Stepdad’s Pet; His Son’s Plaything

The alter of ruin

EMMA’S POV

The silence in the study was absolute, a heavy, velvet weight that pressed against my eardrums. Outside that locked door, the world was still turning—Janet was likely still flirting with a man who shared his DNA, and my mother was likely humming in the garden—but in here, time had simply ceased to exist.

Jordan didn’t move. He sat behind that massive mahogany desk, his silhouette framed by the amber glow of the lamp. He looked like a king on a crumbling throne. His sleeves were rolled back, exposing the corded strength of his forearms, and for the umpteenth time, I didn't see the man who had tucked me into bed when I was fifteen. I saw the man who had been starving himself for years.

"Emma," he said again, his voice lower this time, vibrating through the floorboards and up into the soles of my feet. "Why is the door locked?"

"Because I don't want anyone to see what I'm about to do," I whispered. My voice was surprisingly steady, fueled by a cocktail of lingering jealousy and a new, terrifying resolve.

I walked toward him. Every step felt like a mile. The scent of the room—expensive leather, old books, and his signature cedarwood cologne—swirled around me, making my head light. As I reached the desk, I didn't stop.

I walked around the side of it, stepping into his personal space, until my knees were brushing against his expensive wool slacks.

Jordan’s breath hitched. I saw the muscle in his jaw jump. He was fighting it—the "Saint" was making one last, desperate stand—but his eyes betrayed him. They were dark, blown wide with a hunger so ravenous it made my pulse skip.

"You should go back to your friend," he choked out, even as his large hand reached out, his fingers hovering just inches from my waist. "Reign is... Reign is waiting for you."

"I don't want Reign," I said, leaning down until our foreheads were almost touching. I could feel the heat radiating off him, a literal fever of repressed desire. "I want the man who actually knows me. I want you, Jordan. I’ve always wanted you."

That was the final snap.

Jordan let out a sound that was half-groan, half-growl, and his hands flew out, gripping my hips with a force that would surely leave bruises. He hauled me onto his lap, his mouth crashing onto mine with a desperation that knocked the breath from my lungs. This wasn't the tentative, guilt-ridden kiss from my bedroom. This was a claim.

He tasted like the bourbon he’d been sipping and the raw, jagged edge of a man who had finally reached his breaking point. I wrapped my arms around his neck, my fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, needing to be consumed.

"God, Emma," he gasped against my lips, his hands roaming over my back, tracing the line of my spine with a frantic energy. "You have no idea what you've done to me. I've tried. I swear to God, I tried to be the man you deserved."

"This is the man I deserve," I whispered, reaching for the buttons of his shirt.

He didn't help me. He watched with hooded eyes as I fumbled with the buttons, my hands shaking so hard I could barely function. When the fabric finally parted, revealing the broad, muscled expanse of his chest, I let out a shaky breath. I pressed my palms against him, feeling the frantic, heavy thud of his heart. He was just as terrified as I was. Just as ruined.

Jordan stood up suddenly, lifting me as if I weighed nothing. He swept the laptop, the crystal paperweights, and the stacks of legal briefs off the desk with one violent motion. The sound of things hitting the floor was loud—a final goodbye to his professional life—but neither of us cared.

He sat me on the edge of the mahogany desk, spreading my legs and stepping between them. The wood was cool against my skin, a sharp contrast to the furnace of his body.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice raw.

I looked. I saw the man who had been my anchor, now becoming my storm. He stripped his shirt off, casting it into the shadows, and then he was on me. His mouth went to my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, marking me in a way that couldn't be hidden.

"You're mine," he growled against my skin. "Not his. Not anyone else’s. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I sobbed, my head falling back as his hands slid under my skirt and got rid of my panties in one swift motion.

I helped him remove his pants and briefs and his erection jumped out. I could feel it breathing hard and I grabbed it, stroking him with my hands.

Jordan's tongue worked on my ear licking, napping, whispering dirty words. I lost control when he blew a gentle breeze inside.

He dragged me out a little, spread my legs wider and dipped his middle finger into my opening. I let out a shrill cry, “Jordan… gosh…”

He pulled out the finger and licked it. “This is the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted in my life.”

He didn’t give me time to blush before putting his full length inside me and covered my mouth with one hand to stifle my screams.

His other hand was pulling my waist to him as he was driving in and out like his life depended on it. The hand on my mouth came down and started working on my c**t.

I pulled my dress up to my mouth and was screaming inside. This was it, this was what I lived for, this was the best day of my life.

The s*x was long, hard, and devoid of the "gentleness" he usually projected. It was a reclamation. He took me right there on the desk, amidst the ruins of his career and his marriage. Every thrust was a confession; every gasp was a prayer to a god we had both abandoned.

He was relentless, his movements driven by a decade of suppressed longing. I met his intensity with my own, my legs locked around his waist, my nails digging into the muscles of his back. We were eating each other up, trying to fill the hollowed-out parts of ourselves with skin and heat.

The silence of the study was replaced by the wet, rhythmic sounds of our bodies colliding and the jagged, broken sounds of our breathing. I watched his face in the dim light—the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his eyes never left mine, demanding that I witness his fall.

When the climax hit, it was a total whiteout. I screamed into his shoulder, the sound muffled by his skin, as the world dissolved into a singular point of agonizing pleasure. Jordan followed seconds later, his entire body racking with tremors as he buried his face in my hair, holding me so tight I thought my ribs might snap.

We stayed like that for a long time, draped over the desk in the wreckage of the study. The adrenaline was slowly fading, replaced by a heavy, cold reality.

Jordan pulled back, his eyes searching mine. He looked different—the "Saint" was gone, replaced by a man who knew he could never go back. He reached out, his thumb tracing my lower lip, which was swollen and red from his kisses.

"There's no going back now, Emma," he whispered.

"I know," I said, smoothing his hair back.

He kissed my forehead—a lingering, desperate gesture—before he started to gather his clothes. The order was returning, the "mask" was being pulled back on, but we both knew it was shattered beneath the surface.

I straightened my skirt and smoothed my hair, my body feeling heavy and well-used. As I walked toward the door, I caught the scent of him on my skin—that heavy cedarwood and bourbon. It was a brand. A secret I would have to carry past my mother, past Janet, and past the son who was waiting in the shadows.

I unlocked the door and stepped out into the hallway, my legs still trembling. I was ruined, but as I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror, I realized I’d never looked more alive.