Page 102 of Sin With Me

“Good thing he has me,” Mary murmurs, making me jolt. “I’ll be there every step of the way. Helping him win the election. Planning his schedule. Preparing his sermons. Cooking his meals, too, if that’s what he needs. I’ll hold his hand, don’t you worry.” She pats my shoulder placatingly, giving me a sympathetic look laced with triumph.

But I am worried.

Worried about how furious her words make me.

I shouldn’t want to inflict violence on someone, especially not her, but here I am, immediately filled with sick images of my fist pummeling her face at the mere idea of her touching what’s mine.

Because after last night, that’s exactly what Isaac is.

Mine.

She’s pissed at me.

Her pretty cheeks are bright red in the cab of my truck as she does all she can not to meet my gaze. Her body is tightly wound, her arms clenched across her generous breasts as she looks out the window.

I can’t help but stare at the creamy swell that’s barely contained by the flimsy material. My cock pulses in time with her angry breaths.

Christ, she’s beautiful.

Too beautiful for her own good. It’s infuriating. But what’s more frustrating is the instant reaction my body has to the sight of her. All she has to do is breathe, and I’m seconds from exploding.

I hate it.

I thrive on control. It’s how my life has to be: order, discipline.

Pulling up in front of the house, the truck is barely off before Eve’s door flings open, and she leaps out, her sundress billowing in the summer wind. I sigh as I slide out, my gaze glued to her body as she bounds up the porch steps.

She steps to the side, her arms crossed over her chest again as she glares at the front door. I pause when I get to her, my eyes flicking from her to the door.

“Waiting for me to open it for you?” I laugh. Her eyes slide to me, and if looks could kill, I’d be a pile of ash.

“It’s locked.”

“Why would you lock it?” I blink at her. We never lock the door. She shrugs, huffing out a breath.

“I don’t know. I just did.”

I stare at her for a long moment, waiting for more of an explanation. She’s not acting like herself, but I understand why.

I fucked up.

I came before I was ready for it to be over. Then I was too much of a coward to face her and what we’d done together. I didn’t know what to say or how to approach it, approach her.

So, I didn’t.

I hid in my room until this morning, then went to the church like I did every Sunday. Except, unlike every other Sunday, I left her behind to fend for herself.

Kind of a dick move, but I couldn’t face her.

I tried to shake it off, if for no other reason than to simply get through my day. I failed. Epically.

The second I saw her sitting in the pew, her big eyes staring up at me with equal amounts of ire and admiration, I felt it all crumble—all the lies I’d told myself last night, the false pretense that things would go back to how they were, dissolved in a puff of acrid smoke.

Who the fuck was I kidding to think we’d still just be Isaac and Eve, stepfather and stepdaughter, in the morning? I should’ve known that wouldn’t be the case. I should’ve known that after a single taste of her, I’d never be able to go back.

My hand wraps around the doorknob, the key shaky as I fumble to slide it into the lock. I feel her beside me, her sweet warmth radiating off her like hellfire. The door barely opens before she steps forward, her breath harsh.

“Why did you leave me this morning?” she asks as I push it open further and step inside, dropping my sermon bag onto its rightful hook, maintaining an ounce of order where I still can. I take off toward the kitchen, leaving her to trail after me.

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