She Used Me for a Dare… Now I Own Her Mother

Richard’s blood ran cold.

He knew that face.

Natalia Steele. The wife of Edward Steele.

For a moment, his mind refused to process what his eyes were seeing. He glanced back at the door, then at her again, certain he’d entered the wrong room. Certain this was some mistake.

But there was no mistake.

She sat on the bed, watching him with eyes that held no surprise. No shame. Only a quiet, predatory patience.

“Why so shocked?” Her voice was silk over steel. “No need to be so worked up.”

She rose from the bed in one fluid motion, the sheet falling away as she moved toward him. Candlelight traced the lines of her body… curves that had haunted his peripheral vision for months, now bare and deliberate before him.

Richard’s jaw tightened.

His mind raced. Was this a game? Had the old man arranged this? Was he being tested… or trapped?

But the sight of her stole his reason before it could take root.

She stopped an arm’s length away, close enough that he could smell jasmine and something darker beneath it. Her lips curved into a knowing smile.

“Why are you here?”

Natalia didn’t answer.

Her finger found his lips before he could speak again, pressing gently.

“Shhh.”

She traced the shape of his mouth, her touch featherlight. Then her hand drifted lower… jaw, throat, the collar of his shirt… each movement deliberate. Claiming.

“I’ve watched you, Richard.” His name on her tongue felt like a stolen secret.

“Learned your… particular tastes.” She stepped closer, close enough that her breath warmed his skin. “I’ve seen how my husband parades his little gifts before you. Elegant women. Accomplished women. Women he thinks are worthy of your attention.”

Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, tugging him toward her.

“And I thought to myself…” Her head tilted, dark hair spilling over one bare shoulder. “Why should I stay behind? Why should I let others offer what I can give myself?”

She rose on her toes, lips brushing his ear.

“Is there any gift better than me?”

Richard’s blood pounded in his ears.

Every instinct screamed at him to take. To claim. To stop thinking and just feel.

His hands ached to touch her. His body leaned toward her like iron to a lodestone.

But he didn’t move.

Not yet.

He’d built everything he had through control. Through patience. Through never letting desire override judgment… no matter how sweetly it called.

And this… this was too perfect. Too convenient.

He forced his voice steady.

“Does your husband know you’re here?”

Natalia laughed… a low, throaty sound.

“That old man?” She stepped closer, eliminating the distance between them. “He’s not man enough to satisfy me. Hasn’t been for years.”

Her palm flattened against his heartbeat. She felt it racing beneath her touch… and smiled.

“How would he know?” She tilted her head, eyes glittering with amusement. “This isn’t his arrangement, Richard. This is mine. I’m offering myself to you. Just me. No schemes. No old men pulling strings.”

Her fingers curled into his shirt, drawing him closer.

“I need someone… different.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Someone with ambition. With hunger. Someone who takes what he wants without apology.”

Her eyes lifted to meet his… dark, unblinking, certain.

Richard didn’t move. His mind was still calculating… risks, angles, implications.

Edward Steele was cunning, but he wasn’t suicidal. The old man wouldn’t dare plot against him. Not now. Not when Richard was this close to the seat of power.

And Natalia… she was cunning too. But she was also a woman with her own appetites. Her own agenda.

This could be exactly what it appeared to be.

Or it could be a knife waiting to slide between his ribs.

She sensed his hesitation. Her smile didn’t falter… it deepened.

“Don’t pretend with me, Richard.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ve seen the way you look at me. At these…”

She took his hand and pressed it against the curve of her waist, then higher… slowly, deliberately… until his palm rested where his eyes had lingered so many times before.

“You’ve wanted this,” she breathed against his jaw. “Wanted me. Every time you visited. Every time you watched me across the room while my husband prattled on about politics and power.”

Her lips brushed his ear.

“So take what you want.”

Richard’s restraint cracked.

His hand tightened on her skin. She gasped… a sound of triumph more than surprise.

“That’s it,” she whispered, pulling him toward the bed. “No more pretending.”

The last thread of caution snapped.

He stopped thinking.

And let instinct take over.

Their mouths met.

Not gentle. Not hesitant. Hungry.

She tasted like wine and ruin… and Richard drank deep.

His hands found her waist, her hips, the curve of her back. Every touch a claim. Every grip a confession of what he’d buried for months.

He’d wanted this. God, how he’d wanted this.

