Humping Daddy’s Thigh Until I Begged Novel – Chapter 1 I swear, I could actually murder my stepdad Caleb right now. Like, full-on strangle him with my bare hands and not feel a shred of guilt. He promised me a daddy-daughter weekend getaway while Mom’s away on her work trip. I pictured us at some fancy all-inclusive resort—massages, infinity pool, room service, the whole spoiled-princess treatment. Instead, he pulls the black SUV off some dirt road in the middle of absolute nowhere, kills the engine, and grins like he just won the lottery. There are no buildings. No valet. No spa. Just trees. Endless, dark, bug-infested trees. I hate the outdoors. Hate it with a burning passion. Dirt under my nails, sunburn on my shoulders, mosquitoes treating me like an all-you-can-eat buffet—I can’t stand any of it.
Ever since he married Mom when I was eight, Caleb’s been on this endless mission to “help me appreciate nature.” He’s dragged me on hikes, forced me into kayaks, made me fish. I’ve suffered through all of it. But this? This is next-level betrayal. “Are you fucking serious?” I hiss, arms crossed so tight my nails dig into my biceps. “Dead serious,” he says, stretching those long arms like he’s on vacation in paradise. “Welcome to the real world, kiddo.” “Take me home. Right now.” “No can do.” He steps out, boots crunching on pine needles, and starts unloading gear like this is the best day of his life. “Fine. I’ll drive myself.” I reach for the keys. He snatches them before I can blink, locks them in some metal tackle box, spins the combination lock so fast I can’t even catch the numbers. Then he pulls out my phone, holds it up—no bars, zero service—and smirks. “Off the grid, Isla. That’s the point.” My stomach drops.
He planned this. He really fucking planned this. I stay glued to the passenger seat, glaring daggers through the windshield while he cheerfully sets up camp. Tent goes up in record time, fire pit dug, wood stacked. He’s humming some stupid tune under his breath, completely unbothered by the death stares I’m sending his way. I have to admit—he’s annoyingly good at this. The tent looks bigger than I expected, and when the fire catches, orange flames lick up into the dusk, throwing warm light across his face. He strips off his flannel shirt, tosses it aside, and starts stoking the blaze in nothing but a fitted black tee that clings to every ridge of muscle. God. I shouldn’t look. I really shouldn’t. But I do. Caleb’s built like he spends half his life outdoors—broad shoulders, thick arms, that V of muscle dipping into his jeans from all the chopping wood and hauling gear. I’ve seen him shirtless at the pool before, but I always made a point not to stare. Tonight, with the firelight carving shadows across his chest, it’s harder to pretend I don’t notice.
My friends call him a total DILF. I hate when they say it. Mostly because they’re not wrong, and that makes me feel weird. The temperature inside the SUV drops fast. I only wore a thin hoodie because I thought we were heading to a resort, not the wilderness. Goosebumps race up my arms. I hug myself, rubbing my thighs together, trying to generate heat. Outside, Caleb’s got the fire roaring now. And—damn him—he’s grilling juicy brats. The ones I always beg for at barbecues. The smell drifts through the cracked window: smoky, savory, mouthwatering. My stomach growls so loud I wince. He glances over, catches my eye, and winks. Actually winks. Bastard. I try to hold out. I really do. But ten minutes later my pride loses to hunger. I pinch my cold fingers, mutter a curse under my breath, and slam the door open. I stomp over to the firepit and drop onto one of the camp chairs like I’m doing him a favor.
Caleb’s humming again, flipping the brats like nothing happened. I snatch one from the tongs the second they’re ready. It’s perfect—crispy skin, hot juice dripping down my chin. Delicious. Which only pisses me off more. I complain about everything. The bugs. The cold. The dirt. Every time, he’s got an answer. Mosquito spray. Another blanket. A chilled can of my favorite lemon sparkling water. By the time the food’s gone, I’m out of ammunition. I decide to call it a night and plot my escape tomorrow. I duck into the tent, bracing for the worst. And… it’s actually kind of nice? String lights cast a soft golden glow. There’s a thick air mattress covered in plush blankets and pillows. It smells faintly of pine and clean laundry. Not luxurious, but way better than I pictured. I change into my silky sleep shorts and cami top—the set I packed thinking I’d be lounging by a pool—and slide under the covers. The fabric feels cool against my skin at first, then warms quickly. My body relaxes almost against my will. I’m drifting, eyelids heavy, when the tent flap rustles.
Caleb climbs in, bringing the scent of woodsmoke and his cologne—something warm and spicy that always makes my stomach flip in a way I pretend not to notice. He settles beside me. The air mattress dips under his weight. Heat radiates off him like a furnace. I don’t mean to, but I gravitate toward it. Just a little. My body curls instinctively into his side, seeking warmth like a cat. And then I’m out.