, Sophia stared at the plastic stick on the counter, heart pounding as the minutes ticked by. When the timer went off, she forced herself to look. Two pink lines. Clear. Undeniable. Pregnant. She slid down the wall, knees drawn to her chest, and let the tears fall freely. The weight of everything crashed over her at once-Damien's distant eyes, his decision to end things, the growing infatuation with Victoria, and now this. A baby. His baby. Alone. --- Sophia stared at the two pink lines until her vision blurred. Twenty-five years old, freshly single after three years of the most intense not-relationship of her life, and now pregnant by a man who had just ended things because his life was "accelerating" in another woman's direction. She couldn't tell him over the phone. Not something this big. Not when the conversation would decide the rest of both their lives. --- For the first three days after finding out, Sophia tried to be reasonable. She sent her first message the same evening she took the test. **Sophia:** Damien, I really need to see you. Can we meet for coffee tomorrow? It's important. Not something for text or call. No reply. The next morning she tried again. **Sophia:** Please. Just thirty minutes. Name the time and place. Still nothing. The message sat on "delivered" but unread. By day four she was calling. The first call rang four times before going to voicemail. She left a short message, voice steadier than she felt. "Damien, it's Sophia. I'm not calling to beg or fight about us ending things. I just need to meet you face to face. One coffee. Please call me back." He didn't. She tried twice more that day-once in the afternoon, once at night. Both calls went straight to voicemail. The second time she didn't leave a message. She simply sat on her couch in the dark, phone in her lap, fighting the nausea that had nothing to do with morning sickness and everything to do with the growing fear that he was already erasing her. --- Damien Voss, thirty-seven, sat in the private dining room of an upscale rooftop restaurant with Victoria Lang across from him. Candlelight softened the sharp lines of her face, and she looked stunning in a deep emerald dress that complemented her blonde hair perfectly. She was saying something about the upcoming merger-brilliant, strategic points as always. He nodded, smiled at the right moments, and tried to focus on the woman he had convinced himself was the future. Victoria reached across the table and brushed her fingers over the back of his hand. "You've been quiet tonight. Everything alright with the firm?" "Fine," he said automatically. "Just a lot on my mind." What he didn't say was that something was missing. The spark he had expected with Victoria-the effortless connection, the intellectual match that should have made everything click-was there on paper but felt hollow in practice. Their conversations were stimulating. Their chemistry was pleasant. But when he k1ssed her goodnight, it didn't burn. When she laughed at his jokes, the sound didn't settle warm in his chest the way Sophia's quiet, sarcastic chuckles used to. Sophia. He had been ignoring her messages for four days now. Every time her name appeared on his screen, guilt twisted sharply in his gut. He told himself it was better this way-clean break, no dragging things out. She would move on. He would move on. Victoria represented stability and ambition. Sophia had always been chaos wrapped in warmth, the one person who could make him forget the weight of his empire for a few hours. But he couldn't shake the memory of her face the night he ended it. The way her voice had gone small when she asked if it was because of Victoria. He downed the rest of his whiskey and forced a smile at the woman across from him. "You're right," he told Victoria. "Let's talk expansion plans. I want your vision on the London office." She lit up, launching into detailed analysis. Damien listened, nodded, and tried desperately to feel the excitement he knew he should feel. --- By the end of the first week, Sophia was desperate. She had thrown up twice that morning. Her editor had noticed she looked pale during their video call and asked if she was okay. She lied and said it was just stress. She tried one more time. **Sophia:** Damien, I'm not trying to force my way back into your life. This is genuinely important. Please give me 20 minutes. Any cafe near your office. Tomorrow at 10? I'll wait. She stared at the screen for twenty minutes. The two blue ticks appeared. He had read it. No response. Anger and hurt twisted together until she couldn't tell them apart. She typed again, fingers shaking. **Sophia:** If you keep ignoring me, I'll have no choice but to show up at your office. I don't want to do that, but you're leaving me no option. This time the reply came-short, cold, and final. **Damien:** Sophia, we ended things. I told you I'd provide financial support. Send me the details through email if it's money you need. I'm in back-to-back meetings this week. I don't have time for coffee. Sophia read the message three times, feeling something inside her shatter cleanly. The man who had once carried her to bed and whispered that she smelled like home was now treating her like an inconvenience to be handled via email. She didn't cry this time. She simply placed her phone face down on the table, rested a hand over her still-flat stomach, and whispered, "It's okay, little one. We'll figure this out without him if we have to." But even as she said it, fresh tears slipped down her cheeks. --- Damien stared at the sent message, jaw tight. He was in his penthouse office, the city glittering below. Victoria had left an hour ago after they reviewed contracts together. She had k1ssed him before leaving-soft, promising-and he had k1ssed her back, telling himself this was what he wanted. Yet the second Sophia's name had appeared again, all he could feel was a heavy, suffocating guilt mixed with something dangerously close to longing. He missed her. Not just the se.x-though God, he missed that too-but the way she would curl up against him after, stealing his warmth. The way she challenged him without fear. The way she made the massive penthouse feel less empty. Victoria was perfect on paper. Sophia had been perfect in the quiet moments that actually mattered. "F.ck," he muttered, pouring another drink. He almost typed back. Almost told her to name the place and he'd be there. But then Victoria's text came through. **Victoria:** Tonight was wonderful. Can't stop thinking about our plans for next quarter... and beyond :wink: He locked his phone without replying to Sophia. Some doors, he told himself, were better left closed. --- Sophia spent the next two days in a fog of nausea and quiet determination. She went to her first prenatal appointment alone. The doctor confirmed she was roughly six weeks along. The baby was healthy so far. When the nurse asked about the father, Sophia simply said, "He's not in the picture right now." She left the clinic with a folder of information, prenatal vitamins, and a quiet resolve hardening in her chest. That evening she tried one last time. Sophia : We need to talk and it's an emergency, I am pregnant, I always wanted to tell you this face to face but you left me no option rather than through this ..... But unknown to Sohpia Damien had already blocked her .

