One Night Stand with My Stepdad

Chapter 4: The Intruder

Marcus pov

The flight from Paris had been long, tedious, and filled with the kind of high-stakes corporate negotiation that usually left me energized. But tonight, all I felt was a deep, settling exhaustion.

I had originally planned to go straight to my new wife’s estate, but a late-night delay at the private hangar had pushed my arrival past midnight. Rather than driving out to the suburbs and waking up in a household I was still adjusting to, I had my assistant book the penthouse suite at my usual boutique hotel downtown. I needed a few hours of undisturbed silence, a hot shower, and a stiff drink before stepping into the role of the devoted family man tomorrow.

My wife, Vanessa, had been badgering me for weeks to finally meet her daughter, Elena. Ever since our rushed courthouse wedding a few months ago, the girl had been away finishing her college semester, purposefully avoiding me from what I could gather. Vanessa spent half her time bragging about me to her social circle and the other half boasting to her daughter about what a godsend I was. I hadn't even seen a photo of the girl yet, but tomorrow, the introductions were finally supposed to happen.

I stepped out of the private steam shower, the hot mist swirling around the dark marble floors of the bathroom. I tied a single, dark gray towel securely around my waist, letting it rest low on my hips, and ran a hand through my dripping wet hair.

I pushed the heavy bathroom door open, stepping out into the cool, air-conditioned darkness of the bedroom. The silver glow of the moon cut through the massive glass windows, casting long shadows across the polished floor. I took two heavy, deliberate steps toward the nightstand where I had left my phone, my bare feet making a soft, rhythmic thud against the plush rug.

Thud. Thud.

I froze.

The heavy, metallic scent of expensive red wine hit my nose first, cutting through the sharp aroma of my sandalwood soap. And then, my eyes adjusted to the shadows.

There was someone in my bed.

My jaw tightened, a sudden, dangerous spike of adrenaline wiping away every ounce of my fatigue. I moved closer to the edge of the mattress, my gaze locking onto the figure curled up beneath my dark silk sheets.

It was a girl. An absolutely beautiful, breathtakingly young girl. Her long hair was a wild, tangled halo across my pillows, and her face was flushed a deep, rosy pink. Even from a few feet away, the heavy, sweet scent of alcohol radiating off her was unmistakable. She was completely, utterly drunk. Near the velvet armchair across the room, a large garment bag lay slumped on the floor, white silk spilling out from the bottom like a discarded wedding gown.

My brow furrowed. Security in this hotel was ironclad. People didn't just wander into a billionaire's private VIP penthouse by accident.

"Who are you?" I demanded, my voice dropping into a deep, gravelly baritone that cut through the quiet room like a knife. "And what the hell are you doing in my bed?"

The girl’s eyelashes fluttered. She let out a soft, pathetic little moan, her body shifting restlessly against the sheets before her eyes finally cracked open. They were wide, glazed over with a heavy, wine-induced fog, shimmering with a mixture of unshed tears and sheer daze. She stared up at me, her gaze tracing the wet droplets of water sliding down my bare, tanned chest, mapping the rigid lines of my abdomen down to where the gray towel clung to my hips.

She didn't scream. She didn't panic. She just stared at me as if I were a ghost.

"Get up," I growled, my patience thinning. I wasn't a man who tolerated intruders, no matter how beautiful they were. "I’m not going to ask you again. How did you get in here?"

She slowly sat up, the silk sheet slipping down to reveal the delicate, trembling line of her collarbone. A dark, ugly purple bruise was beginning to bloom across her left cheek—a fresh, violent mark that looked entirely out of place on her soft skin. My eyes narrowed at the sight of it, a strange, uninvited spark of anger flaring in my chest. Who the hell had put their hands on her?

She blinked up at me, a soft, hysterical little giggle escaping her parted lips. She reached out a trembling, delicate hand, her fingers completely uncoordinated as they reached for me.

"I know this is a dream," she whispered, her voice slurred, thick with a deep, crushing sorrow that seemed to vibrate right through the air. "It has to be a dream... You're too beautiful to be real. And nobody... nobody comes to save me in real life."

I stepped back slightly, my instincts telling me to call security and have her removed immediately. She was clearly out of her mind, drowning in whatever trauma had landed her in my room with a bruised face and a wedding dress on the floor.

"You're not dreaming," I said coldly, reaching for the phone on the nightstand. "You're in the wrong room, sweetheart. I'm calling the front desk."

Before my fingers could touch the receiver, she moved with a sudden, desperate speed. She slid off the edge of the high mattress, her bare knees hitting the plush rug right at my feet.

"Please," she choked out, a hot, heavy tear spilling down her bruised cheek. She reached forward, her small, warm hands gripping my bare knee with a desperate, white-knuckled intensity. Her touch was like a violent jolt of electricity, sending a sharp shockwave straight up my thigh. "Please... I just want to experience this once. Just once... I want to know what it feels like to be looked at like I matter. To be held by someone who actually wants me. Please don't wake me up yet."

Her small fingers dug into the muscle of my knee, her body shivering against my legs. She looked so small, so devastatingly vulnerable, kneeling before me in the moonlight like a sinner begging a demon for mercy. She had no idea who I was. She had no idea she was kneeling at the feet of a ruthless businessman who usually crushed anything that got in his way.

I stared down at her, my chest heaving as her warmth seeped through my skin.

"Let go of me," I rasped, though the cold, commanding edge in my voice had completely vanished, replaced by a sudden, dangerous huskiness.

I tried to pull back. I tried to lift my leg and step away from her, to put distance between my bare skin and her intoxicating, drunken desperation. Every logical part of my brain screamed at me to force her off, to throw her out into the hallway, to remember the wife waiting for me tomorrow.

But my body was entirely betraying my mind.

Down between my legs, beneath the thin fabric of the gray towel, my d**k was getting hard. It throbbed violently, reacting with a raw, primal hunger to the tight grip of her hands on my knee, to the sight of her flushed lips, and to the heavy, s****l tension that had suddenly turned the air in the penthouse thick and suffocating. The sheer heat radiating off her body was a magnet, dragging my focus away from reality.

I gritted my teeth, a low, guttural curse escaping my throat. This was madness. I was not in the mood for games, I didn't know this girl, and the logical, calculated side of me knew this was a recipe for absolute disaster.

Worse yet, I didn't even have a condom. My luggage was still down in the trunk of my car, and my personal items were packed away. I was completely unprotected, completely unprepared, and hovering on the edge of breaking every single rule I had ever set for myself.

I looked down at her wide, pleading eyes, my hand slowly reaching down to grip her wrists—not to push her away, but because the dark, wicked urge to pull her up into my arms was becoming entirely impossible to fight.