The kitchen door's metal handle was cold enough to bite through his calluses. Jack pushed it open and stepped inside, and the warmth of the house hit him like a wall he wasn't ready to walk through. His boots left wet prints on the tile. Frost still clung to the shoulders of his jacket, and he could feel the cold radiating off his own skin, could see his breath fog in the air for half a second before it vanished.

She was already there.

Gina stood at the counter with her back half to him, two ceramic mugs in front of her, steam rising off both. His flannel hung loose on her shoulders, the fabric swallowing her frame, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her bare feet were pale against the dark tile. She didn't turn around when he came in, just kept stirring something into one of the mugs, the spoon clinking against the ceramic in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

"You took your time," she said, and her voice was soft, almost casual, like she was commenting on the weather.

Jack didn't answer. He stood in the doorway, letting the cold seep out of him, watching the way the flannel shifted against her back when she moved. His flannel. The one he'd thought lost in the timber years ago, gone through a logger's camp and a dozen moves and a marriage, and there it was, hanging off his stepdaughter's bare shoulders like it had always belonged there.

She turned around, and the mug in her hand steamed between them. The flannel had slipped off one shoulder — just barely, just enough to show the pale curve of her collarbone, the smooth skin leading down. She didn't fix it.

"I made it how you like it," she said, and slid the mug toward him across the counter. "Black. One sugar."

Her fingers brushed his as the mug came to a stop. Just the tips. Just a whisper of contact, warm and dry, and then she pulled her hand back and wrapped it around her own mug, cradling it like she was warming herself.

"Sit down, Daddy," she said, and the word came out honeyed, sweet, wrapped in that mocking softness she always used. "We need to talk about what happens next."

Jack stayed where he was. His hands were clenched at his sides, his jaw tight enough to ache. The cold was still on him, in him, and the kitchen's warmth felt like a lie.

"I'm not sitting down," he said.

Gina tilted her head, and a strand of honey-brown hair fell across her cheek. She smiled, slow and patient, like she had all the time in the world and knew exactly how this would go.

"You're cold," she said. "Your hands are shaking. Sit down and drink your coffee, and we'll talk."

"We don't have anything to talk about."

"Don't we?"

She took a sip of her own coffee, watching him over the rim of the mug, and the silence stretched between them, filled only by the low hum of the fridge and the tick of the clock on the wall. Jack could hear it, each tick landing like a nail being driven into something he couldn't name.

"What happened in the truck," he said, and his voice came out rougher than he meant it to. "That was — that was a mistake. It can't happen again."

Gina set her mug down on the counter. The sound it made was soft, almost gentle, but it landed in the quiet like a stone.

"Was it?" she asked.

"Yes."

"You didn't seem to think so at the time."

Jack's jaw worked. He could still taste her on his lips, could still feel the ghost of her mouth on him, the warmth of her throat under his palm. He'd crossed a line he'd spent two years pretending didn't exist, and now he was standing in his own kitchen, his stepdaughter wearing his shirt, looking at him like she'd already won.

"That doesn't matter," he said. "It was a mistake. It's over."

Gina laughed, a low, soft sound that didn't reach her eyes. She stepped out from behind the counter, and her bare feet padded across the cold tile toward him, each step slow and deliberate, like she was savoring the distance closing between them.

"You keep saying that," she said. "You keep telling yourself it's a mistake, and then you keep letting it happen."

"I don't —"

"You do." She stopped a few feet from him, close enough that he could smell the coffee on her breath, the faint sweetness of her shampoo mixing with it. The flannel had slipped a little further off her shoulder, and he could see the smooth curve of her skin, the shadow of her collarbone, the way the fabric hung loose over her chest. "You've been letting it happen for two years, Jack. You just didn't want to admit it."

He didn't answer. He couldn't. The words were there, somewhere, but they'd gotten stuck in his throat, and all he could do was stand there and look at her, at the way the flannel moved when she breathed, at the bare skin of her shoulder, at the patient, knowing smile on her lips.

"Margaret comes home in three days," Gina said, and her voice dropped, soft and intimate, like she was telling him a secret. "You think she won't notice the way you look at me now?"

The words hung in the air between them, and Jack felt something in his chest go cold. The kitchen clock ticked. The fridge hummed. He could hear his own breathing, rough and uneven, and he realized he had no answer, no move, no line left to draw.

Gina smiled, and her bare shoulder tilted toward him, the flannel slipping a little more, revealing the edge of her breast, the pale curve of it, the nipple hardening in the cold air. She didn't fix it. She just stood there, letting him see, letting him look, and the silence stretched between them, filled with everything neither of them was saying.

She opened her mouth to speak, and the first word was still forming on her lips when the clock ticked again, loud in the quiet, and Jack felt the weight of it settle over him like frost.

He had nothing.

