Young Trophy
"Dad's new wife is twenty-eight. He's twenty-three. She married for money. He hates her for it. But hate and desire have always been close neighbors."
I hate her on sight.
She walks into my father's house—my mother's house, the house where I grew up—like she owns it. Which, technically, she will. The prenup is generous. Dad showed me, grinning like an idiot, like I should be happy for him.
"Ethan!" She extends her arms like we're old friends. "I've heard so much about you."
She's twenty-eight. I'm twenty-three. My father is fifty-seven.
Do the fucking math.
"Amber." I don't hug her. Don't shake her hand. "Welcome to the family."
Her smile flickers. Good.
She's beautiful—I'm not blind. Tall, blonde, legs that go forever, tits that are definitely real and definitely spectacular. She's wearing a sundress that costs more than my car payment, and she looks at my father's antique furniture like she's already calculating resale value.
Gold digger. Trophy wife. The cliché made flesh.
"I'll be in my room," I tell Dad. "Nice meeting you, Mom."
I don't look back to see her face.
The first week is war.
She tries to make conversation; I answer in monosyllables. She cooks dinner; I eat out. She suggests "family activities"; I laugh in her face.
"You could at least try," she says one night, cornering me in the kitchen. "For your father's sake."
"My father is a fool." I don't bother keeping my voice down. "He's going through a midlife crisis, and you're profiting from it."
"You don't know anything about me."
"I know you're five years older than me and married to a man twice your age. I know you drive his car and wear his credit card and live in his house." I step closer. She doesn't back away. "I know exactly what you are."
Her eyes flash. "And what's that?"
"A whore with a marriage license."
She slaps me.
Hard. My cheek burns. My blood pounds. And something else—something I don't want to name—stirs in my gut.
"Feel better?" I ask.
"No." She's breathing hard. "But I will."
She walks away.
I watch her go—watch her ass sway in those expensive jeans—and I hate myself for noticing.
Week two. Dad leaves for a conference.
"Be nice to Amber," he says at the door. "She's trying. Give her a chance."
"Sure, Dad."
He hugs me. Leaves. And then it's just me and her, alone in this big house for five days.
The first night, she stays in her room. The second night, I hear her crying through the wall.
I tell myself I don't care.
The third night, she knocks on my door.
"What?"
She opens it anyway. She's wearing a robe—silk, short, showing off those endless legs. Her eyes are red-rimmed. She's been drinking.
"You're right," she says. "About me."
"Go to bed, Amber."
"I married him for money. I'm not ashamed of that." She steps inside, leans against the doorframe. "I grew up poor. Like, actually poor. Food stamps and hand-me-downs and watching my mom work herself to death for nothing." She laughs bitterly. "Your father offered me a way out. Can you blame me for taking it?"
"That's a sad story. I still don't like you."
"I don't need you to like me." She straightens. "I just need you to stop treating me like garbage. I'm going to be here for a while. We might as well be civil."
I look at her. The robe is slipping off one shoulder. I can see the curve of her breast, the shadow of her cleavage.
"Why do you care what I think?"
"I don't know." She holds my gaze. "Maybe because you're the only one in this house who doesn't look at me like I'm furniture. Even if it's hatred—at least you see me."
Something shifts.
"Go to bed," I say again. Softer this time.
She goes.
Night four. I can't sleep.
I go downstairs for water, and she's on the couch. Robe. Wine. Some reality show on mute. She looks up when I enter, and she doesn't look away.
"Join me?"
I should say no. I sit.
She pours me a glass. We watch rich people argue on screen without sound. The silence stretches.
"I didn't marry him because I love him," she says finally. "But I didn't marry him to hurt you, either."
"I know."
"Do you?"
I turn to face her. She's closer than I thought—her thigh almost touching mine, her perfume in my nose.
"I called you a whore," I say. "That was... I was angry."
"You were honest." She smiles, sad and knowing. "It's more than most people give me."
"I shouldn't have said it."
"No." She sets down her glass. "But you did. And now I can't stop thinking about it."
"About what?"
She leans closer. Her hand finds my thigh.
"About whether you meant it as an insult. Or a request."
"Amber—"
"You want me." Her hand slides higher. "I see how you look at me. Not just hatred anymore—something else. Something hungry."
"You're my father's wife."
"I'm five years older than you." Her fingers reach the bulge in my sweatpants. Trace it. "I'm a stranger you live with. And right now, I'm lonely, and you're hard, and your father is a thousand miles away."
I should push her hand away. I should stand up and leave.
I pull her into my lap.
She kisses like she has something to prove.
Hard, desperate, her tongue in my mouth and her hands in my hair. She grinds on me, that silk robe riding up, and I realize she's wearing nothing underneath.
"I hate you," I tell her between kisses.
"I know." She reaches down, frees my cock. "Hate me inside me."
I flip her onto the couch. Spread her legs. She's wet—dripping—and I don't give her time to adjust. I thrust in hard, and she screams.
"Yes—fuck—just like that—"
I fuck her like I hate her. Because I do. Because she's everything I despise—shallow and calculating and using my father for his money. I fuck her hard and rough, my hands gripping her hips, her breasts bouncing with every thrust.
"Call me what you called me," she gasps. "Say it again—"
"Whore." I slam into her. "Gold-digging whore."
"Yes—yes—" She comes, shaking, screaming, her cunt clenching around me.
I don't stop.
I flip her onto her stomach, pull her hips up, and fuck her from behind. Her ass slaps against my thighs with every thrust. Her moans fill the room.
"You love this," I snarl. "Love being fucked by your stepson while your husband's away. What would he say? What would he think?"
"I don't care—don't stop—please—"
I don't stop. I fuck her until she comes again, until she's begging, until I can't hold back anymore.
"Inside," she gasps. "I want to feel it—"
I bury myself deep and let go. She screams my name as I fill her.
Afterward, we lie on the couch, sweaty and spent. Her robe is somewhere on the floor. I'm still inside her.
"That was..." She laughs, breathless. "Not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Gentle? Guilty?" She turns her head, looks at me. "Not that."
"Disappointed?"
"God, no." She clenches around me—I'm still half-hard—and my breath catches. "That was the best fuck I've had in years."
"Better than my father?"
She doesn't answer. She doesn't have to.
"He comes home Thursday," I say.
"I know."
"What happens then?"
She reaches back, finds my hand, places it on her breast. Squeezes.
"Then we figure out how to do this without getting caught." She rolls her hips. I'm getting hard again. "Because I'm not giving this up. Not for him. Not for anyone."
I should feel guilty. I should feel disgusted with myself.
I flip her onto her back and thrust into her again.
We don't make it off the couch until morning.