Gambling For The Virgin:A Dark Billionaire Romance(23)

I wanted to want to go back to before when I could try and hide my  feelings. But that couldn't happen because I needed to belong to Marcus  more than I'd ever needed anything in my life. When he touched me, every  desire became a possibility. I wouldn't let this opportunity pass, even  if was my damnation. I was ruined for any other future because I had to  belong to him.

Marcus had walked back into our home silently. He made a pot of coffee.  We remained nonverbal, not able to discuss what was happening.

I had always imagined that I'd seduce him. That I'd be the aggressor.

Of course, even when I heard my mother's cancer diagnosis, I still  didn't imagine her death as the catalyst to my seduction attempts.  Still, the events were set in motion because of what had passed between  us.

When he handed me a mug of the hot elixir I should have found solace in,  I closed my hand around his again, and with my other hand, I placed the  mug he'd offered me on the counter. Marcus surprised me by then putting  his mug on the counter.

We stared into each other's eyes. Every second we looked deeper into  each others' souls. Our thoughts, our desires, bared between us without a  single word. And, then, he finally spoke.

"I'm sorry, that was … you've always been a daughter to me, Tara." His  gruff voice hardened my nipples into an instant peak. I hadn't thought  they could be any stiffer or more alert after feeling so much of him  moments ago when he'd held me.

His eyes were on my thin black dress, and I knew Marcus saw my stiff  nipples aching for his touch. His face flushed and I knew this was  incredibly awkward for him. Marcus was always a good man. It was one of  the things that I loved about him.

Loved.

Shit.

Wanting to fuck your stepdaddy was one thing, but loving him was even worse.

"You've always been more than a father to me, Marc."

He brushed his thumb over my lower lip. "Everyone else calls me that. You should call me Marcus. I've never liked Marc."

"M-Marcus," I said, shivering suddenly with a chill through me. That feeling of a point of no return.

He wrapped and arm around me, and I knew I should have grabbed my coffee  and ended this situation. But this was everything I wanted.

"I've tried to take care of you," Marcus said, his words stilted and  obviously difficult to form because of their fumbling cadence. His voice  was deeper, darker somehow then it ever was. I felt his words tingle  all over me. His full lips pressed together, pursed, relaxed. He was  struggling with how things were irrevocably changed between us. Any  resistance that he had brought mine to a screeching halt.

This man was the reason I never had a boyfriend, never kissed a boy,  never had sex. Because no one could compare to what I could never have.  His voice was the only one I wanted to say my name. His body was the  only one I wanted to know mine.

This was what I wanted, and I prayed for the courage to go after it rather than to resist wanting it.

"You have taken care of me. You're the best stepfather, the best father  that a girl can have. But … " I felt hot tears streaking down my cheeks,  and I felt like my whole body was cold and hot all at once. My knees  wobbled, and my throat was scratchy and sore. I practically collapsed on  him.

Those big arms scooped me, and I wrapped my legs around him, but it  wasn't sexual. The sexual attraction was there, always there between us,  but this was a comfort. Caring. The passion between us was wordless and  necessary. Effortless, and right. He carried me to his chair in the  living room, and I sat on his lap, pressed my head into his chest, and  squeezed my eyes shut. Tears poured out my clamped eyes and stung my  cheeks, but I wasn't cognizant or capable of the conversation or the  seduction. This was nothing like my fantasy, but I wasn't fretting over  that, either. I was so safe in my stepdaddy's arms that I didn't need to  worry about anything. It was the most calm I'd ever felt in my life,  even though I was shattering and melting with all my tears. In his arms,  everything was safe. I was grounded with his strength.

I wept until I was sleepy in his arms. When I'd fallen asleep in his  arms, I focused on nothing but how Marcus held me against him. And I  didn't analyze, for once, anything about how he felt or how I felt about  him. I just was, and that was enough.