His eyes dropped to the counter. The mug she'd made him sat there, steam curling off the surface, the spoon she'd stirred with resting on the rim. Black. One sugar. She'd remembered that the way she remembered everything about him — the way he took his coffee, the way he flinched when she said his name, the way he'd looked at her that first summer before Margaret ever introduced them properly.

He could feel the heat of her from where she stood. Not the warmth of the kitchen — that was real enough, the furnace kicking on somewhere in the walls — but her. The particular heat a body gave off when it was close and unafraid. She was never afraid of him. That was the thing that undid him, had always undone him. Margaret was afraid of his silences, read them as anger, gave them wide berth. Gina walked straight into them like they were doors she had every right to open.

"You're staring at the coffee," she said, and her voice had gone soft, almost gentle. "It's not going to drink itself, Daddy."

The word landed in his chest like a hook. He'd told her a hundred times not to call him that. She'd smiled each time and done it again the next chance she got, until he'd stopped bothering to correct her, because correcting her only made her say it more, only made her eyes go bright with the game of it.

"I'm not—" He stopped. Swallowed. His throat was dry, and his voice came out cracked. "I'm not your daddy."

"No," she agreed, and the smile she gave him was soft, almost kind. "You're not. But you're the closest thing I've got."

The clock ticked again. The fridge hummed. Somewhere in the walls, the furnace clicked on and off, and the house settled around them with a creak that sounded like a held breath finally letting go.

Jack looked at her then. Really looked. The flannel had slipped further, and he could see the round, firm curve of her breast, the nipple hard in the cold air, the pale skin goosebumped where the fabric had fallen away. She wasn't wearing a bra. She'd never worn a bra around him, not once, not in two years, and he'd told himself it was just the way she was, just college-girl casual, just nothing at all. But she was watching him watch her, and the patience in her eyes was the same patience she'd had in the truck, the same patience she'd had every night she'd stood outside his locked bedroom door, waiting for him to open it.

"You keep looking at me like that," she said, "and I'm going to think you want me to stay."

He didn't answer. He couldn't. The words were there — the denial, the refusal, the line he'd spent two years trying to hold — but they'd gone somewhere he couldn't reach, and all he could do was stand there with his hands clenched and his jaw aching and the cold still on him, the cold that was supposed to be his armor, his excuse, his way out of this room.

Her breath fogged slightly in the air between them. The kitchen was warm — the furnace was doing its job, the stove had been on, the coffee was steaming — but there was still a chill in the room, a draft from the window, and her breath hung there for half a second before it vanished, and Jack watched it go, watched the space where it had been, and felt something in him give way.

"You're not going to sit down," she said. It wasn't a question.

"No."

"You're not going to drink the coffee."

"No."

"You're not going to tell me to leave."

He opened his mouth. Closed it. The words were right there — leave, go to your room, this is over — but they wouldn't come out, and she watched him struggle with them, and the smile on her lips was patient, knowing, like she'd already heard every word he couldn't say.

"That's what I thought," she said softly, and she stepped closer, and the flannel slipped a little more, and the clock ticked again, and Jack stood there in his own kitchen with frost on his shoulders and his stepdaughter's bare skin inches from his hand and no line left to draw.

Her hand found his belt before he could move. The touch was light — just her fingertips against the leather — but it landed like a blow. Jack's breath caught. He looked down at the top of her head, at the honey-brown hair spilling across his stomach, and his hands came up to push her away, but they stopped halfway, hovering over her shoulders like they didn't know what they were for anymore.

"Gina." His voice was rough, scraping out of a throat gone dry. "Get off."

She didn't. She pressed her mouth to the skin just above his waistband, and the heat of it seared through him, a brand he couldn't flinch from. Her lips moved against him, soft and slow, and he felt the tip of her tongue trace a line up his belly, following the trail of hair that led to his chest.

"You taste like the cold," she murmured against his skin. "Like the truck. Like you've been running from me all night."

Jack's hands finally found her shoulders. He gripped them — meant to push, meant to shove her off, meant to put distance between them that he could hide behind. But his fingers just curled into the flannel, his own shirt on her shoulders, and he felt the warmth of her skin through the fabric, felt the delicate bones under his callused hands.

"I said get off."

"I heard you." She didn't stop. Her lips found his sternum, then the flat plane of his chest, moving higher, and the scrape of her teeth against his skin made his whole body tighten. "You say a lot of things, Jack. You've been saying them for two years."

She reached his nipple and took it into her mouth, and Jack's hands clenched in the flannel. The wet heat of her tongue against him was a shock, a jolt that went straight down his spine, and he heard himself make a sound — low, rough, torn out of him before he could stop it.

