SEVEN NIGHTS WITH MY STEPFATHER

The studio lights were merciless. They turned Sarah’s skin to warm gold and made every bead of sweat on her collarbone glisten like a jewel. Cassian moved around her in slow, predatory circles, camera clicking in short, controlled bursts. Each flash froze her in a different stage of surrender: wrists crossed above her head, crimson rope looped in perfect diamonds across her ribs, back arched so sharply I thought her spine might snap.

“Open your knees wider,” he said, voice low and steady. “Let me see how much you want this.”

Sarah obeyed instantly, thighs parting, breath hitching on a soft moan that echoed off the black walls. The rope framed her like a gift. She looked ruined and radiant at the same time.

I stood three feet away holding a silver reflector, arms aching, cheeks burning so hot I was sure the heat would melt the foil. Every order he gave her slid under my skin and twisted.

Look at me, Sarah.

Good girl.

Hold it right there—don’t move until I say.

That’s it, breathe for me.

I had watched p**n before (quietly, guiltily, on my laptop with headphones), but this was different. This was live. This was real breath and real goosebumps and the real scent of arousal thick in the air. And I was part of the production: adjusting a light here, handing him a longer rope there, wiping condensation off a lens when he asked. My hands shook every time our fingers brushed.

I hated that my body was reacting. Hated the slick throb between my legs, the way my nipples tightened against my bra, the way I had to press my thighs together when he murmured perfect right before the shutter snapped.

Sarah was lost in it, eyes glassy, lips parted, trembling on the edge he refused to let her fall over. Cassian crouched low, camera angled up between her legs, and said, almost tenderly, “You’re dripping for me, sweetheart. The lens can see everything.”

She whimpered.

I nearly dropped the reflector.

Cassian’s head turned a fraction. He didn’t stop shooting, but I felt the weight of his attention shift to me like a physical touch. He saw the flush on my neck, the way I couldn’t stand still, the way my chest rose too fast.

“Break,” he said suddenly, lowering the camera.

Sarah let out a frustrated little whine, but he was already on his feet, tossing a black silk robe toward her. She caught it, pouting, and slipped it on without bothering to tie the belt. The fabric gaped open, revealing everything the ropes had framed minutes ago.

Cassian crossed the studio in four long strides and stopped in front of me. Too close. His chest nearly brushed mine. The heat rolling off him carried the faint scent of darkroom chemicals and warm skin.

“You’re shaking,” he said quietly, so only I could hear. “Talk to me.”

I stared at the center of his throat because I couldn’t look him in the eye. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.” His voice dropped even lower. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Everything. Nothing. The way you say good girl like it’s a drug. The way she looks at you like you’re a god. The way my body is screaming for something I swore I’d never want from you.

I shook my head, lips pressed tight.

He studied me for a long second, then reached out and took the reflector from my numb fingers. When his knuckles grazed mine, electricity shot straight to my core and I jerked back a step.

“I need air,” I whispered. “I just— I need to get out of this room.”

His eyes narrowed, not angry, calculating. Like he could see the pulse hammering at the base of my throat and knew exactly what it meant.

“Ivy—”

“Please.” My voice cracked on the word.

He didn’t move, didn’t let me pass. The air between us felt thick enough to choke on. Sarah watched from the chaise, sipping water, legs crossed like a queen waiting for the next act.

Cassian leaned in until his lips almost brushed my ear. His breath was warm, deliberate.

“You’re soaked, aren’t you?” he murmured, so low I barely heard it. “I can smell it on you. You’re standing here pretending to be disgusted, but your little body is begging for the exact same thing she’s getting.”

I flinched so hard my shoulder hit the wall.

He straightened, expression unreadable again, and stepped aside—just enough for me to escape.

“Go,” he said, soft but final. “Take five. Cool off. But don’t think for a second this conversation is over.”

I bolted.

I didn’t stop until I reached the hallway upstairs, slamming the bathroom door behind me and locking it with shaking fingers. I braced both hands on the marble counter, staring at my reflection: pupils blown wide, lips swollen like I’d been kissing someone, cheeks scarlet.

Between my legs I was drenched. My panties clung to me, useless. I could feel how swollen I was, how empty, how one accidental brush of my own fingers might send me over the edge I’d been teetering on for the last hour.

I turned the cold tap on full and splashed water on my face, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped. Because he was right.

And when I closed my eyes I could still hear his voice telling Sarah to open wider, still see the way her body obeyed before her mind even caught up.

I pressed my thighs together and hated myself for the moan that slipped out.

Downstairs, the shoot would start again any minute.

He was waiting for me to come back.

And God forgive me, some desperate, broken part of me already wanted to run straight into the fire just to know how much it would burn.