FORBIDDEN: CRAVING DADDY TOUCH

019

Three sharp raps against the heavy wood of the door drag me out of a sleep so deep it feels like anesthesia. I groan, the sound vibrating in my chest, and blindly fumble for the phone on the nightstand. The screen blares 7:00 a.m. in harsh white light.

"Who is it?" I croak, my voice thick and dry.

"Mrs. Sinclair requested your presence downstairs for breakfast, Miss," a muffled voice calls from the hallway. The maid. I don't even know her name yet.

"I'll be there," I manage to mumble before the silence returns.

I push the duvet away and sit up, stretching my arms high above my head. My spine pops in three places, a satisfying chain reaction. I yawn, my jaw cracking, and run a hand through my hair—it’s a tangled, rough bird's nest on top of my head. God, this bed is ridiculous. The mattress swallows me whole, the Egyptian cotton sheets are softer than a cloud, and for the first time in months, I didn’t wake up with a knot of anxiety in my stomach. I slept like the dead.

Then, the memory of yesterday hits me with the force of a physical blow.

My hand unconsciously moves to my neck, my fingers tracing the spot where his lips had brushed yesterday. A phantom warmth spreads through my veins, a tingling heat that has nothing to do with the morning sun and everything to do with the memory of his breath on my skin. I shake my head violently, as if I can physically dislodge the thought. Why the hell am I thinking about that? About his thick c**k stretching me open, the way he grunted when he came inside me? He’s my stepfather. This is a nightmare.

I swing my legs out of bed and walk barefoot across the plush rug, the cool floorboards sending a chill up my soles as I step into the bathroom. I stare at my reflection in the vanity mirror. My eyes are wide, a little wild. I touch my hair again, trying to smooth the rough texture, then my fingers drift back to my neck. The spot feels sensitive, electric.

Okay, plan. I just need to survive this. I will avoid being alone with him. I will be a ghost. I will eat, I will breathe, and I will stay the hell away from Tristan Sinclair.

I turn on the faucet and go through the motions, brushing my teeth until my gums tingle, then stepping into the shower. The hot water pounds against my back, and I scrub my scalp until the soap stings my eyes, washing away the smell of him—or at least, I tell myself I am. When I step out, I dress for armor, choosing an oversized, oatmeal-colored sweater that swallows my frame and soft black leggings that hug my legs but leave everything else to the imagination. Comfort. That’s the priority now.

Taking a deep breath, I head downstairs.

The smell of fresh coffee and baking pastries wafts through the air. In the dining room, Valeria is already at work, directing the maid as they set the massive mahogany table. She looks up as I enter, her eyes scanning my outfit with a distinct lack of approval.

"What took you so long?" she asks, her voice tight. "We eat at a civilized hour here."

I open my mouth to reply, to make some excuse about jet lag or sleep, but the words die in my throat. A muscular body brushes past me, close enough that the fabric of his sleeve grazes my arm.

Tristan.

The scent hits me first—sandalwood, expensive tobacco, and that distinct, musky male smell that triggers the memory of him sweating over me. He doesn't even pause to acknowledge me, walking straight to Valeria. He leans down, pressing a kiss to her neck, right in the same spot he kissed me yesterday.

"Good morning, baby," he rumbles, his voice deep and smooth.

Valeria preens under the attention, her hand coming up to rest on his forearm. "Good morning, darling."

He pulls out the chair at the head of the table—the seat of power—and sits down. Valeria gestures to the chair directly across from her. I sit, feeling like a defendant in the dock.

"I saw this bag online last night," Valeria starts, her voice shifting into that sweet, manipulative tone she uses when she wants something. "It’s a limited edition crocodile skin. I think it would be perfect for the gala next month. Don't you think it would suit me, Tristan? You’d get it for me, wouldn't you?"

I pick up my fork and push a piece of melon around my plate, eating in silence. I watch her, the way she bats her eyelashes, the way she plays the role of the doting wife while acting like a complete b***h to everyone else.