She savored him. That was the word for it. She moved her mouth over his chest like she was tasting something rare, something she'd been starving for, and her hands came up to grip his sides, her fingers pressing into the hard muscle of his ribs. She made a sound against his skin, a soft, hungry hum, and he felt her tongue circle his nipple, felt her teeth graze it gently, and the shame of how good it felt burned through him like frostbite turning to fire.

"You're so strong," she breathed against his chest. "God, Jack. There's no one at school who looks like you. No one who feels like this." Her hand flattened on his stomach, fingers spread over the ridges of muscle, and she pressed her palm against him like she was memorizing him. "The boys there are soft. They've never swung an axe or split a log or carried a man out of the timber. They don't know what a real man is."

Jack's jaw ached. He could feel the heat of her mouth still on his skin, could feel the ghost of her tongue where she'd licked him, and the part of him that had been screaming for two years — the part that wanted her, that had always wanted her — was roaring now, drowning out everything else.

"You don't know what you're doing," he said, but the words came out wrong, rough and broken, more plea than protest.

"I know exactly what I'm doing." She lifted her head, and her eyes met his — honey-brown, bright with something that looked like triumph. "I've known for two years. I've known since the first summer, when you came home with Margaret and I saw you standing in the yard, and I thought — that's him. That's the man I'm going to have."

Jack's hands tightened on her shoulders. He pushed — finally pushed, hard enough to make her rock back on her heels — and the sudden space between them felt like a wound.

"That's enough." His voice was shaking. He could hear it, could feel it rattle through his chest. "You're my wife's daughter. You're twenty years old. This — this is not —"

"Not what?" She didn't move back. She stayed on her knees on the rug, looking up at him, and the flannel had slipped off both shoulders now, hanging loose around her arms. He could see the tops of her breasts, the pale curve of them, the hard points of her nipples. She made no move to cover herself. "Not real? Not right? Not what you want?"

"Not what I want." The lie came out flat, dead, and she heard it for what it was.

She smiled. Slow. Patient. The same smile she'd given him in the truck, the same smile she'd given him every night she'd stood outside his bedroom door.

"You're a terrible liar, Daddy."

Jack flinched. The word hit him like a slap, and he took a step back, and then another, and then he was moving — away from her, across the living room, his boots heavy on the floor. He could feel her watching him, could feel her eyes on his back, and he didn't stop until he reached the couch.

He sat down. Hard. The springs groaned under his weight, and he set his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands, and the silence in the room was broken only by the hum of the TV he'd never turned on and the sound of his own breathing, rough and uneven.

He heard her stand. Heard her bare feet pad across the floor toward him, and the sound of it was unhurried, patient, the sound of someone who had all the time in the world.

"You came in here to get away from me," she said. Her voice was soft, almost gentle. "You walked right past me, sat down on this couch, and turned on the TV like I wasn't there. Like you could just — pretend."

He didn't answer. He could feel her standing over him, could feel the heat of her body, and he kept his head down, his hands pressed against his face, trying to find the line he'd lost somewhere between the truck and this room.

The couch dipped. She sat down beside him — close, too close, her thigh pressing against his. He felt the warmth of her through his jeans, felt the shift of her weight as she turned to face him, and he didn't move. Couldn't move. The air was thick with her, with the smell of her shampoo and the coffee on her breath and something else, something warmer, something that made his hands shake.

"Jack." Her voice was low, intimate, and he felt her hand land on his thigh. Light. Just resting there. "Look at me."

He didn't.

"Jack." Her fingers tightened, just slightly, a gentle squeeze that sent heat up his leg. "Look at me."

He lifted his head. Her face was close — so close he could see the flecks of gold in her eyes, the small smile playing at the corner of her lips. She was beautiful. He'd known that from the first moment he'd seen her, standing in the yard in the summer light, and he'd hated himself for noticing, hated himself for the way his eyes had followed her, hated himself for the dreams he'd woken from with his heart pounding and his sheets twisted.

"There you are," she said softly, and her hand moved up his thigh, slow, deliberate. "There's my daddy."

Jack caught her wrist. His grip was hard, hard enough to hurt, and he saw her eyes flicker — not with pain, but with something else. Something like pleasure.

"I told you to stop calling me that."

"I know." She didn't pull away. She leaned into him instead, close enough that her breath ghosted across his lips. "But you don't really want me to stop, do you? You just want to be able to tell yourself you tried."

His grip tightened on her wrist. He could feel her pulse under his thumb — quick, steady, not afraid at all. She was never afraid of him. That was the thing. That was the thing that undid him.

"I'm married to your mother." The words came out like gravel, rough and broken. "I love your mother."

"I know you do." Her free hand came up, and her fingers brushed his jaw, light, almost tender. "But that doesn't change what's happening here, does it? That doesn't change what happened in the truck. That doesn't change the way you're looking at me right now."

