Alpha Daddy

The Night

Chapter 5 — The Night

Sarah

I couldn't sleep.

The memory replayed itself on an endless loop—his body pinning mine into dirt, the weight of him, the heat. The way his chain had brushed from my cleavage to collarbone. The way his breath had ghosted all over my neck, the moment he’d leaned down and whispered in my ears—

“Bad move, Little Wolf.”

Fuck.

My skin prickled at the memory.

I turned over in bed, pulling the blanket tighter, but it didn't help. My body felt too warm, too aware — too hungry for something I had no right wanting.

My goddamned…stepfather.

I closed my eyes and saw him again.

The hard line of his jaw. The way his muscles had flexed when he’d grabbed my wrists. How he’d controlled me with barely trying at all.

The way he’d looked down at me with those dark, burning eyes—like he wanted to devour me. And a sick part of me had hoped that he’d. But…he didn’t.

I turned around again, trying to force myself to sleep.

But once again my mind was filled with his memories…

The way he’d smiled.

Fuck. It.

That sinful, predatory smile that made me want to do things I shouldn't be thinking about.

My breath quickened.

This was wrong.

He was my stepfather. He’d married my mother. He was supposed to be off-limits, forbidden, entirely inappropriate to fantasize about.

Yet…

My hand drifted lower almost of its own accord, sliding beneath the thin fabric of my nighty. My fingertips traced the curve of my ribs, the soft skin of my stomach, moving slowly, hesitantly, as if I could convince myself I wasn't doing this.

The thought of his hand on my waist during training, the way his fingers had dug in, possessive and firm, like he owned me.

My breath hitched.

I let my hand slide higher, grabbing my breast through the fabric. My n*****s were already hard, sensitive. I rolled it between my fingers and gasped softly at the sensation.

In imagination—it was his hand. His touch.

Heat pooled low in my belly, sharp and insistent as I dragged my n****e between my fingers and pressed hard as if Jaxon would.

My lips parted for the first soft moan…

My other hand traveled lower, skimming over my hip, my thigh, teasing myself. My heart raced as I replayed the moment he’d pinned me—his thighs bracketing mine, his chest crushing against me, every inch of his body pressed into every inch of me.

The way he’d looked at me. Like he was fighting not to cross a line neither of us should cross.

Slowly, my hand slipped into my panties. My fingers found my p***y—already wet. A part of me recoiled in shame because I knew this wetness? It was for my step brother.

However, that brazen hungry part of me?

It did not let my hand stop.

I started rubbing my p***y between, slowly, from slit to c**t. Touching all the sensitive spots that left my breath hitching.

I was so f*****g wet. As I kept rubbing it with my fingers, drawing small circles—soft, brazen, noises came from down there. Echoing through the room.

I couldn't hold it.

I yanked my panties down and kicked them off completely, spreading my legs wider.

I slid my hand down to my p***y once again.

As soft hasp left my mouth as, my fingers brushed over my wet hole.

I was already wet—slick and ready, my p***y soaked, juices already sliding down my inner thighs, body throbbing with need. My body betrayed how much I wanted this, wanted—him.

God, I was so wet for him. For my stepfather.

The wrongness of it only made me wetter.

I traced slow, teasing circles over my c**t, spreading my slick wetness around the sensitive bud. I bit my lip to keep quiet, but a soft moan escaped anyway. My hips jerked upward, seeking more pressure, more friction. My other hand grabbed my breast roughly, pinching my n****e hard enough to make me whimper.

I thought of his body crushing mine into the dirt. The way he'd spread my legs with his thighs, pinning me open and helpless beneath him.

“f**k,” I breathed.

My fingers moved faster, pressing harder against my c**t, slipping through the wetness gathered there.

What would it feel like to have him between my legs instead? His rough, calloused hands spreading me wide? His mouth on my p***y, his tongue licking through my folds, tasting how wet I was for him?

My fingers slipped lower, sliding through the obscene amount of wetness gathered at my entrance. I was practically dripping, juice running down between my ass cheeks onto the sheets.

I pushed two fingers inside my p***y without warning, crying out at the sudden stretch, feeling my juice drip down my hand as I started to move them in and out.