When I woke up some unknown time later, his large thumb was brushing  away my tears with a firm, possessive touch. I felt small, fragile,  porcelain in his grip. Protected from my pain. It was like he could  consume everything that hurt me. Calm my every wound. Marcus was strong  for me, my strong daddy when I was just the little girl in his arms. He  peered into my eyes, his reddened eyes deep pools of pain searching my  own while reflecting his utter anguish.

The doorbell rang.

Reality crackled through the air with the trilling sound. In that  instant, the intrusion was warring with the electricity sparking between  Marcus and me. We shared a stolen glance, and each headed for the door,  trying to compose ourselves. The magic spell around us was broken, but  it couldn't be forgotten as if some invisible power held me still in his  arms, and the space between reality and that truth of us pressed  together was a physical pain for us both.





18





Tara





Ironically, the disturbance was the neighbor, Cathy, informing us that  they'd be looking out to make sure that we weren't disturbed. She'd  collected everyone's seemingly endless barrage of casseroles. I hustled  them into the fridge as quickly as I could. My thoughts were still very  much distracted. Currently, by the sharp contrast in the scent of  casseroles versus the woodsy, spice, clean linen scent that Marcus  always had. It was an intoxicating, male scent. It made me want to rub  all over him, bury my face in his shirt, and breathe him in as long as I  could. Now, I was practically smelling the salt from various condensed  ‘cream of' soup creations. I would appreciate them later when I was able  to think about food.         

     



 

Marcus touched her arm, thanking her for her compassion. "Thank you,  Cathy," he said with a sweet, heartbreaking voice that made me want to  hug him. I didn't realize for a moment, but I'd reached up on my tiptoes  to put my hand on his shoulder. I needed to comfort him.

I turned to Cathy, looking in her caring eyes. I was grateful that she  was doing everything she could to look out for us. "We just need to be  alone with our thoughts. Our memories," I said, reaching out and hugging  her. My eyes distant and out of focus. Nothing about today felt real. I  wanted to thank her, but I also wanted to regain my footing in reality.  After losing my mother, and gaining this new territory with Marcus,  everything seemed like some macabre dream.

Cathy nodded and started stepping toward the door. The casseroles were  sitting on the kitchen island next to the coffee mugs from earlier. I  lined everything up against the mason jar salads I'd made previously in  the week in the fridge. Usually, I'd have already eaten through the  salads I had made for the week as they were my go-to lunch, yet many of  them remained. My appetite had waned greatly when I knew my mother was  near the end. The casseroles were a tight fit, but I made everything  work in the fridge. I gave it all a cursory glance before shutting the  fridge, content that we would have no need to cook or grocery shop for  some time.

My appetite wasn't the only thing that had waned. I realized I felt  warmer towards Cathy, the neighbor, than I had toward my mother for some  time. It hadn't been just sadness that had pulled me away from my  mother, as some coping mechanism. No, reality withdrew me from her. It  was my disappointment in seeing the truth that made it impossible for me  to do anything but distance myself from her. In her final days, her  sadness wasn't about missing us, her loved ones. The deep resentment she  felt for having me and the fact that she had Marcus-another person that  wanted to take time away from her-was never more apparent than towards  the end.

I realized that, in my mother, there was a woman that I'd got my  unshakable drive and ambition and focus from, but somehow, fortunately, I  hadn't gathered any of her coldness. I cared deeply about my school  work, for my future career, but I also cared about family. Friendships.  It was something I assumed was both driven into me by my lack of her  warmth for so many years, and because I'd had a father figure that was  always caring, attentive, warm, and valued time with me.

Then his cock touched me, and I'd been a horrible fucking slut that  decided to go after it. I had no shame-all those fantasies and I did the  most perverse and cruel thing I could to my mother's memory. His  hardness unraveled every naughty thought I'd ever had about him and made  me weak. Unable to resist how much I wanted him.

Thinking about my other right now only served to rile a resentment in me  that only reminded me of the familial legacy. It was in my genes to  have this coldness. All I wanted was the warmth and comfort of the one  person who had always shown just that to me.