Jack's throat worked. He could feel her hand on his jaw, could feel the warmth of her palm against his stubble, and the part of him that had been holding the line for two years was crumbling, piece by piece, like frost melting off a window.

"Gina." Her name came out like a prayer, like a curse. "Please."

"Please what?" Her thumb traced his lower lip, featherlight. "Please stop? Please go away? Please pretend this isn't happening?" She leaned closer, and her breath was warm on his mouth. "Or please don't stop?"

He didn't answer. He couldn't. Her thumb was still on his lip, and he could taste the salt of his own skin, could smell the sweetness of her, and the space between them had collapsed to nothing.

"Give in, Daddy," she whispered, and the word was honey, was poison, was the thing he'd been running from for two years. "Just give up. Just let it happen. You know you want to."

Jack's hand was still around her wrist. He could feel her pulse, steady and sure, and he knew — knew with a certainty that hollowed him out — that she wasn't going to stop. That she'd never been going to stop. That every step he'd taken, every line he'd drawn, every door he'd locked had been leading to this moment, to this couch, to her hand on his leg and her mouth a breath away from his.

"Margaret comes home in three days," he said, and his voice was barely a rasp. "Three days, Gina."

"I know." She didn't blink. "That's plenty of time."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy, loaded. Jack could feel the weight of them, could feel the shift in the room, the change in the temperature, the way the silence had gone thick and expectant.

He let go of her wrist.

Her hand stayed where it was, resting on his leg, and her thumb traced a slow circle on the denim. Her other hand was still on his jaw, and she tilted his face toward her, gentle, insistent, and he let her. He let her because he didn't know how to stop, didn't know if he'd ever known how to stop, didn't know if he'd ever really wanted to.

"I'm not going to hurt you," she said softly. "I'm not going to ruin anything. I just want you to stop fighting me. Stop fighting yourself."

She leaned in, and her lips brushed his — just a whisper of contact, soft and warm — and Jack's eyes closed. The kiss was light, almost chaste, but it landed like a detonation, and he felt something in his chest crack open, something he'd been holding shut for years.

She pulled back, and when he opened his eyes, she was smiling. Not the mocking smile, not the patient, predatory smile. Something softer. Something almost like affection.

"There," she said. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Jack didn't answer. He couldn't. His heart was pounding, his hands were shaking, and the taste of her was still on his lips — coffee and something sweet, something that was just her. He could feel the heat of her body beside him, could feel her hand still on his leg, and he knew — knew with a certainty that terrified him — that the line he'd spent two years holding was gone.

She'd crossed it. He'd let her cross it. And there was no drawing it again.

Gina shifted closer, and her hand moved up his thigh, her fingers finding the button of his jeans, and Jack's breath caught in his throat. He should stop her. He knew he should stop her. But his hands stayed at his sides, clenched into fists, and the word that rose in his throat — no — never made it past his lips.

Her fingers worked the button open, slow, deliberate, and the sound of the zipper was loud in the quiet room. The TV flickered in the corner, casting shifting light across the floor, and the clock on the wall ticked on, measuring out the seconds of the last line he'd ever hold.

She looked up at him, her hand resting on the waistband of his jeans, and her eyes were bright, patient, sure.

"You can stop me," she said. "You can tell me to go to my room. You can lock your door tonight and pretend this never happened." Her fingers curled into the denim. "But we both know you're not going to."

Jack looked at her. At her honey-brown hair, her full lips, her patient, knowing smile. At the flannel hanging off her shoulders, his flannel, the one he'd thought lost years ago. At the bare skin of her chest, the curve of her breasts, the way she looked at him like he was the only man in the world.

He didn't stop her.

Her hand slid into his jeans, and the warmth of her fingers against him made his whole body jerk. She smiled — a slow, satisfied smile — and her fingers closed around him, gentle, sure, and Jack's head fell back against the couch, and the clock ticked on, and somewhere in the walls, the furnace clicked on, filling the room with heat that had nothing to do with the cold outside.

Her fingers were warm around him, and Jack's hips bucked once, involuntary, before he could stop himself. The sound that came out of him was low and rough, torn from somewhere he'd been keeping locked. Gina's smile widened, and she squeezed him once, slow, savoring the way his breath caught.

"There he is," she murmured. "There's the man who's been hiding from me."

Jack's hands were fisted on the couch cushions. He could feel the heat of her palm, the light drag of her thumb along his length, and his mind was screaming at him to move, to push her away, to stand up and walk out of this room and never look back. But his body wasn't listening. His body had stopped listening a long time ago.

"Gina." His voice was a rasp. "Don't."

"Don't what?" Her fingers curled around him, stroking slow, and her eyes never left his face. "Don't touch you? Don't want you? Don't remember the way you looked at me that first summer, standing in the yard with your shirt off, sweat on your skin, and you didn't even see me watching?"

