Claimed By My Stepdad

Chapter 4

Sophia Pov

The expensive whiskey had done its work almost too well. My thoughts moved through a warm, hazy fog as I stood in the doorway of the imposing master bedroom. The bottle felt heavy in my hand, the last few swallows burning pleasantly in my stomach. The room smelled of him—rich cologne, crisp linen, and a subtle masculine undertone that sent an involuntary shiver down my spine.

This was Damien Blackwood’s room. My stepfather’s room.

The realization should have sent me running. Instead, the alcohol dulled the sharp edges of panic, leaving only a strange, magnetic pull. I took another sip, the costly liquid sliding down my throat as I stepped further inside, drawn by some force I didn’t fully understand.

The space suited him perfectly. Dark wood furniture gleamed under soft lighting. The massive king bed dominated the room, its black sheets crisp and inviting. A large armchair sat in one corner near the windows that overlooked the glittering city skyline. Everything spoke of power, control, and quiet luxury—the same qualities that had drawn me to him in the hotel bar.

I sank into the armchair, my slinky black dress riding up my thighs. The fabric still carried traces of his scent from earlier. My body remembered every detail: the way his hands had gripped me, the heat of his mouth, the sharp sting of his palms against my cheek when rage had overtaken me. Twice. The memory made my skin tingle and my core clench with confused desire.

I drank again, deeper this time. The whiskey blurred the lines between betrayal and need. Ethan’s calm defense of Marcus replayed in my mind, but it was now intertwined with flashes of Damien—his commanding presence, the way he had pinned me down, the pleasure that had torn through me so completely.

The door clicked shut behind me. I hadn’t even heard him approach.

I turned slowly, the room tilting gently with the movement. Damien stood there, filling the doorway with his powerful frame. He was still dressed in the charcoal suit from earlier, though his tie hung loose and the top buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of tanned, muscled chest. His storm-gray eyes locked onto mine, taking in my flushed cheeks, the bottle in my hand, and the way my dress clung to my curves.

“Sophia,” he said, his voice low and smooth, carrying that same velvet authority from the hotel. There was no surprise in his tone—only a quiet, dangerous satisfaction, as if he had been expecting this exact moment.

I swayed slightly on the chair, the whiskey making my limbs heavy and my thoughts sluggish. “You… you’re him. My mother’s husband. My step—”

“Stepfather,” he finished for me, stepping fully into the room and closing the distance with deliberate grace. Each step he took heightened the tension in the air. The scent of his cologne grew stronger, wrapping around me like an invisible caress.

My heart hammered. I should have felt horror. Guilt. Instead, the alcohol and the lingering ache from our earlier encounter created a potent, forbidden cocktail. I took another sip, watching him over the rim of the bottle.

Damien walked straight toward me. He stopped just inches away, towering over my seated form. His gaze dropped to my lips, which were slightly parted from the whiskey and rapid breathing. Slowly, almost reverently, he reached out. His thumb touched my lower lip, tracing its fullness with a touch that was both gentle and undeniably possessive. The contact sent electricity racing through me.

He drew me closer, his fingers sliding to cup my chin as he tilted my face upward. The heat of his body enveloped me. I could feel the restrained power in every inch of him—the same power that had pinned me to the hotel bed and left me trembling with pleasure.

“You’ve been drinking my whiskey in my room, princess,” he murmured, his thumb still brushing my lip. His voice was dark with amusement and something far deeper. “Tell me… are you looking for more than just oblivion tonight?”

The question hung between us, charged with promise and danger. My stepfather. The man who had already ruined me once tonight. And yet, as his thumb pressed lightly against my lip, drawing me even closer, I couldn’t find the strength—or the desire—to pull away.