Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
And then—god—the moment she shifted focus. The microsecond when she went from looking at the act to looking at me. Our eyes didn’t meet, not really; I was busy, and she was too caught in the moment, but the line between us vibrated. She saw the way my hand knotted in Cassie’s hair, the way I stretched her out, made her moan and whimper. She saw the slick of sweat on my shoulder, the tendons flexing down my back as I fucked with total, brutal efficiency.
Kayleigh saw my cock too. Of course she did. She took in all ten inches of pure, veiny fuckpower, and I saw how her eyes grew wider, the color blooming on her chest.
Kayleigh’s hand was the tell. She thought she was being so covert, fingers curling against her ribs, just below the neckline of that pink dress. But I caught the movement—a hitch, a tremor—her palm flattening against her breast, and then sliding down, pushing the fabric away. Yes, my naughty little stepsister bared her tits in the darkness, the white orbs huge and creamy. Then, she started touching herself, pinching and rubbing her nipples, her eyes glued to us. Hell, her eyes were glued to my cock, let’s be honest. But Kayleigh’s a dirty little slut because as she watched, she lifted a big breast to her mouth and started sucking on her nipple, moaning deep in her throat.
Fuck! Was I really seeing this? But sure enough, when I fucked Cassie into orgasm, Kayleigh came too. Her head fell back as she let out a silent scream, her knees quivering as she buckled against the wall. I roared my release, imagining that the cunt in front of me belonged to my stepsister, but when I opened my eyes, Kayleigh was gone. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Even worse, it wasn’t Kayleigh’s cunt I was buried in. It was another woman, altogether, like a hard crash into reality. What a fucking downer.
Afterward, my vapid date laughed. “That was fun,” she said, dabbing her ruined mascara with a tissue. “You always fuck like someone’s watching.”
I almost told her the truth. But what’s the point? People like Cassie live in the moment, as bright and disposable as a cigarette.
Kayleigh is different. She’s a collector. She’ll take this night and wrap it up in velvet, keep it next to her heart for the rest of her life. She’ll play it over and over, the way I do, until it’s something new and terrible, a pearl made out of grit and wanting.
I finish the last of the Armagnac and hold the glass to the fire, watching the shapes it makes on the ceiling. I can hear Cassie stirring now, the creak of the mattress as she stretches out her legs. I imagine her rolling over, cupping her own breasts, maybe even slipping a hand between her legs as she remembers the way I used her. I could join her, finish what I started. But I don’t.
Instead, I let the memory run wild. I picture Kayleigh in the bedroom instead, lights out, her hands tracing the same line down her chest. I picture her squeezing her own tit, thumb worrying the nipple, the other hand working down the satin of her tummy, pressing through the damp cotton of her panties. I picture her biting her lip so she won’t make a sound.
I do the math in my head. My stepsister graduated from Century College last year, which means she’s twenty-one, maybe twenty-two. Not that it matters. I stopped letting numbers dictate my appetites a long time ago.
But there’s a rule about sisters, even the ones who aren’t really sisters. But rules are just lines drawn by people who were too scared to cross them. Frankly, I’ve never met a line I didn’t want to erase.
I set the empty glass down on the desk, the thunk of crystal on wood loud in the hush. I lean back and let the leather creak, the old chair cradling me like a coffin. I close my eyes and see her, Kayleigh, blonde and trembling in the hallway, wanting something she can’t name.
The world is full of men who never go for what they want. They swallow it down, die with it in their bellies, and get up the next morning to do it again. Not me. I make things happen. If I want something, I take it. If it costs me, I pay. The cost has never been too much. I’m a rich man. I can afford it.
The cigar is almost gone. I crush the butt in the ashtray, the ember snuffing out with a final hiss. There’s a heat in my gut that isn’t from the fire or the alcohol. I know it, and I know how to feed it.
Tomorrow, I’ll call Kayleigh. I’ll find an excuse, any excuse. Maybe a random hello. Maybe a message from my dad, or no message whatsoever. I’ll start small, let her think she’s got the upper hand. Let her think she’s safe.