Jack's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. "That's not—"

"It is." She leaned in, and her breath was warm on his neck. "You looked at me, Jack. You looked at me like I was a woman, not a kid. And you've been looking at me like that ever since."

His hand shot out and caught her wrist. He pulled her hand out of his jeans, and the sudden loss of contact made him feel hollow, cold. He held her wrist there, in the space between them, and her fingers were still curled slightly, still warm from where they'd been.

"I'm married to your mother."

"I know." She didn't pull away. She just looked at him, patient, sure. "You've said that. You keep saying it, like it's going to change something."

"It should change everything."

"Why?" Her head tilted. "Because she found you first? Because she put a ring on your finger and called you hers?" She shook her head slowly. "You're not hers, Jack. You never were. You've been mine since the moment I saw you."

Jack let go of her wrist. He stood up, and the sudden movement made the couch groan, made the space between them feel like a canyon. He was breathing hard, his heart pounding, and he could feel himself still hard, still aching, the ghost of her hand burned into his skin.

"I can't do this," he said. "I won't."

Gina stood up too. The flannel had slipped off one shoulder entirely now, hanging loose around her arm, and he could see the curve of her breast, the hard point of her nipple, the pale skin that seemed to glow in the dim light of the living room.

"You already did," she said softly. "In the truck. On this couch. You already did, Jack. The only thing left is whether you're going to keep pretending you didn't."

He didn't answer. He couldn't. The words were there, the denials, the refusals, the lines he'd spent two years drawing and redrawing, but they'd all gone dry, gone dead, and all he could do was stand there and look at her.

She reached up and pulled the flannel off her other shoulder. The fabric slid down her arms, catching on her elbows, and she shrugged it off, letting it fall to the floor behind her. She stood there in the middle of his living room, naked, her skin pale in the flickering light of the TV, and she didn't cover herself. She didn't move. She just stood there, letting him see.

Her breasts were full, heavy, the nipples dark and hard. Her waist curved in, then out, and the dark triangle of hair between her thighs was damp, glistening. She was beautiful. She'd always been beautiful, and he'd spent two years telling himself that noticing was a sin, that wanting her was a betrayal, that he could be better than this, stronger than this.

He wasn't.

She stepped toward him, and he stepped back. His legs hit the couch, and she kept coming, and then she was in front of him, close enough that he could smell her — warm and female, something sweet and something darker, something that made his mouth water.

"Sit down, Daddy," she said.

Jack sat.

She climbed onto his lap, straddling him, and the heat of her settled over him like a weight he couldn't lift. Her knees pressed into the couch on either side of his hips, and her hands came up to rest on his shoulders, and she was so close he could see the flush on her cheeks, the brightness in her eyes, the way her lips parted when she breathed.

Her skin was flushed, a deep pink spreading from her chest up her throat, and her breath came warm and quick against his jaw. She was looking at him like he was something she'd been starving for, and her hips rolled against him, slow, deliberate, grinding her wet heat against the hardness he couldn't hide.

"You feel that?" she breathed. "You feel how wet I am for you?"

Jack's hands were on her hips. He'd put them there to push her off, to stop her, but his fingers were gripping her instead, digging into the soft flesh of her waist, and he could feel the slick heat of her through his jeans, could feel the way she moved against him like she was already riding him.

"Gina." His voice was wrecked. "Please."

"Please what?" Her hands moved up his chest, and she arched her back, pressing her breasts toward him, and her head fell back, and she let out a low, shuddering moan that went straight through him. "Please touch me? Please look at me? Please stop pretending you don't want this?"

She took his hands and lifted them to her chest. Her skin was hot under his palms, and he felt her nipple against his thumb, hard and pebbled, and she pressed his hands into her flesh, making him feel the weight of her, the softness of her.

"Feel me," she whispered. "Feel how real this is. Feel how much I want you."

His hands were shaking. He could feel her heartbeat under his palm, quick and strong, and his thumbs moved on their own, circling her nipples, and she moaned again, a soft, broken sound that made his cock throb against her.

"Yes," she breathed. "Yes, Daddy. Touch me. Please."

She took one of his hands and guided it down her stomach, down through the curls of her pubic hair, and then her fingers pressed his against her, against the slick, swollen heat of her, and Jack's whole body went rigid.

She was soaked. He could feel it — the wetness coating his fingers, the slick slide of her folds, the way she was open for him, swollen and hot. She rocked against his hand, and a low, desperate sound came out of her, and she looked him in the eye as she did it.

"Touch me," she said. "Please. I need you to touch me."

Jack's fingers moved. He didn't mean for them to. His mind was screaming, but his hand was sliding through her slickness, finding her clit, and she gasped, her hips jerking against him.

"Yes," she whimpered. "Yes, oh God, yes."

