Page 34

Then Elena met Vince, and overnight she became the perfect wife and mother.

She threw herself into Christmas that year, spending thousands of dollars of Vince’s money decorating the lake house. She bought an enormous tree, filled the living room with presents, and for the first time in my life, I had a stocking with my name on it. We baked cookies, watched Christmas movies, and sat down to an actual Christmas dinner. But by the middle of January, she was gone.

Vince kept the decorations. The following Christmas, we decorated the house together, and we’ve been making our own traditions ever since. Christmas has become my favorite time of year, and I have Vince to thank for that.

The mistletoe lying at our feet must have been one of Elena’s purchases that first Christmas, something she bought and promptly forgot about. And here it is, two years later, still finding ways to surprise me.

Vince’s hand slides down my hip and over my ass as he pulls me against him. Between his mouth, his tongue, the warm, soapy smell of him, I’m trembling all over.

His other hand slides down, too, and then he’s lifting me up. I’m barely aware that my feet have left the floor until my ass lands on the kitchen counter and his body slots between my thighs. The feel of his body against mine is overwhelming—his chest solid and warm, the hard lines of him flush against me. It’s shocking and thrilling all at once, like every nerve ending in my skin has suddenly woken up.

“Oh God,” I moan, wrapping my legs around his waist.

He kisses me deeply, and then he tears his lips away, breathing hard.

“Fuck, Soph,” he says raggedly. “We can’t do this.”

“Yes, we can.”

He shakes his head. “I’m your stepfather.” But his hands haven’t moved. They’re still on my waist, his thumbs tracing small circles on my skin just under my shirt.

I slide my hands up his chest to his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle there, and kiss his throat. His skin is hot under my mouth, and he groans. “Oh, God⁠—”

I kiss the line of his jaw, his stubble rough against my mouth, and he tilts his head back, giving me access. His fingers tighten on my waist, pulling me closer instead of pushing me away.

“Please, Vince,” I whisper against his skin. “I want you.” I lift my head to look at him, and he takes the opportunity to bend down and press his mouth to my neck.

“Fuck,” he breathes against my throat, his hands sliding back down to cup my ass, and squeezing hard. He grinds against me, his hips moving in a rhythm that’s unmistakable, and I wrap my arms around his neck and hold on. For about ten seconds, he’s completely gone. His mouth is on my neck and he’s rocking against me like he can’t help himself, like his body has taken over and his brain is nowhere in the room. Then he pulls away.

One second his body is pressed against mine, his breath hot on my skin, and the next he’s two feet back, his hands raised like he’s surrendering.

“Oh my God.” His voice cracks. He’s breathing hard, his chest rising and falling. “We have to stop. I have to stop.”

“Vince—”

“No.” He holds me back gently but firmly, his hands on my shoulders, creating space between us. “I can’t. This is— Fuck, Sophie. I’m sorry.”

He releases my shoulders and steps back, running a hand through his hair.

I slide off the counter and stand, my legs unsteady. My whole body is throbbing. I’m so wet between my legs it’s embarrassing, and I want him so badly my whole body is aching with it.

He turns away from me and opens the cabinet over the microwave, pulling down the whiskey bottle. His hands are unsteady. I watch him pour two fingers into a glass, the bottle clinking against the rim. He knocks back half of it in one swallow, his throat working, and sets the glass down hard.

“I need a minute,” he says, not looking at me. He picks up the glass and walks out of the kitchen.

I follow him into the living room, my heart hammering against my ribs. I’m still trembling and I don’t know what happens next, but I know I’m not letting this end here.

Vince sits on the far end of the couch and doesn’t look at me as I sit on the opposite end. He tilts his head back and takes a deep breath. I can see how rapidly his chest is rising and falling under his shirt.

“I’m your stepfather,” he says finally, turning to look at me. “This is wrong, and I have to stop. It will ruin everything we have. Fuck. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I . . . I shouldn’t be doing this.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should care.” The anguish he feels is evident on his face. “I’m forty-three. You’re nineteen. This isn’t right.”

“I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“You don’t. You can’t possibly.”