My Stepfather Filled Me Better Than My Husband Ever Did

Chapter 3

The next morning, I couldn't bring myself to look Daniel in the eye.

I came downstairs with Lily in my arms. Daniel was already sitting at the kitchen table, a newspaper spread in front of him and a cup of coffee at his elbow.

He didn't look up.

"Morning."

"Morning."

The silence between us was unbearable.

"Daniel—"

"Clara, don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't apologize. And don't make this weird." He finally looked up. "Last night was... me being an i***t who forgot where the line was."

"You weren't being an i***t. You were being honest."

He folded the newspaper.

"I'm your stepfather."

"Ex-stepfather. Mom divorced you."

"That doesn't erase the fact that I raised you."

"You raised me. You weren't my father. There's a difference."

He went quiet, rubbing both hands over his face.

"What do you want me to say, Clara? That I've thought about you in ways I shouldn't? That I've imagined what it would be like if—"

He stopped himself.

"No. I'm not going there."

"Why not?"

"Because you're hurting. Because your divorce is still fresh. Because you're young, I'm older, and this is a terrible idea."

"The only terrible decision I made was marrying Ethan."

Daniel got to his feet and walked over to the counter, turning his back to me.

"You don't know what you're asking for."

"Then tell me. What are you thinking?"

He turned around.

I'd never seen that look in his eyes before. The careful restraint was gone.

"I'm thinking about what it would feel like to be inside you," he said, his voice low. "I'm thinking about how you felt last night—open, soft, trusting. I'm thinking about how much I wanted to keep going. And I'm thinking about how wrong that is."

I walked toward him. Lily was still in my arms, so I couldn't touch him, but I stopped close enough to feel his breath.

"It's not wrong," I said. "It's the only thing that's made sense in years."

That night, after Lily was asleep, I couldn't stop thinking about his words.

I touched myself again. This time, I could feel something. A flicker. A memory of sensation.

I pressed harder.

In my mind, I wasn't thinking about Ethan. I wasn't thinking about anyone I should have been thinking about.

I was thinking about Daniel's hand.

"Daniel," I whispered into the darkness, "please..."

I came with a soft gasp, my thighs trembling, my hand still pressed between them.

And then I felt the shame.

The next morning, I walked into the kitchen. Daniel was making coffee.

"Good morning," he said, not looking up.

"Daniel—"

He turned. His eyes traveled down my body in a way they hadn't before. Not with fatherly concern. Not with friendly warmth.

Like a man looking at a woman.

"I heard you last night," he said quietly. "Through the wall."

My face burned.

"Clara, I'm not going to pretend I didn't. You said my name."

"Daniel, I—"

"Did you mean it?"

I couldn't speak.

He walked toward me. He stopped when there was an inch of space between us. I could smell him—soap and sleep and something darker underneath.

"Tell me," he said, his voice low.

"Yes," I whispered. "I meant it."

I kissed him first.

He kissed me back like he'd been waiting for it his whole life. His hands went into my hair, pulling me closer. His mouth was hungry—not the gentle, careful Daniel I knew. Something else. Something he'd been hiding.

"Clara," he breathed against my neck, "we shouldn't—"

"Don't say shouldn't. I've been told 'shouldn't' my whole life. I married the man I should have married, and he made me feel dead."

"I'm your—"

"You're not my father. You never were."

His hand slid down my body, over my hip, between my legs. He pressed against me through my thin cotton shorts.

"Tell me what you want," he said.

"You. I want you."

He took me to his bedroom.

No hesitation. No second thoughts. He pushed me onto the bed and pulled off my shorts in one rough motion. His own clothes followed.

I saw him for the first time.

He wasn't young. He wasn't the gym-toned twenty-something Ethan had been. But he was more. Broad shoulders, strong chest, a trail of silvered hair from his navel down. And below that—his c**k was thick. Not the absurd exaggeration of porn or fantasy, but something real and heavy. Already hard. Already wanting.

"You're staring," he said.

"I'm remembering what it's like to want something."

"You want this?"

"I want you inside me. I don't care if I can feel it or not. I just want you."

He knelt between my legs. He didn't rush. He ran his thumb over my c**t, watching my face. I gasped. It wasn't much, but it was more than I'd felt in months.

"Stay with me," he said. "Don't go away. Stay right here."

"I'm here."

He pressed the head of his c**k against my entrance. I felt it—broad, warm, insistent.

"You're loose," he said quietly. "I can feel that. But I also feel your body trying. It wants to grip me, even if it can't yet."

"Daniel—"

"Shh. I'm going to push inside you now. Tell me if it hurts."