She pulled away from him, sliding off his lap, and the sudden absence of her heat made him feel cold. But she didn't go far. She lay down on the couch beside him, on her side, and she drew her knees up, spreading them, and she looked up at him with eyes that were dark and bright and full of hunger.

"Watch me," she said.

Her hand slid down her stomach, and she spread herself for him — her fingers parting her folds, showing him the pink, swollen flesh, the glistening wetness that coated her thighs. She was open for him, exposed, and she held herself that way, letting him see every inch of her.

"This is what you do to me," she said softly. "Every time you look at me. Every time you tell me no. Every time you lock your door and pretend I'm not standing on the other side." Her fingers circled her clit, slow, deliberate, and she let out a shuddering breath. "I'm so wet for you, Daddy. I'm so ready."

Jack couldn't look away. He was frozen, watching her touch herself, watching her fingers move through the slick heat of her, watching the way her hips rolled against her own hand. She was beautiful, obscene, and he was hard as stone, aching, desperate.

Her head fell back, and she moaned, loud and unashamed, and her fingers moved faster, circling, pressing, and she spread herself wider for him, showing him the dark, wet opening of her, the way it clenched around nothing.

"Watch me," she gasped. "Watch me ruin myself for you. Watch me fall apart."

Her hips bucked against her hand, and her breath came in short, sharp gasps, and Jack watched her — watched the flush spread down her chest, watched her fingers slide through the slick mess of her, watched the way her whole body tensed and trembled on the edge of something.

He couldn't stop himself.

He was moving before he knew what he was doing, sliding off the couch, dropping to his knees on the floor beside her. She looked up at him, eyes wide, and a slow, triumphant smile spread across her lips.

"There you are," she breathed. "There's my daddy."

Jack lowered his head. His hands came up to grip her thighs, and he spread her open, and he looked at her — at the swollen pink flesh, the glistening wetness, the way she was open and ready for him — and his mind was screaming, screaming, screaming, but his mouth was already descending.

He pressed his mouth to her, and she gasped, her hips arching off the couch. She tasted like salt and honey, like everything he'd been denying himself for two years, and he groaned against her, his tongue finding her clit, circling it, lapping at the slick heat of her.

"Yes," she moaned. "Yes, yes, yes. Oh God, Daddy, yes."

Her fingers tangled in his hair, gripping him, pulling him closer, and she spread her legs wider, giving herself to him, and he ate her like he was starving, like she was the only thing that had ever tasted real. He sucked her clit into his mouth, and she cried out, her hips grinding against his face, and he could feel her trembling, feel the tension building in her thighs.

"That's it," she gasped. "That's it, Daddy. Don't stop. Please don't stop."

He didn't stop. He couldn't have stopped if the house were burning down. He pressed his tongue into her, deep, and she moaned, loud and broken, and he felt her clench around him, felt her whole body shudder.

Her laugh bubbled up out of her, breathless and triumphant, and she pulled his hair, arching into his mouth.

"You gave in," she whispered, and there was joy in her voice, a glittering, victorious joy. "You finally gave in, Daddy. You're mine now."

Jack didn't answer. He couldn't. His mouth was full of her, and his mind was a roaring blank, and somewhere in the back of it, a small, quiet voice was telling him that this was the end of something — that there was no going back from this, no undoing it, no pretending it never happened.

He didn't care. He couldn't care. All he could do was taste her, and feel her, and listen to her moan his name, and know that he was hers — that he'd always been hers — and that three days from now, when Margaret came home, he was going to have to look his wife in the eye with his stepdaughter's taste still on his tongue.

But that was three days from now.

Right now, there was only this — her legs around his head, her fingers in his hair, her voice rising in a desperate, keening moan as she came apart against his mouth.

And Jack drank every drop of her, and the clock ticked on, and somewhere in the walls, the furnace hummed, filling the house with heat that had nothing to do with the cold outside.

Her orgasm was still rippling through her when he pulled his mouth away. She made a sound — a small, broken whimper of loss — and her hips chased his face, trying to keep him there. But Jack was already rising, his jaw slick with her, his breath coming in ragged, animal bursts.

He didn't think. Thinking was a luxury he'd forfeited the moment his mouth touched her. He stood over her, and his hands went to his belt, and the leather slid through the buckle with a sound that cut through her panting like a blade.

Gina's eyes went wide. She watched him — watched his fingers work the button of his jeans, watched the zipper come down, watched him shove the denim and the boxers down his hips in one rough motion. And then his cock sprang free, thick and heavy, veined and dark at the tip, rising from the coarse bush of hair at its base like something carved from oak and heat.

Her breath caught. Her lips parted. And a slow, wondering smile spread across her face.

"Oh," she breathed. "Oh, Daddy."

