Chapter 4. Fuck the Age, Fuck the Rules!

Ava

I woke up earlier than usual, the first hints of dawn creeping through the balcony curtains like sneaky fingers prying into my dreams.

My body hummed with nerves, buzzing under my skin like live wires sparking against dry tinder.

Sleep had been a joke, tossed and turned all night, replaying Adrian’s whisper from yesterday, that bold stare at my naked body, the way he’d called my shape “nice” like it was his to appraise.

Sex with someone over twice my age? Yeah, it screamed wrong in every rational corner of my brain, but my body didn’t give a damn about rationality.

It craved him, that towering wall of muscle and sin, Mom’s husband or not. The workout today... it wasn’t just exercise anymore.

It was a battlefield, a tease, a chance to feel his hands on me again without the thin veil of “family bonding.”

I slipped out of bed naked, as always when alone, padding across the cool marble floor to the bathroom.

The shower was quick, steam fogging the mirror, water sluicing over curves I’d always been shrugged about until now.

They felt weaponized, ready for war. Towel dried, I stood in front of the full length mirror in the walk in closet, eyeing the workout gear.

Tight shorts, black, spandex clinging to my ass like a jealous lover, riding high on my thighs.

Sports bra, same color, supportive but low cut enough to show cleavage when I breathed deep. I turned side to side, admiring the way the fabric hugged my hips, the dip of my waist, the perk of my breasts.

Not for me. For him.

I hated that I wanted his attention this badly, that one look from those gray eyes could turn me into this desperate version of myself.

But there it was, fingers lingering on the waistband, imagining his grip there instead.

“Pathetic,” I muttered to my reflection, but the heat building low in my belly said otherwise.

Dressed, trapped in clothes again, I headed downstairs, sneakers soft on the steps.

The house was quiet, Mom still asleep or getting ready for her shift, but Adrian? He was already outside in the private gym courtyard.

The space was his kingdom, open air setup with the main gym building to one side, weights scattered on mats, a running track looping the manicured lawn.

He was doing stretches like some damn fitness model ripped from a magazine spread, legs wide, arms extended overhead, tank top riding up to flash abs carved from stone.

Sweat already glistened on his tanned skin, those V lines dipping into low slung shorts that did nothing to hide the bulge I remembered all too well.

Broad shoulders flexed as he bent forward, touching toes, ass tight and powerful. God, he was built for sin, every inch screaming power and control.

The moment he saw me approaching through the glass doors, he straightened, wiping his brow with the hem of his tank, flashing more of that ridged sex pack.

His eyes scanned me top to bottom, not fast, like a casual glance, but slow, intentional, devouring.

Starting at my sneakers, up the curve of my legs, lingering on the way the shorts cupped my ass, then my exposed midriff, breasts straining the bra, finally my flushed face.

Heat followed his gaze like a physical touch, making my nipples tighten against the top. “You look like hot cake, girly,” he said, giving that devilish smirk, half tease, half predator, voice rough from the early hour.

“Shut up,” I shot back, crossing my arms to hide how my chest heaved, but I didn’t mean it. Not really.

The way he called me girly got on my nerves, infantilizing and hot all at once, like he was claiming some twisted ownership.

It made me want to slap him and beg for more in the same breath. I grabbed a water bottle from the outdoor cooler, chugging to steady the flutter in my stomach, but his eyes stayed glued, amusement dancing in those stormy grays.

“Feisty this morning. Let’s burn it off.” He clapped his hands, the sound sharp, pulling me into the routine.

Workout started easy, jumping jacks to warm up, the rhythmic bounce making my breasts jiggle in the bra, his gaze flicking down every few jumps.

Light runs around the track, my ponytail whipping, breaths coming faster not just from cardio. He paced beside me, effortless, commenting on my form.

“Pick up those knees, girly. Yeah, like that.” The nickname grated again, but each time, it sent an illicit thrill straight to my core.

Squats first, barbell light but challenging. He positioned me under it, hands on my hips immediately, correcting stance. “Wider legs. Drop low.” His palms were fire through the thin shorts, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above my hipbones, guiding me down.

Every descent, his grip tightened, pulling me back up with controlled strength, bodies inches apart.

