All Chapters of MY TABOO STEP DADDY : Chapter 201 - Chapter 210

[TRISTAN’S POV]He's moaning around my cock, and the vibration travels straight to my base. My hand tightens slightly in his hair—not pulling, just holding—and he takes that as permission to go deeper. His throat relaxes and he's swallowing around me, and I have to consciously remind myself that we need to get through this without me coming down his throat, as tempting as that is."Your hand," I command. "Use your hand on the base while you suck."He obeys immediately, wrapping his hand around the part of me that doesn't fit in his mouth, and then he's stroking and sucking in rhythm, and I'm having to fight to keep my breathing steady. One hand in his hair, the other pressed against the window, I'm watching his head bob up and down on my cock, watching the way his cheeks hollow when he sucks, watching the small tears that form at the corners of his eyes from taking me too deep."You look so good like this," I tell him, and I mean it. There's something absolutely obscene and beautif

[TRISTAN'S POV]The safehouse is forty minutes away from the school, located in an industrial district that's been slowly dying for the past decade. Warehouses with broken windows, factories that haven't run in years, streets empty enough that no one notices when I drive through with an unconscious police officer in my backseat and a young man who looks like he's about to have a complete psychological breakdown.Carlton hasn't spoken since we left the parking lot. He's just sitting there, staring out the window at nothing, his hands clenched so tightly in his lap that his knuckles are white. I can see the shock working its way through his system, the way his mind is trying to reconcile the man he thought he knew with the reality of what I actually am.This is the part I hate. Not the violence. Not the necessity of eliminating threats. But this moment right here, when someone you care about realizes you're not who they thought you were.Though 'care about' is perhaps too soft a descri

[TRISTAN'S POV]Carlton sleeps like the dead—deep, dreamless sleep that only comes when the body finally accepts defeat. His chest rises and falls against mine, his breathing steady, his face peaceful in a way it hasn't been since I took him from that church. For a moment, I allow myself to exist in this space with him. No pretense. No performance.Just two people tangled together in Egyptian cotton sheets with the city bleeding gold and purple through floor-to-ceiling windows.I trace the line of his collarbone with my finger, careful not to wake him, and I think about what I've done. Not the violence, that's always been easy. But this. The complication of caring about someone while simultaneously destroying their understanding of reality.This is the part that requires more skill than any blade.His body is covered in marks—my marks. Hickeys on his neck and chest, red welts on his shoulders from where his fingernails dug in. Physical evidence that he's mine, that I've claimed him i

[TRISTAN'S POV] Alexei brings her inside before Carlton even finishes undressing. "She was watching," he says simply, depositing an unconscious Selene on the couch like she's a sack of flour. Alexei is one of my most trusted men—ex-Spetsnaz, completely without conscience or moral framework. Perfect for this kind of work. "How long?" I ask. "Fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty. She was calling for backup when I took her." "Can you stop that?" "Already done," Alexei says. "Spoofed the signal, made it look like a system malfunction. They'll think she lost connection." I nod once—just once—and Alexei understands. He leaves to prepare the injection, heading toward the back room where I keep my supplies. Selene will wake up in about six hours with no memory of anything after she started surveillance. The neurological poison is calibrated specifically for that—complete blackout of the incident without any lasting damage. It's beautiful work, really. The kind of thing that separates

[TRISTAN’S POV] The storm had teeth. I felt them in every crack of lightning that split the Moscow sky, in the way the rain hammered against the windshield like it was trying to break through to something vital. My hands gripped the steering wheel hard enough that my knuckles turned white beneath the tattoos—Russian Orthodox crosses bleeding into Cyrillic script that spelled out names of the dead. Camilla's name sat there, faded now from years of sun and violence, but no less permanent. The city rolled past in a blur of neon and shadow. Three in the morning, and Moscow was still awake, the kind of awake that only happened when blood was being spilled somewhere. I could feel it in the air, that electric current that ran through the underworld when someone important was dying or about to. Yosef was dying. Or maybe he was already dead, and I just hadn't gotten the message yet. The intel had come through two hours ago, fragmented and ugly: Yosef spotted in Kori's territory. Easter