I slept with my stepfather when my mom wasn't home. “You’re my little wifey while your mom is away, aren’t you?” I nodded. “Daddy, what are you going to do to me?” He started plumping my buns, playing, and grinning rakishly as my butt jiggled in his hands. Then he gave my right cheek a sharp smack. “I am going to screw your little anus, princess.” Without warning, my stepfather pressed his shaft head against my anus and shoved. “Ow! Ow!” I could feel myself begin to open up back there. There was a bolt of pain and a spreading pressure. Daddy eventually managed to bury every inch of his manhood deep inside of my anus. “You want your daddy’s release in your sweet little anus, Stephanie?” He added, driving his shaft back and forth. “Ow! Ow! — Yes. I want it bad,” I gasped breathlessly against tile. “I want you to release inside my hip, daddy.” Smack! Smack! Our bodies heaved together, faster and faster. A sudden and heavy surge of heat flooded the inside space of my anus, and a pleasant liquid feeling spread inside of me — my stepfather’s seed. ———————— “The next terminal on the left,” mom said as she pointed to the Southwest Airlines sign. I was dropping her off at the airport so that she could catch her flight to Seattle for a business trip. She works in the water reclamation field, managing the plant that serves our community, and every year she has to attend several conferences, meeting with industry leaders, keeping up to date with ever-changing regulations, and constantly emerging suite of new technologies meant to help municipal plants maintain regulatory standards. Seattle is the biggest and most important, and at two whole weeks, it was the longest of her annual trips. I pulled up along side the terminal, and seeing that there was no one at the curb-side baggage check station, offered to help my mom bring her bags inside. “I can park the car and help you with your luggage, mom. It’s no big deal,” I insisted, “you have plenty of time before your flight.” You can’t idle at the curb for very long at the busiest international airport in the country, waiting for arrivals, saying goodbyes, or even helping a loved one get their bags out of the trunk. Endless cars streamed by, stopping for pedestrians, and going again, honking their horns; and a police officer blew his whistle, doing his best to keep traffic flowing through the terminal. That whistle, its sharp frequency and repetition, is probably the most hated of all the airport sounds, even more than those annoying, constantly running messages that come over the speakers about not leaving your bags unattended. Mom already seemed like she was in a rush, and that whistle wasn’t helping matters much. “No, it’s ok, sweetheart. I can manage.” I held my arms open. “I’ll miss you, mom,” I said as we hugged awkwardly across the center console. “I’ll miss you, too,” she answered, patting my back, and then she withdrew herself somewhat coldly from my arms. Mom had been going away on business trips ever since I could remember, all over the country, and she always appeared well put together and comfortable with traveling. But this time she seemed not entirely herself, in a hurry almost, anxious even. And she was preoccupied by something the entire drive to the airport; in fact, her first words in an hour had been to tell me which terminal it was that she needed to be dropped off at. She was in such a hurry, and for no apparent reason that I knew of, but I couldn’t help feeling like she was trying to put a wall between us. The cop’s whistle, the building traffic, a crazy schedule, none of those things had ever made her feel like she needed to rush saying goodbye before. And she didn’t seem to be paying attention when I told her I loved her and to have a safe flight. “Love you, too,” she answered quickly, shouldering her purse and gathering her carryon. I caught a glimpse of her face and noticed that she was blushing. Was she embarrassed about something? It would have explained her odd behavior. Mom is terrible at hiding her emotions, especially embarrassment. One evening we were all watching a new TV series as a family, which is something we have always done together. However this show was very racy, with a ton of nudity and a lot of intercourse. I happened to glance over at mom during one of the intercourse scenes, (a woman being treated very roughly and enjoying it) and even in the dim light I could see that she was noticeably red. I had thought to ask her what was wrong, but then mom paused with the door held half-open, turned to me and said, “remember what we discussed, okay.” “Yes, yes, mom. I know. Make sure to take good care of daddy while you’re away,” I said, repeating her instructions back to her. “And what else?” “Do whatever he tells me to do,” I answered flatly, “no matter what.” Take good care of daddy: that was all she expected me to do in her absence, which was really weird. Usually mom had a laundry list of things for me to do whenever she went out of town — the usual things, like chores, some extra chores for busy work, no friends allowed to stay overnight, and a reminder to keep my grades up. Not this time, though. I was to take special care of daddy; that was it. “You’re eighteen now, dear,” she reminded me. Her cheeks were still crimson. I could see what looked like guilt in her eyes whenever she would show them to me, but she tried hard to keep herself from meeting my gaze for any length