The ragged, breathy sounds were not his own. They belonged to the woman writhing beneath him, a symphony of desperate, stifledgasps that filled the dusty silence of his secluded room. Each thrust of Jason Blaze's hips punched another one from her lips, a wet, yielding sound that was swallowed by the thick comforter and the distant, muted hum of the suburban New York morning.
God, she was tight.
His stepmother, Isabella, clawed at his bare back, her nails leaving faint, burning trails on his skin. Her head was thrown back, a mess of dark, silken hair against his stark white pillows, her eyes squeezed shut in a mask of exquisite torment. This was the only place she ever looked like this—unraveled, wild, completely and utterly his.
"Jason… oh, god, Jason," she whimpered, her voice a broken thing, stripped of the cool, composed elegance she wore like armor downstairs.
He drove into her harder, faster, the ancient bedframe protesting with a rhythmic groan against the wall. He watched her, mesmerized by the flush spreading across her chest, the way her perfect, rose-tipped breasts swayed with each powerful impact. He was nineteen, all coiled, restless energy and a simmering anger that found its only true release buried deep inside her. He was the bastard son of Hector Blaze, a man whose name carried weight in certain shadowy circles, and this—claiming his father's beautiful, untouched wife—was his favorite form of rebellion.
He could feel her climax building, a tectonic shift in the way her body clenched around him, a vise of slick, velvet heat. Her internal muscles fluttered, then spasmed, gripping him with a shocking, rhythmic intensity. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, a perfect 'O' of shock and pleasure, before a long, shuddering moan finally escaped.
It was his undoing.
He plunged into her one last, final time, his own groan a raw, guttural sound torn from his throat as his release ripped through him. Heat flooded her, wave after shocking wave, and for a suspended moment, the entire world shrank to this single, illicit point of connection.
They collapsed together in a heap of sweat-slicked limbs and labored breathing, the only sound their ragged gasps slowly returning to normal.
The spell broke first for her. Always for her.
She pulled away from him, the physical separation feeling like a loss of atmosphere. The cool air of the room hit his damp skin, and he watched, already missing her heat, as she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her movements were efficient, practiced. She gathered her scattered silk robe, a sliver of lavender in the gloom of his room, and slipped it on, tying the sash with a sharp, final pull.
"We're going to be late," she said, her voice already reassembling itself into its usual composed, slightly distant tone. She didn't look back at him. "And if your father finds my side of the bed cold, there will be… questions."
Jason lay on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes, a lazy, satisfied smirk playing on his lips. "Let him ask. What's he going to do?"
That made her turn. Her dark eyes, now sharp and clear, pinned him to the bed. "Don't," she hissed, the single word laced with a fear he found both irritating and intoxicating. "You play a dangerous game, Jason. You have no idea the kind of trouble you're courting. This… this cannot happen again."
He just smirked wider, propping himself up on his elbows to fully appreciate the way the morning light from the single window outlined her body through the thin silk. "You said that last time. And the time before that."
A flush, not from passion but from frustration, colored her cheeks. She opened her mouth to retort, then seemed to think better of it. With a shake of her head, she turned and left, closing his bedroom door behind her with a quiet, yet definitive, click.
The silence she left behind was suddenly oppressive. The room still smelled of her perfume and sex. He lay there for a few minutes longer, replaying the feel of her, the sounds she made, the way her control shattered for him and him alone. Then, with the restless energy that was his constant companion, he got up.
A quick, hot shower did little to wash the memory of her from his skin. He dressed in simple black jeans and a tight grey tee, the uniform of a young man trying to look both formidable and unconcerned. He ran a hand through his dark, unruly hair and regarded his reflection—his father's defiant jawline, his mother's (whoever she was) stormy eyes. A product of scandal, living in the lion's den.
He finally left the sanctuary of his corner room and made his way downstairs. The Blaze estate was big, old money masquerading as suburban tranquility. It was all dark wood, heavy drapes, and expensive, uncomfortable-looking antiques. A gilded cage for a small family that served a much larger, much more dangerous one.
The scent of coffee and bacon guided him to the dining room. And there they were. The whole dysfunctional portrait.
His father, Hector Blaze, sat at the head of the long mahogany table, a newspaper held open in his meaty hands. Even seated, he projected an aura of contained violence, a bull pretending to be a businessman. His reading glasses were perched on the end of his nose, but his eyes, sharp and flinty, were watching everything.
To his right sat Silas, Jason's half-brother. Twenty-two, with their father's blond hair and cold, calculating eyes. He was already dressed for the "family business" in a crisp button-down, sipping coffee while scrolling through something on his phone. The golden boy. The legitimate heir.
And then, to Hector's left, was Isabella.
She was the picture of serene elegance. Her dark hair was now twisted into a flawless chignon. She wore a cream-colored knit dress that hugged her figure modestly, a string of pearls at her throat. She was delicately spreading jam on a piece of toast, her movements precise and graceful. She didn't look up as he entered.
Jason slouched into the chair opposite Silas, the legs scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. Hector lowered his paper a fraction, his gaze sweeping over his son with clear disdain.
"Decided to join the living?" Hector's voice was a low rumble, like stones grinding together.
"I was up late," Jason said, reaching for the carafe of coffee. He poured himself a cup, his movements deliberately casual. He glanced across the table at Isabella. She remained perfectly focused on her toast. But he saw it—the faintest tremor in her hand as she set the knife down. The almost imperceptible tightening of her jaw.
Ah, there you are, he thought. Underneath all that ice.
"Doing what, exactly?" Silas asked without looking up from his phone, a smirk in his voice. "Playing video games like a child?"
"Something like that," Jason murmured, his eyes still on Isabella. He took a slow sip of his coffee. "I was practicing my… reflexes. Got my heart rate up. Worked up quite a sweat, actually."
Isabella's eyes flicked up from her plate for a fraction of a second. A flash of pure, undiluted panic before the cool mask slammed back down. A jolt of pure power shot through him. This was almost as good as fucking her.
Hector grunted, uninterested, and went back to his paper. "Whatever. We've got a meeting with the Antonellis at noon. I need you both there. Looking sharp.Silas, you'll drive. Jason… try not to say anything stupid."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Jason said, his voice dripping with false sincerity.
The clatter of cutlery was the only sound for a moment. Jason kept his gaze locked on Isabella, a predator quietly toying with its prey. He saw the delicate flutter of a pulse at the base of her throat. He saw the way she avoided looking anywhere in his direction. She took a small, measured sip of her orange juice, and he remembered the way her throat had worked as she'd gasped his name into his pillow.
He leaned forward slightly, just enough to force her peripheral vision to acknowledge him. "You're quiet this morning, Isabella," he said, his voice pitched low, intimate, a stark contrast to the formal dining room. "Everything alright?"
She finally lifted her gaze to his. Her eyes were like polished onyx, warning him, begging him, all at once. You are playing with fire. The air grew thick, charged with a tension that only the two of them understood.
"I'm perfectly fine, Jason," she said, her voice steady, though he detected the faintest tremor beneath the surface. "Just… a little tired. I didn't sleep very well."