Breath hot on my neck as he murmured, “Arch that back, perfect.” I felt exposed, vulnerable, his touch lingering longer than necessary, fingers splaying to trace the edge of my shorts.

My breath kept hitching, obvious as hell, core clenching around nothing. Hated how he could hear it, see the flush creeping up my chest.

Stretches next, forward bends, him behind me, pressing my back flat with one hand while the other adjusted my thighs.

Fire everywhere he touched, skin hypersensitive, pulse throbbing between my legs. Then lunges, and that’s when it happened.

He pulled me closer for a demo correction, my ass rubbing right against his dick as he adjusted my footing. Thick, hard length nestling into the cleft through our clothes, unmistakable.

A moan slipped out from me, soft, involuntary, needy.

His grip faltered for a split second, hips twitching forward once, grinding subtly. “Easy,” he growled low, but his voice was strained, breath ragged against my ear.

I froze, ass pressed back instinctively, feeling him throb.

My mum came down from upstairs but she wasn’t taking long, she wasn’t in her gym dress.

We broke apart gasping, him stepping back with a curse under his breath. “Water break,” he rasped, turning to the cooler.

I poured from my bottle, but hands shaky, water spilled, cascading down my chin, soaking the sports bra, trickling in rivulets between my breasts, darkening the fabric translucent.

Nipples peaked hard, visible now, chest heaving. I could feel his eyes burn into my skin, heavy, hungry, tracing every drop’s path like he wanted to lick it clean.

He handed me a towel from the rack, our hands brushing, fingers tangling briefly, electric spark jumping.

The contact lingered, his thumb stroking my knuckles before release. “Messy girl,” he teased, voice darker.

My phone buzzed on the bench, Mom. She sounded wiped, voice tiny through the speaker. “Hey, kid. Got called into an extra shift, tired already. When you’re done, I’ll be upstairs cooking breakfast. Pancakes sound good?”

Upstairs? She meant her room, prepping later. The gym felt even more isolated now, just us.

Adrian nodded to himself, then turned to me, towel still in hand. “Here, let me help with that.”

Before I could protest or beg, his hand was on my chest, towel pressing softly against the wet fabric over my breast.

But it wasn’t the towel doing the work, his palm cupped me through it, thumb circling the nipple in slow, deliberate strokes.

Soft pressure, then firmer, kneading just enough to arch my back.

A moan tore from my throat, loud and shameless, body betraying me as wetness soaked my shorts.

He turned back abruptly, like pulling himself from the edge, shoulders tense. “Enough,” he muttered, voice gravel.

No. Hell no.

I grabbed his hand mid retreat, yanking him close, our bodies colliding. “You dare not leave me high and dry,” I hissed, eyes locked on his, defiant and desperate.

My other hand guided his hand down, pressing his palm against the front of my tight shorts, right over the heat. “Feel that.”

He smiled, slow, dangerous, eyes flashing. “High? I’ve not even done anything yet, girly.” But his fingers flexed, tracing the seam, feeling the wetness seeping through.

I directed his hand lower, slipping under the waistband just enough to touch the basement of my pussy, wet, throbbing clit. “I’m wet for you already,” I whispered, voice breaking. “All from your touches. Your stares.”

His breath hitched, fingers exploring, dipping into the wetness with a groan. “Are you ready to scream daddy?” he murmured, voice lethal promise. “In a way where pleasure and pain deal with you mercilessly?”

I leaned in, lips brushing his jaw. “Whatever would make you sin with me, I’m ready.” The words hung heavy, sealing the pact.

“I’m 40, you’re 20,” he whispered softly, his lips grazing my nipple, hot breath sending shivers down my spine as his tongue flicked out, teasing the hardened peak.

“I don’t care!” I shot back amidst breathy moans, my fingers tangling in his dark hair, pressing his head deeper into my boobs, arching my back to feed him more.

“I’m your mum’s husband. I’m your stepdad, old enough to be your real dad,” he murmured again, his right hand tracing, torturous path down my trembling stomach, between my thighs to brush against my soaked panties.

“I said I don’t care!!!” I growled, grabbing his wrist and forcing his fingers faster.

“Fuck the age, fuck the rules, make me yours!”

Videos I watched on Google about step daughter and step dad were all fiction until now. In my front, it’s happening.