One night with my step daddy 4
1121 Words
Maya’s POV
I woke up sore in the best way—muscles aching, skin still tingling where his hands and mouth had been. Sunlight sliced through the half-closed blinds, painting gold stripes across the rumpled sheets. The bed beside me was empty, but the shower was running, steady hiss of water telling me Matthew was still here. Still real.
I stretched, wincing at the delicious pull between my thighs, and glanced at the clock on the nightstand.
8:47 a.m.
Shit.
Breakfast with Mom. 9:30 sharp. She’d texted me three times last night before I’d turned my phone off—reminders, emojis, that excited little “Can’t wait for you to meet him!!” I’d ignored them all while Matthew had me bent over the windowsill.
No time to wait for him to finish in the bathroom. I scrambled out of bed, legs shaky, found my dress crumpled on the floor, and yanked it on. No bra—couldn’t find it, didn’t care. Panties were somewhere under the bed. I’d deal with that later. I shoved my feet into heels, grabbed my purse, and slipped out the door without a word.
The elevator ride down felt like forever. My reflection in the mirrored walls looked wrecked—lips swollen, hair a tangled mess, faint red marks blooming along my collarbone where he’d bitten me. I looked like a woman who’d been thoroughly ruined. I looked happy.
I made it home in record time, heart still hammering from the cab ride and the memory of him inside me. The second I stepped through the front door, Mom’s voice floated from the kitchen.
“Maya? Is that you, baby? You’re just in time!”
I forced my breathing to even out, kicked off my heels, and padded barefoot toward the smell of coffee and bacon. “Yeah, Mom. Coming.”
She was at the stove, humming, flipping pancakes like this was the most normal Saturday morning in the world. The table was already set—three plates, fresh flowers in a vase, the good china she only used for “special occasions.” My stomach twisted. Not from hunger.
“You look flushed,” she said, glancing over her shoulder with a knowing smile. “Late night?”
I shrugged, grabbing a mug and pouring coffee just to have something to do with my hands. “Something like that.”
She laughed, light and carefree. “Well, sit. He’ll be here any minute. I want everything perfect when you meet him.”
I dropped into a chair, legs crossed tight under the table to hide the fact that I could still feel him between them. “So… what’s this mystery man like? You’ve been so secretive.”
Mom turned, spatula in hand, eyes sparkling. “He’s wonderful, Maya. Mature, successful, funny. A real gentleman. Works in private security—used to be military. And the way he looks at me…” She sighed, dreamy. “I think this one’s different.”
I took a sip of coffee to hide my eye-roll. They were always different. Until they weren’t.
We waited. Mom fussed with the flowers, adjusted the napkins, told me about how they’d met at some upscale charity thing downtown. I nodded along, half-listening, my mind drifting back to the hotel room—the way Matthew’s fingers had dug into my hips, the sound he’d made when I took him down my throat, the way he’d growled my name against the glass.
I shifted in my seat. Bad idea. The ache flared, reminding me I was still leaking him.
The doorbell rang.
Mom squealed—actually squealed—and hurried to answer it. “That’s him! Be nice, Maya. I want you two to get along.”
I stayed seated, staring at my coffee like it held answers. Footsteps. Mom’s bright voice ushering someone in. A low, familiar chuckle in response.
My blood turned to ice.
That voice.
Deep. Smooth. The same one that had rasped “Such a good girl” against my ear while he f****d me senseless.
No. No way.
I told myself it was impossible. My head was playing tricks. Too much whiskey, too little sleep, too many orgasms. It had to be.
I pushed up from the table on unsteady legs and walked toward the dining room.
Mom’s voice floated ahead of me. “Come in, come in! Maya’s already here—she’s dying to meet you.”
I stepped through the doorway.
Time stopped.
There, in the middle of our dining room, arms wrapped around my mother, mouth pressed to hers in a soft, lingering kiss—was Matthew.
My Matthew.
The man who’d had me screaming his name against a hotel window six hours ago.
He pulled back from the kiss, eyes flicking up, and our gazes locked.
For one heartbeat, the world narrowed to just us. His expression didn’t change—no shock, no panic. Just a slow, subtle darkening of those blue eyes, the same look he’d given me last night right before he’d pushed me over the edge again.
Mom turned, beaming, completely oblivious. “Maya, honey, meet Matthew Thompson. Your new stepdad.”
The word landed like a slap.
Stepdad.
He smiled—slow, lazy, the exact same smile he’d worn when he’d told me he wasn’t done with me yet.
And in that smile I saw everything.
The night we’d just had.
The promises he’d growled into my skin.
The way he’d filled me, marked me, ruined me.
Now standing in my mother’s kitchen, wearing a crisp button-down and a wedding-band tan line that hadn’t been there last night.
My stomach dropped through the floor.
He extended his hand across the table like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t come inside me three times while I begged for more.
“Nice to finally meet you, Maya.”
His voice was calm. Polite. Perfectly respectable.
But his eyes—God, his eyes—said something else entirely.
They said: I know exactly what you taste like.
They said: I still feel you clenching around me.
They said: This isn’t over.
I stared at his hand.
Didn’t move to take it.
Mom laughed nervously. “Maya? Say hello, sweetheart.”
I swallowed. My throat felt lined with sand.
“Hello… Matthew.”
His fingers flexed once, almost imperceptibly, like he was remembering how they’d fisted in my hair.
The room smelled like pancakes and coffee and the faint, lingering trace of his cologne on my skin.
And I knew, right then, with sick, electric certainty—
Breakfast was going to be the longest meal of my life.
But the hunger in his eyes told me something far more dangerous.
This was only the beginning.
- Writer