Every visit. Every polite dinner. Every moment watching her glide across the room in silk while her husband droned about politics. He’d imagined peeling those layers away. Imagined the sounds she’d make. Imagined her beneath him, undone.

But he’d restrained himself. The alliance mattered. The Steele family mattered. He couldn’t risk everything for one woman… no matter how she haunted him.

Now restraint felt like a distant memory.

He lifted her… one arm beneath her thighs, the other gripping her hair… and threw her onto the bed. She landed with a gasp, dark hair fanning across white sheets like spilled ink.

He followed before she could breathe.

His mouth found her throat. Her collarbone. Lower. She arched into him, fingers clawing at his shoulders, pulling him closer.

“Richard…”

He silenced her with his lips.

His hands mapped every inch of her… territory he’d only surveyed from a distance, now conquered without mercy. She writhed beneath him, breath ragged, skin flushed.

He slid lower. Positioned himself. Felt her tremble with anticipation.

She looked up at him… eyes dark, lips swollen, chest heaving.

“Do it, Richard.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “No mercy.”

Her legs wrapped around him, pulling him closer.

“Make me scream so loud that old man hears every second of it.”

Richard’s jaw tightened.

He complied.

One thrust. Full. Merciless.

Her scream tore through the silence… sharp, raw, primal. It echoed off the walls, down the corridor, through the marble halls of the Steele estate.

Then another. And another.

Each one louder than the last.

***

Down the corridor, two servants froze mid-step. They exchanged a glance… eyes wide, faces pale… and quietly retreated the way they came.

In the study, Jonathan stood rigid by the door.

His hand twitched toward his weapon. Instinct. Training.

Then the sound registered. Not pain. Not danger.

Pleasure.

His jaw tightened. His eyes closed briefly.

That fool.

Across the room, Edward Steele paused mid-sip.

The scream reached him… muffled by distance but unmistakable in its meaning.

He set down his teacup with a soft clink.

And smiled.

Not surprise. Not offense.

Satisfaction.

“It seems Mr. Blackwood is enjoying this one very much.” Edward’s voice carried the warmth of a fond uncle. “I do hope he takes his time. This one can be… demanding.”

Jonathan watched the old man’s expression and felt something cold settle in his gut.

***

The minutes stretched.

Jonathan remained by the door, still as stone, while Edward sipped his tea with infuriating calm.

The sounds from the east wing hadn’t stopped.

Muffled. Rhythmic. Relentless.

Occasionally a sharp cry would pierce through… Raw and shameless, echoing down the marble corridors like a proclamation.

Jonathan’s jaw tightened. His gaze fixed on the wall opposite him, refusing to acknowledge what his ears couldn’t escape.

Edward, by contrast, seemed almost… pleased. He tilted his head slightly at each distant sound, as if appreciating a fine symphony.

Then… a knock.

Sharp. Urgent.

The study door opened and a man stepped inside. Jonathan recognized him… one of his own. A trusted courier who knew better than to interrupt without cause.

The man crossed the room quickly, leaning close to Jonathan’s ear.

A whisper. Brief. Clipped.

Jonathan’s expression didn’t change.

But his eyes did.

“When?” he asked, voice low.

“Within the hour, sir. Confirmed.”

Jonathan straightened. The courier stepped back, awaiting orders.

Edward watched the exchange with polite curiosity, teacup still raised.

“Is something the matter, Mr. Jonathan?”

Jonathan was already moving toward the door.

“I need to speak with Mr. Blackwood. Now.”

Edward’s cup lowered. His brow furrowed with theatrical concern.

“Now?” He glanced toward the corridor leading to the east wing. “Surely it can wait. We shouldn’t disturb him at such a… delicate moment. Let the young man finish. We can inform him when he’s done.”

“No.”

The word was flat. Final.

Jonathan didn’t slow his stride.

“This cannot wait.”

Edward rose from his chair, moving with surprising speed for a man his age. His hand caught Jonathan’s arm… not forceful, but firm.

“Mr. Jonathan.” His voice dropped, losing its warmth. “Whatever this news is, bursting in on him now will only create chaos. Let me handle it.”

Jonathan’s eyes narrowed.

“Fine.” Jonathan stepped back. “But make it quick. This news changes everything.”

Edward straightened his jacket, composed as ever.

“Of course, Mr. Jonathan. I’ll be the very soul of efficiency.”

He turned and walked toward the east wing, footsteps unhurried, hands clasped behind his back.

Jonathan watched him go.