"It would look exquisite on you," Tristan replies smoothly, not looking up from his coffee. "Order it."

Then, his eyes shift. They lock onto mine, piercing and intense. "And Anastasia? Do you want one too?"

I freeze, my fork hovering halfway to my mouth. I raise my head and point a finger at my own chest. "Me?"

I shake my head quickly. "No. No, thank you."

For a second, I swear his gaze drops, flicking over the curve of my breasts beneath the loose sweater, before snapping back up to my face. Is he... checking me out? Right in front of her? The air between us feels thick, charged. I must be imagining it. The sleep deprivation is messing with my head.

We finish the meal in a silence that feels heavy to me, though Valeria seems perfectly content. I eat quickly, barely tasting the eggs, and stand up. I grab my plate and carry it to the sink, rinsing it off with unnecessary force.

From the kitchen doorway, I stare at Tristan’s back. The broad expanse of his shoulders strains against his dress shirt, the fabric pulling tight as he reaches for his cup. My mind flashes back to the sight of his naked back, muscles rippling as he thrust into me. God, this is so complicated. I need space. I need air.

"I'm going to my room," I announce, my voice sounding small.

Neither of them really looks up. Valeria laughs at something Tristan whispers, the sound tinkling and fake. I turn and flee, my bare feet silent on the stairs.

Back in the safety of my room, I close the door and lean against it, letting out a long breath. I walk to the bed and collapse onto it, staring up at the ceiling. The white plaster is dizzying. I can’t keep this inside. I’m going to explode. I need to talk to someone.

Lila.

We fought before I left. A stupid, ugly fight about trust. I know I was wrong. I didn’t trust her, and I pushed her away when I needed her most. I grab my phone from the nightstand, my fingers trembling slightly, and dial her number.

It rings. Once. Twice. Three times. I’m just about to give up, thinking she’s ignoring me, when the line clicks.

"Hello?"

Silence stretches between us, heavy and loaded. I can hear her breathing.

"I'm sorry," I rush out, the words tumbling over each other. "Lila, I’m so sorry. I was an idiot."

"I'm sorry too," she says, her voice softening immediately. "I missed you, Anna."

"Am I forgiven? Bestie?"

"Yes," she says. "God, yes. I missed you so much."

"I missed you too," I whisper, feeling a lump form in my throat.

She squeals, changing the subject to lighten the mood. "I heard Italy has the most amazing food and the sights are to die for. Are you seeing anything good yet?"

I giggle, the sound foreign in this quiet house. "I haven't even gone out yet. I literally just woke up. But I’ll check it out later."

"Okay, seriously," Lila says, her tone dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Spill it. What’s going on? You sounded weird on the phone before you left."

I sigh, rolling onto my side and curling up. "There’s something I kept from you. Something big."

"What is it?"

"Do you remember the man who came to our club that night? The one in the VIP section?"

"Uhhhhm," she hums, thinking. "Vaguely. Why?"

"Seriously? You don't remember Sinclair Tristan?"

"Sinclair... wait," she gasps. "Yeah, I remember him. The older guy with the intense eyes. What’s up with him? Wait, girl... you saw him there?"

I take a deep breath. "He came down to the......."

Before I can say another word, a heavy knock thuds against my bedroom door.

My heart jumps into my throat. "Hold on, Lila," I say into the phone, panic rising. "Let me answer the door."

I scramble off the bed, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I smooth down my sweater and reach for the handle. I pull it open, expecting the maid, maybe Valeria.

But standing there, filling the entire frame, is Tristan.

He looks massive, his presence overwhelming the small hallway. His eyes are dark, fixed on me with an expression that makes my knees weak.

From the phone, still clutched in my hand, Lila’s voice rings out loud and clear. "What about Tristan, Anna?"

I gasp, the sound tearing from my throat, and my thumb fumbles frantically for the end call button. I stare at him, the phone falling silent in my grip, as he takes a step forward, into my room.