Crossing Lines

I was twenty-two when I realized my stepfather wasn't looking at me like a daughter anymore. And God help me, I liked it.

It started the day I came home from college for summer break. Mom had remarried six months ago—right after my twenty-first birthday, actually—to a man I'd only met twice before the wedding. I'd been away at school, busy with finals and my senior year, so I'd missed most of their whirlwind courtship.

His name was Marcus Webb. Forty-three years old. Successful architect. Devastating smile. And absolutely, completely off-limits.

The house looked different when I pulled into the driveway. Mom had always been a minimalist, but now there were masculine touches everywhere—a vintage motorcycle in the garage, sleek modern furniture visible through the windows, and expensive landscaping that screamed professional success.

I was still unloading my car when he appeared in the doorway.

"Riley," Marcus said, and my name in his deep voice did something to my stomach I refused to examine. "Let me help you with that."

He was wearing jeans and a white t-shirt that clung to shoulders I definitely shouldn't be noticing. Dark hair shot through with silver at the temples. Sharp jaw. Eyes that were almost black in the afternoon light.

Not blood-related, I reminded myself. Perfectly legal. Still completely wrong.

"I've got it," I said, but he was already taking the heaviest box from my hands, his fingers brushing mine in a way that sent electricity up my arm.

"Your mom's at the office," he said, leading me inside. "She'll be home around six. I took the afternoon off to make sure you got settled."

Great. Hours alone with the man I'd been trying very hard not to think about since the wedding.

I watched him carry my boxes upstairs, unable to stop my gaze from following the movement of muscle beneath his shirt, the way his jeans hung on his hips. When he turned and caught me staring, something flickered in those dark eyes.

"Your old room," he said, his voice slightly rougher. "We left it exactly how it was."

But nothing felt exactly how it was. The air between us crackled with something I couldn't name, something that made my skin feel too tight and my breath come too fast.

"Thank you," I managed. "For helping."

He leaned against the doorframe, studying me in a way that made me feel stripped bare. "You've changed."

"It's been almost a year since you've seen me."

"I know." His jaw tightened. "That's not what I meant."

The way he was looking at me—like I was something he wanted but knew he shouldn't have—made heat pool low in my belly. This was dangerous. This was wrong.

This was exactly what I'd been fantasizing about for six month...