Not So Angel For Stepdaddy

Chapter 2: Game On Stepdaddy

Angel's POV

Max’s jaw tightens. A single muscle flexes hard in his cheek at the title, his dark eyes narrowing just a little before he turns on his heel.

"The maid took your bags to the east wing, third door on the left," Celeste mutters, flicking her wrist in dismissal as she hurries down the hall after him. "Go fix yourself up before dinner."

I drag myself down the quiet, carpeted corridor, finding the bedroom easily. It’s massive—wrapped in soft creams and whites, featuring a king-sized bed and a private balcony overlooking Central Park. I toss my purse onto the duvet, kick off my high heels, and drop onto the mattress, pulling out my phone to dial my best friend.

She picks up on the second ring. "Did you survive the dragon lady?"

"Magretta, you won't believe this," I say, sitting up on the bed, my mind spinning as I stare at the ceiling. "I just got to the penthouse."

"And? Is Celeste making you wear a collar yet?"

"Celeste was being her usual fake self, telling me I'm too fat and warning me to respect her billionaire husband," I say, my voice dropping lower as my pulse races. "But, Magretta... I just saw him."

"Maximilian Roth?"

"Yes." I swallow hard, my body running hot just thinking about the shape of his shoulders. "He’s forty-five, built like an absolute god, and he looked at me like he wanted to ruin me right there on the marble floor."

Magretta lets out a short laugh over the phone. "Angel, no. Tell me you’re joking."

"I’m serious," I say, a bad, thrill-seeking spark lighting up inside my chest. "He’s cold, he’s dominant, and Celeste is practically tap-dancing just to get him to glance at her. I want to see what it takes to break him."

"Angelina Laurent, listen to me," Magretta’s voice turns dead serious. "He is your stepfather. He controls billion-dollar funds and half of New York. Do not play reckless games with a man like that. He will crush you."

"Let him try," I reply, smiling into the empty room before hanging up.

Dinner time by seven-thirty, I’m seated across from Max at the long dining table.

Celeste sits at the head, chattering endlessly about caterers, flower arrangements, and guest lists for an upcoming gala. Max sits at the opposite end. His dark suit jacket is off, his white shirt stretched tight across his broad chest as he cuts his steak in silence. He gives my mother short, polite nods, his face an impenetrable mask of coldness.

He is so in control of his world.

I decide it’s time to push him.

I reach for my water glass, my fingers deliberate as I nudge my silk napkin off my lap. It slips silently to the floor, landing right beside his leather shoe under the table.

"Oh, excuse me," I whisper softly.

I drop down to pick it up. I take my time, lowering myself slowly, letting my t**s spill out against the plunge of my dress to give him an unrestricted view. As my fingers close around the silk, I drag the full, soft curve of my hip firmly and slowly against the inside of his leg, letting my ass brush his knee.

Under the fabric of his trousers, his thigh muscles tighten.

The heat coming off him is scorching. I linger for two seconds before pulling back up into my seat.

I place the napkin on my lap, lift my wine glass, and look directly across the table at him.

Max has stopped eating.

His fork is suspended in mid-air. His jaw is locked so tight his knuckles are cracking around his silver knife. Dark eyes are fixed on me—burning with a dangerous glare that promises murder.

He thinks he’s warning me. He thinks his icy composure can intimidate me.

I hold his burning glare, offer him a sweet, innocent little smile, and give my new stepfather a quick, filthy wink before my mother turns her head back toward us.

Max’s throat works as he swallows hard, his grip tightening until the silver knife vibrates in his hand.

Game on, Stepdaddy.