Chapter 159 Fucking My Stepson
Vanessa's POV
I'd made a mistake marrying Richard.
Not because he was a bad man—he wasn't. He was successful, stable, generous with his money if not his time. He'd swept me off my feet with expensive dinners and weekend getaways, promised me security and comfort after my messy divorce had left me financially struggling.
At thirty-three, I'd been tired of dating losers and struggling to make rent. Richard had seemed like the solution—seventeen years older, established, ready to settle down with someone who'd appreciate the lifestyle he could provide.
I'd convinced myself that passion didn't matter. That I could live without mind-blowing sex if it meant financial security and stability. That companionship was enough.
Two years into this marriage, I knew I'd been catastrophically wrong.
Richard worked eighty-hour weeks, came home exhausted, and fell asleep during the rare occasions we attempted sex. When we did manage to fuck, it was perfunctory and brief—him getting his release and rolling over without bothering to check if I'd gotten mine.
I was thirty-five years old, in my sexual prime, and slowly dying from neglect.
And then Jake had come home from college for the summer.
Jake. My stepson. Nineteen years old, fit from college athletics, with his mother's dark eyes and his father's sharp jawline. The kid I'd met exactly twice before Richard and I got married—polite dinners where he'd been awkward and I'd tried too hard to seem like cool stepmom material.
Except he wasn't a kid anymore.
He'd left for college a lanky teenager. He'd come back a man—six feet tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of body that came from dedicated gym time and youth. And living in the same house with him for the past week had been slowly driving me insane in ways I absolutely could not acknowledge.
Because he was my stepson. My husband's son. Off-limits in every possible way.
Which is why I'd been absolutely horrified when I'd walked past his bedroom door yesterday afternoon and seen something that had burned itself into my brain so completely I couldn't stop thinking about it.
The door had been cracked open—not fully closed like it should have been. And through that gap, I'd seen Jake lying on his bed, completely naked, his hand wrapped around his cock as he stroked himself with focused intensity.
I should have walked away immediately. Should have crept past silently and pretended I'd seen nothing. Should have absolutely not stood there frozen in the hallway, my eyes glued to the sight of my stepson pleasuring himself.
But I hadn't walked away.
I'd stood there like a statue, my breath caught in my throat, watching Jake's hand move up and down his length—thick and long and nothing like Richard's aging, half-interested dick. Watching his abs flex with each stroke. Watching his head fall back against the pillow, his mouth falling open in pleasure.
Watching him like the desperate, starved woman I'd become.
And then his eyes had opened.
Our gazes had locked through that cracked door—him still stroking himself, me standing in the hallway with my hand pressed to my mouth in shock. For three heartbeats, neither of us had moved.
Then, slowly, deliberately, his hand had continued moving. His eyes had stayed locked on mine. And the message had been crystal clear: I know you're watching. And I don't want you to stop.
I'd fled to my bedroom, my face burning with shame and arousal, and touched myself to the image of him until I came harder than I had in months.
That had been yesterday.
Today, I'd been avoiding him desperately, finding reasons to leave the house, hiding in my room. But Richard had called an hour ago to say he'd be working late—again—and now Jake and I were alone in this too-big house with nothing but tension and that forbidden memory between us.
I'd tried to distract myself with wine and a book on the back patio, but I couldn't focus. Couldn't stop replaying what I'd seen. Couldn't stop wondering if he'd done it on purpose—left his door open, knowing I might walk by.
Couldn't stop wondering what would happen if I went to his room right now.
The sliding glass door opened behind me and I jumped, sloshing wine over the rim of my glass.
"Sorry," Jake's voice came, and I turned to find him standing there in gym shorts and a tank top, his hair damp with sweat. "Didn't mean to scare you. Just got back from the gym."
"It's fine," I managed, not quite meeting his eyes. "Good workout?"
"Yeah. Pretty intense." He moved closer, and I caught the scent of his sweat—clean and masculine and nothing like Richard's old-man smell. "You've been avoiding me."
My heart stuttered. "What? No, I haven't—"
"Yes, you have." He sat in the chair beside mine, close enough that I could see the definition in his arms, the way his tank top clung to his chest. "Since yesterday. Since you saw me."
The blunt acknowledgment made heat flood my face. "Jake, I'm so sorry. I should have—I didn't mean to—"
"I left the door open on purpose," he interrupted, and my breath stopped completely.
"What?"
"The door. I left it cracked. Hoping you'd walk by." His dark eyes held mine with an intensity that made me squirm. "Hoping you'd look."
"Jake, you can't—we can't—" I couldn't form coherent thoughts, let alone sentences.
"Why not?" He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his gaze unwavering. "You're not actually my mom. We're not blood related. You're just some woman my dad married."
The dismissive way he said it should have offended me. Instead, it sent arousal pooling between my thighs.
"I'm married to your father," I said weakly. "This is—it's wrong. You're nineteen—"
"I'm an adult. And you looked at me yesterday like you wanted to do a lot more than just watch." He stood and moved closer, looming over me in my chair. "Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me you didn't go to your room and touch yourself thinking about what you saw."
I couldn't tell him that. Because it would be a lie, and we both knew it.
"This can't happen," I whispered, but I didn't move away when he crouched in front of my chair, putting us at eye level.
"You're not happy," he said quietly. "I can tell. My dad barely looks at you. Barely touches you. Works all the time and leaves you here alone. And you're..." His eyes traveled down my body deliberately. "You're too beautiful to be this lonely."
"Jake—"
"Let me help you." His hand landed on my knee, warm through my sundress. "Let me give you what he's not giving you."
"We can't," I said, but my voice lacked conviction. "Your father—"
"Is working late. Again. Won't be home for hours." His hand slid higher on my thigh. "No one would know. Just this once. Just to help you relax."
I should have pushed his hand away. Should have told him to go to his room. Should have been the adult in this situation.
Instead, I heard myself whisper, "Just this once?"
"Just this once," he agreed, though we both knew it was a lie.