Breed Me, My Step Daddy Novel – My mom’s voice drifted in from the kitchen—cheerful, too loud, exactly like her. I was stretched out on the living room couch, a half-melted Snickers in one hand and the remote in the other, channel surfing without absorbing a thing. My right ankle, mummified in thick white bandages, rested on a pillow like some pathetic royal injury.
I shot it a dirty look. Stupid stairs. Stupid fall. Stupid me, tumbling down my university steps and ending up back home because of one careless second. It wasn’t being home I hated. It was why—and my mom. She could go from sweet to smothering in a heartbeat, and I was already bracing myself for the cross-examination: classes, friends, weight, plans, everything. She had a talent for crawling into my life and rearranging it without asking. “Lena, get your daddy too!” she called again, sing-song. I rolled my eyes.
As if I could limp down the hall on crutches to fetch him. Did she not see my ankle—the whole reason I was here? Before I could fire back something snarky, a low, rough voice answered instead. “I’m here.” My stomach flipped. Marcus Hale—my stepfather—walked into the living room, and it felt like the temperature jumped ten degrees. My gaze locked on him. Gray sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips, a black T-shirt stretched tight over a chest and arms that had no business looking like that on a forty-two-year-old man.
His dark hair was still damp from the shower. He looked like a forbidden cologne ad that would get pulled off the air. I forgot to breathe. He caught me staring, one brow lifting as he ran a hand through his hair. “Morning, Lena.” The way he said my name—slow, rough, like he was savoring it—sent a sharp pulse straight through me. I clenched my thighs and shifted, praying he didn’t notice. “Morning,” I muttered, my face burning. He crossed the room in three long steps, then bent and slid one arm under my knees, the other behind my back, lifting me as if I weighed nothing.
His scent washed over me—cedar and something darker, intoxicating. My arms looped around his neck automatically, my fingers brushing the warm skin at his collar. “You’re lighter,” he said, amused, his voice vibrating against me. “Makes carrying you easier.” He chuckled, low and soft, and I felt it everywhere. The silk sleep skirt I’d thrown on suddenly felt scandalously short. His hand curved around the back of my bare thigh to steady me, his thumb grazing skin no one had ever touched—except in my imagination. I bit my lip hard, forcing the thoughts down before I embarrassed myself He carried me into the kitchen. Mom stood at the stove in her pastel apron, flipping pancakes, completely unaware. He set me on the only remaining high stool at the island—the others casualties of one of Mom’s YouTube DIY disasters. “I’m making your favorite blueberry pancakes,” she said brightly. “I know you hated the campus food.” I glanced at Marcus. Oh, I’d missed something, all right—and it wasn’t pancakes. He stood there, unfairly handsome. Sharp jaw, faint stubble I’d imagined far too often. Guilt hit immediately.
This was wrong. I shouldn’t think like this. But the harder I fought it, the stronger it became. I squeezed my thighs together, trying to ease the ache that had started the second he walked in. He turned. Caught me staring. Then he smiled—slow, knowing—like he could see every forbidden thought in my head. Mom finally looked over. “Marcus, why are you still standing?” He laughed. “Only one stool. Unless you want me sitting on Lena’s lap.” I sucked in a breath. Mom burst out laughing. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “She can sit on yours. Share.” She said it like it meant nothing. My heart pounded. I shook my head, unable to speak, but Marcus’s eyes held me. Then his hands were on me again, lifting me and settling me sideways across his lap as he took the stool. I froze. His thigh was solid between my legs, his heat everywhere, and suddenly I was painfully, terrifyingly aware of just how close we were.