of time. “You have responsibilities, now that you are a grown woman.” She took a deep, thoughtful breath, still not really letting herself focus on me, despite the fact that I was the subject of our conversation. “I know you probably have questions, and they will be answered in time. Just know that your stepfather and I will be expecting you to fulfill certain duties now that you are an adult.You may find it difficult to accept what is required of you at first,” mom added with a strict but sincere tone, “and perhaps even a little painful.” She paused briefly. “But sometimes we must experience pain in order prove how much we care about someone.” My brow narrowed. “Uh, what do you mean? Can you be more specific?” I asked, confused. “Did I do something wrong? Am I in trouble with daddy?” “No,” mom shook her head. “Don’t be silly. You can do no wrong in that man’s eyes. You know that.” Mom smiled, soft and bashful. “He always talks about how special you are.” Then she turned and gazed thoughtfully through the side window out across the terminal as she held the car door half-open, hesitating, reluctant to say anything more on the matter. “Mom?” “I promise we will talk more about this later. Hurry home to your daddy, alright. He will be expecting your return.” Saying nothing more, she got out of the car. I was always good to daddy. James was actually my stepfather, but I call him daddy. He stepped in and raised me after my biological father left one night without saying a word — just disappeared. Why was mom suddenly so concerned about my relationship with daddy? I wondered silently while she was wrestling her luggage out of the back seat of my car. Then the sound of the door slamming shut brought me back to the chaos of the terminal. She adjusted the weight of her purse on her shoulder, extended the handle of her rolling suitcase, and strapped her carryon to it. As I watched my mom wheeling her luggage into the airport and dissolve into a crowd of people, I couldn’t help but wonder what it was that had her so detached; it was like she was hiding something. It was like there was some dark family secret that she was to ashamed to discuss in direct terms. “What was that all about?” I quietly muttered as I pulled away from the curb. Do whatever daddy tells you. Make sure to take special care of your daddy while I’m away. He’s a good man, and he loves you so much. I tried to imagine what all that could mean. Mom was oddly vague, almost like she didn’t want to spell it out. Was he dying? I shouldn’t even think those things, I told myself. Driving home from the airport that evening, and thinking the whole way, little did I know that my life, and my relationship with my daddy, would soon change forever. As for the strangeness of my mother’s behavior, the hurriedness about her, and the earnest reminders about my duty to my stepfather, events to come would only make me more curious to discover why she held me somewhat at arm’s length. “Daddy — I’m back from dropping mom at the airport,” I called out upon entering the house. Hanging my keys by the front door, I went looking for James. I found him on a ladder in my bathroom, wearing old work jeans, his tool belt, and a henley that used to be red but was now faded pink. He was in the process of renovating my entire bathroom. Mom and dad agreed that I should stay home for the first two years of collage, and daddy insisted that his precious girl should have a bathroom befitting a princess. His words, not mine. I felt like it was his way to try and get me to stay home a little longer; and I was about to find out exactly how much he wanted me to stay. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said as he carefully climbed down off of the ladder, holding the old vanity lights he’d just removed from the wall. “How was the drive?” “Ugh! The traffic sucked, as usual.” He brushed down his shirt and pulled me into his arms for a hug. “I appreciate you taking your mom to the airport for me, sweetheart.” “Yeah. No problem, daddy.” James smelled so good, even being dirty and sweaty, and I lingered in his arms. That musk, that masculine smell has always affected me strangely. Besides being such a comforting scent, it was weirdly arousing to me. I remember when I first learned to masturbate, if I caught a whiff of that male odor in the air, I would head straight to my bedroom and lock the door! I was so confused, and for the longest time, convinced that there was something wrong with me. James was my daddy. I wasn’t supposed to get every time I did his laundry or he brought me into his arms. I would never admit to it out loud, but I had a friend who had a crush on my stepfather, and when I got jealous of her feelings towards him, I knew there was no denying that I also felt pretty strongly about him also. But that was so long ago. A few boyfriends later, and after the loss of my chastity, I thought I had gotten over my inappropriate lust towards my stepfather. So imagine my surprise when that familiar warmth began rising in my core as daddy hugged me in the bathroom. My stepfather released me from his arms, but not before softly pecking the top of my head. “So it looks like it’s just you and I for the next two weeks, huh, princess,” he said. My thighs squeezed involuntarily, seeing that dimple form in his cheek through the rough of stubble on his face as he smiled at me.

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