My walls clamped down immediately, tight and greedy, trying to pull my fingers deeper.

“Jaxon,” I breathed, so quietly it was barely sound.

I f****d myself with my fingers, hard and fast, imagining they were his. Imagining his thick, long fingers stretching me open, claiming my p***y like he had every right to it. Like I belonged to him.

My other hand worked my c**t furiously, rubbing tight circles that had my thighs shaking, my toes curling.

I started moving faster, gasping at the burning stretch. It was almost too much, but I needed it. I needed to feel full. Needed to imagine it was his c**k instead, thick and hard, splitting me open.

“Jaxon,” I moaned, louder now, not caring who might hear.

“Oh god, Jaxon—f**k—”

The wet, obscene sounds of my fingers pumping in and out of my dripping p***y filled the room. I was so f*****g wet it was running down my wrist, soaking everything.

I thought of him. His body. His intoxication scent. And everything purely him.

What if he'd slid his hand between my legs right then during training? Felt how wet I was for him? Would he have called me a dirty girl? Would he have f****d me right there in the dirt where anyone could have seen?

My fingers curled, finding that perfect spot inside, and I cried out, my back arching violently off the bed.

“Yes—f**k—right there—”

I was so close. The pressure built at the base of my spine, in my core, spreading through my entire body like wildfire.

I imagined his c**k inside me instead of my fingers. Imagined him pounding into my p***y, rough and relentless, making me take every thick inch while he growled in my ear about how tight I was, how good I felt wrapped around him.

My thumb pressed hard against my c**t, rubbing frantically.

“Jaxon—I'm gonna—oh f**k—”

The orgasm slammed into me like a freight train.

My p***y clenched violently around my fingers, spasming and gushing as pleasure exploded through every nerve. I screamed his name—loud, broken, obscene—not giving a f**k who heard me.

“JAXON! f**k—YES—JAXON!”

I came so hard I saw stars, my whole body convulsing, my thighs clamping around my hand as wave after devastating wave crashed through me. Juice flooded out of my p***y, soaking my fingers, my palm, running down to pool beneath my ass on the already-drenched sheets.

I couldn't stop. My hips bucked wildly, f*****g myself on my fingers, riding out every aftershock as I sobbed his name over and over.

“Jaxon—Jaxon—oh god—Jaxon—”

When it finally subsided, I collapsed back against the mattress, completely wrecked. My chest heaved. My entire body trembled. My p***y still clenched weakly around my fingers, oversensitive and spent.

I pulled my fingers out slowly, whimpering at the loss, and brought them to my lips without thinking. I sucked them clean, tasting myself, imagining it was his fingers in my mouth instead. Imagining him making me taste what he did to me.

“f**k,” I whispered into the darkness, my voice hoarse from screaming.

My p***y still throbbed, still ached, still wanted more.

Still wanted him.

My chest heaved. My skin was flushed, damp with sweat. My heart hammered against my ribs.

For a long moment, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling in stunned silence.

What had I just done?

I'd touched myself thinking about him. My stepfather. The man who'd raised me after my mother died. The Alpha who was supposed to protect me—not star in my most forbidden fantasies.

And I screamed his name.

Loud enough that anyone nearby could have heard.

Shame flooded through me, hot and immediate.

But beneath it—underneath the guilt and the wrongness of it all—my body still hummed with satisfaction. Still ached for more.

For him.

I pressed my hands over my face, mortification burning through me.

“God, what is wrong with me?” I whispered into the darkness.

My wolf stirred, smug and satisfied.

She didn't see anything wrong with it.

She wanted him. Had wanted him since he'd pinned us down, since his scent had wrapped around us, since his eyes had burned into ours with barely restrained hunger.

“He's our stepfather,” I hissed at her.

She didn't care.

Neither, apparently, did my traitorous body.

I turned onto my side, pulling my knees up to my chest, trying to calm my still-racing heart.

Sleep didn't come for a long time.

And when it finally did, I dreamed of him.

Of his hands. His mouth. His body claiming mine in ways that made me wake gasping, wet, and wanting all over again.