He didn't give her time to savor it. He grabbed her by the hips and hauled her to the edge of the couch, dragging her down until her ass hung off the cushion, and she let out a startled gasp that turned into a moan as he lined himself up. He was still wet with the taste of her, the head of his cock sliding slick across her swollen folds, and she arched into him, begging with her body before the words even formed.

"Please," she whispered. "Please, Daddy, please—"

He drove into her.

One brutal, relentless thrust that buried him to the root, and she screamed — a raw, keening sound that tore out of her throat and echoed off the kitchen walls. Her back bowed off the couch, her fingers scrabbling for purchase on the cushions, and her cunt clenched around him, still shuddering from her orgasm, pulling him deeper.

Jack didn't wait. He didn't give her a moment to adjust, to catch her breath, to find her bearings. He pulled out until only the head remained, then slammed back in, and the couch lurched beneath them, its legs scraping against the tile floor.

"Oh God," Gina sobbed. "Oh God, oh God—"

He fucked her through the aftershocks. Her body was still trembling, still clenching, still riding the wave of what he'd done to her with his mouth, and he drove into her again and again, relentless, punishing, each thrust punching a broken cry out of her. She was sobbing, moaning, her fingers clawing at his shoulders through his shirt, and her head thrashed against the cushion, honey-brown hair spreading out like a halo.

Jack grunted. The sound tore out of his chest with every thrust, raw and guttural, and he wasn't gentle. He couldn't be gentle. Two years of torment, two years of her stalking him, two years of locking his door and lying awake in the dark, aching for her — it all poured out of him in the brutal rhythm of his hips, punishing her, punishing himself, punishing every moment he'd spent pretending he didn't want this.

"You did this," he growled, the words ripped out of him. "You did this to me."

"Yes," she sobbed. "Yes, Daddy, yes, I did, I—"

He cut her off with a harder thrust, and her words dissolved into a scream. Her hands flew to his chest, gripping his flannel — his old flannel, still hanging open on her shoulders — and she held on like he was the only solid thing in a world that had come apart at the seams.

Her breath bounced violently in her chest. Her tits shook with every impact, bare and flushed, and Jack's hands found them, gripping hard, squeezing until she cried out. He kneaded the soft flesh, his callused thumbs dragging across her nipples, and he squeezed tighter, harder, leaving marks that would bloom into bruises by morning.

"Daddy," she gasped. "Daddy, your hands, your hands—"

"You wanted this," he said, his voice a low, wrecked growl. "You wanted all of me. This is what you get."

"Yes," she wept. "Yes, I want it, I want all of it, I—"

He slammed into her, and she screamed again, her head thrown back, her throat working, her whole body arching off the couch like a bow drawn taut. The couch creaked beneath them, a frantic, rhythmic protest that filled the kitchen along with the wet sound of his cock driving into her, the slap of skin against skin, her desperate, sobbing moans.

Jack was lost. He was drowning in her — in the heat of her, the tightness of her, the way she gripped him like she'd never let him go. He looked down at her, at the flush spreading down her chest, at the tears streaking her temples, at the way her mouth hung open, panting, gasping, and he knew he was never going to be free of her. She had him. She'd had him from the moment she'd first looked at him with those honey-brown eyes and called him daddy like it was a promise.

He drove into her harder. Faster. The couch slammed against the wall, and Gina's hands flew up to grip his forearms, her nails digging into his skin through the fabric of his sleeves.

"Yes," she sobbed. "Yes, yes, yes, don't stop, Daddy, please don't stop—"

Jack didn't stop. He couldn't have stopped if the house were collapsing around them. He was a man possessed, a man who'd spent two years holding himself together with spit and willpower, and now the seams had burst, and everything he'd been holding back was pouring out of him in every brutal, relentless thrust.

Her legs came up, wrapping around his waist, her heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him deeper. She was so tight, so wet, so hot, and he could feel her cunt fluttering around him, that telltale clench that meant she was close again, already climbing toward another peak.

"I'm gonna come," she gasped. "Daddy, I'm gonna come again, I can't, I—"

"Do it," he growled. "Come on my cock. Let me feel it."

She shattered. Her whole body seized, her back arching off the couch, her mouth opening in a silent scream, and her cunt clamped down on him like a fist, rippling, milking, pulling him deeper. Jack felt it — felt every spasm, every clench, every desperate flutter of her around him — and it drove him over the edge with her.

He came with a guttural roar, his hips slamming into her one last time, burying himself to the root, and he emptied into her in thick, pulsing jets, his cock throbbing, his whole body shuddering. He poured everything into her — every ounce of the two years of denial, every aching, guilty night, every moment he'd spent pretending he didn't want her — and she took it all, her legs still locked around his waist, her cunt still clenching, milking him dry.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The only sound in the kitchen was their ragged breathing, the slow tick of the clock, the hum of the furnace in the walls. Jack's forehead dropped to her collarbone, his body still trembling with the force of his release, and he could feel her heartbeat hammering against his chest, quick and wild.

