Don't Stop Daddy

The house was too quiet. Sierra sat cross legged on the couch, flipping through a book she wasn't reading. The words blurred, her thoughts circling like restless birds. She could feel him somewhere in the house her stepfather, Damien Steele like a current humming under her skin. He had that effect on her now, and she hated it as much as she craved it. The sound of his footsteps on the hardwood made her throat tighten. He appeared in the doorway, freshly showered, his dark hair damp and falling across his forehead. He wore only a white button down, sleeves rolled, the top undone, and a pair of black slacks that seemed too sharp for a simple evening at home. He carried power even here, away from the polished boardrooms where he lived most of his days. And he knew it. She could see it in the way his gaze lingered. "You're up late," Damien said, his voice low, carrying authority without effort. "Couldn't sleep." Sierra shrugged, feigning indifference. "Too quiet around here." "You're used to college noise, I suppose." He stepped into the living room, settling across from her. The leather chair creaked under his weight. He leaned back, watching her in a way that was casual but deliberate. His green eyes cut through her thin shield of composure. Sierra shifted, pulling the blanket tighter around her legs though the room wasn't cold. The silence stretched, charged. She glanced back at her book, though she could feel his eyes on her, heavy and consuming. "You've changed," Damien said suddenly. Her head snapped up. "What do you mean?" "You're different. Older. Sharper." His lips curled, almost like a smirk but softer. "Not the girl who left for school." Heat flushed her neck. She hated how much she liked his attention. "That's what happens when people grow up." He chuckled, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "Don't mistake me, Sierra. It suits you." Her pulse quickened. That single word suited landed like a secret touch. She knew she should look away, change the subject, do anything to keep this from spiraling, but instead, she tilted her chin slightly, testing him. "You're staring," she said, her voice lighter than she felt. Damien didn't flinch. "Am I?" "Yes." He didn't apologize. He didn't laugh it off. His silence said more than words could, and she felt her breath catch. He wasn't denying it. She shifted under the blanket, her thighs pressing together involuntarily. The air between them thickened until she was sure he could hear her heartbeat. Finally, he stood, smoothing his shirt as if closing the conversation. "It's late. Try to get some rest." She wanted to say something to stop him. To push further. But her throat locked up. So she only watched him leave, her body aching with something dangerous and unspoken. The next morning, Sierra stood at the kitchen counter pouring coffee when Damien entered. She sensed him before she heard him his cologne, sharp and masculine, carried ahead of him like a warning. "You're up early," he said, his voice husky from sleep. She kept her eyes on the mug. "Couldn't sleep." "You keep saying that." "Maybe it's true." "Maybe." He came closer, reaching past her for the sugar. His arm brushed her shoulder, just a graze, but it sent fire straight through her. She bit down on her lip, pretending to stir her coffee as if her whole body wasn't reacting to the proximity. Damien didn't move away right away. He stood there, close enough that she could feel his warmth. Then, in a low voice, he murmured, "You should be careful with sleepless nights. They lead to complicated thoughts." Her hand remained still on the spoon. She turned her head slowly, meeting his gaze. He looked down at her, his expression unreadable but intense. "Complicated how?" she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper. A shadow flickered in his eyes. For a moment, she thought he might say something reckless, something she wasn't sure she was ready to hear. But then he stepped back, placing the sugar down on the counter. "Forget it." His tone was final. But she couldn't forget. Not the way he looked at her. Not the electricity in that one second where anything might have happened. Later that night, Sierra lay in bed, restless again. She rolled over, staring at the ceiling, listening for his footsteps. She hated herself for it, hated that her body tensed with anticipation like a forbidden thrill. Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A message from a college friend flashed across the screen. She ignored it, biting her lip as she reached for her notebook instead. Words spilled out onto the page before she could stop them I want him to look at me like that again. I want him to keep staring, touch me, and tell me I'm not imagining this. I know it's wrong. God, it's so bad. But I can't stop wanting it. Her pen stilled. She slammed the notebook shut, heart racing, ashamed. But what she didn't know what she couldn't know was that Damien had passed her open door earlier, catching a glimpse of her bent over her notebook, her expression raw and vulnerable. He didn't know what she was writing, but he knew enough. The look in her eyes was the same as his. The following evening, they sat at dinner with her mother. Vanessa chatted about her upcoming business trip, barely looking up from her phone. Sierra picked at her food. Damien poured himself another glass of wine, but his gaze flicked across the table to Sierra now and then, lingering just a beat too long. Sierra felt it every time. Like a secret hand beneath the table, stroking her without touching. When Vanessa excused herself to take a call, the silence in the dining room shifted. "Do you always write at night?" Damien asked suddenly, his voice low. Her fork froze mid-air. "What do you mean?" "I saw you. In your room." His eyes narrowed, calculating. "You were... intense about it." Her heart stuttered. Did he know? Did he guess what she was confessing in those pages? "Just... journaling," she said, trying to sound casual. "Journaling." His lips curved, almost a smirk. "Interesting." The way he said it made her thighs clench under the table. Vanessa returned then, oblivious, and the conversation died. But Sierra could barely taste her food. She could only feel the weight of Damien's eyes. That night, Sierra stood brushing her hair in front of the mirror. The door creaked. She looked up. Damien stood in the doorway, shirt undone, expression unreadable. "You should close your door," he said. "Why?" Her voice shook slightly, but she didn't lower her gaze. "Because," he said slowly, stepping into the room, "you never know who might be watching." Her breath caught. The air crackled, dangerous, thrilling. He came close enough that she could smell his cologne, the faint trace of whiskey on his breath. For one endless moment, she thought he would touch her. His hand lifted then stopped inches from her cheek. His jaw clenched. "Goodnight, Sierra." His voice was hoarse. He turned and left, leaving her trembling, her skin burning where he had almost touched her. And she knew then the line wasn't just blurring. It was vanishing.