Then he pulled out.

The sound was wet, obscene, and he felt the loss of her immediately — the sudden absence of her heat, her tightness, the way she'd gripped him like she'd never let go. He straightened up, his cock slick and softening, and he looked down at her, at the mess he'd made of her.

Her thighs were streaked with their combined release. Her chest was flushed, her nipples hard and bruised from his grip. Her hair was a wild tangle, and her lips were parted, pink and swollen, and she was looking up at him with eyes that were dark and bright and full of something that looked terrifyingly like love.

"There you are," she whispered. "There's my daddy."

Jack's hands were shaking. He looked at her, at the marks he'd left on her skin, at the evidence of what he'd done, and the guilt hit him like a wave of cold water. He'd fucked his stepdaughter on the living room couch. He'd come inside her. He'd left bruises on her breasts and a mess on her thighs, and in three days, his wife — her mother — was coming home.

He took a step back. His jeans were still around his thighs, his cock still wet, and he fumbled with them, pulling them up, doing up the button with fingers that wouldn't stop trembling.

"Jack." Her voice was soft, almost gentle. "Don't."

He didn't look at her. He couldn't. He turned away, his hand going to his face, wiping at the wetness on his jaw — her taste, still there, still on his lips.

"This was a mistake," he said. His voice was hoarse, wrecked. "This whole thing. I should never have—"

"Don't you dare." Her voice sharpened, and he heard her move, heard the rustle of the couch as she sat up. "Don't you dare stand there and pretend this was a mistake. You wanted this. You've wanted this for two years, and I gave it to you. I gave you everything, and you took it."

He turned. She was sitting up now, the flannel hanging open on her shoulders, her bare breasts still flushed, her thighs still streaked with him. Her honey-brown eyes were blazing.

"You took it," she repeated. "You came inside me. You marked me. And now you want to pretend it didn't happen?"

"What do you want me to say?" Jack's voice cracked. "What do you want me to do? You want me to tell you this is okay? That this is right? You're my wife's daughter, Gina. You're—"

"I'm yours." She said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I've been yours since before you even knew my mother's name. And you know it. You've always known it."

Jack shook his head. His hand went to his hair, gripping it, pulling, as if he could drag the thoughts out of his skull. "Your mother is coming home in three days."

"I know." Gina's voice was calm. Steady. "And we're going to figure out what to tell her. Together. But you're not going to lock yourself away and pretend this didn't happen. You're not going to shut me out. Not now. Not after this."

She stood up, and the flannel fell open, and she was naked beneath it, beautiful and marked and utterly unashamed. She walked toward him, and Jack's body betrayed him, his eyes tracing the curve of her hip, the bruise already blooming on her breast, the slick shine on her inner thighs.

"You're mine now," she said softly, stopping in front of him. Her hand came up, her fingers brushing his jaw, tracing the line of his mouth. "And I'm yours. That's all that matters. We'll figure out the rest."

Jack looked at her. At the girl he'd raised, the girl he'd loved as a daughter, the girl who'd become something else entirely — something he couldn't name, something he couldn't resist, something he couldn't let go of even though every instinct screamed that he had to.

"I don't know how to do this," he said. The words came out barely above a whisper. "I don't know how to—"

"You don't have to know." Her fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him closer. "You just have to stop running. That's all I've ever asked of you. Just stop running, and let me love you."

Jack's eyes closed. His hands came up, gripping her hips, and he pulled her against him, feeling the heat of her through his jeans, feeling the way she melted into him like she belonged there.

"Three days," he said. His voice was rough, raw. "Three days, and then—"

"Three days," she agreed. "And then we'll face it together. Whatever happens. But right now—" She rose on her toes, her mouth brushing his ear, her breath warm and soft. "Right now, I need you to carry me upstairs. And I need you to make love to me in your bed. Our bed. And I need you to hold me while I fall asleep."

Jack's throat tightened. He should say no. He should push her away, lock himself in the garage, drive into town and drink until he forgot his own name. But he didn't. He couldn't.

He bent down, his arms sliding under her knees and behind her back, and he lifted her. She was light, so light, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, her face buried in his shoulder, and she let out a soft, contented sigh.

"That's it," she murmured. "That's my daddy."

Jack carried her through the kitchen, past the two plates still set on the table, past the candle that had burned down to a stub. The stairs creaked beneath his boots, and she held on to him, her lips pressing soft kisses to his neck, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

He stopped at the door to the bedroom. The door he'd locked every night for two years. The door she'd stood on the other side of, waiting, patient, sure.

His hand found the knob. It turned. The door swung open.

And Jack carried her inside, and he didn't look back.