Stepbrother's Secret

“My tummy hurts, but it feels good, too,” I whimper, my heels restless on the bed, back arched, trying to anchor all the sensations, but having no luck. There’s a tug under my belly button and it intensifies, robbing me of sight. I’m rubbing furiously now, grinding my fingertips down on that spot, that cursed, glorious spot, and then a tumult locks up my muscles, carries me away. The pleasure. Oh lord, the pleasure. It’s release. It’s vulnerability. It’s life.

I call my stepbrother’s name hoarsely.

He calls mine, too, and I force my eyes to cooperate so I can watch those thick, messy ropes of white spurt from his tip and drip down his knuckles. His thighs flex and his hips thrust into his tight grip. Knowing he’s getting pleasure at the same exact time as me fills me with satisfaction. Relief. Rightness.

For long moments afterward, there is nothing but the sound of our slowing breaths. My heartbeat becomes a longing throb in my chest. I ache for his arms around me, his mouth on mine, his heat up against me. But when his face appears back on the screen, I do my best to fight the selfish need for more—and I smile.

“Good night, Cate.”

“Good night,” I whisper.

The screen goes white.

That night, I dream of the glen. Of Tristan riding up on a white horse to collect me.

But when I climb up behind him and move to circle him with my arms, he vanishes.

6

Tristan

It has been another week of pure hell.

A full seven days since I’ve laid eyes on my stepsister.

I told myself it would get easier, but every day I feel a little more desperate. Sicker. More frustrated. I’ve been a tyrant at work, unable to concentrate, shouting at everyone. There is a vise around my throat and every morning when I wake up, it has tightened another degree.

There is a family dinner tonight at my father’s house.

Meaning, I’m going to see her.

I’m not ready.

And yet I’ve arrived early, hoping to see her sooner. I can’t stop staring at the door, aching for her to walk through. To remind me of the honesty and goodness in the world. How am I going to keep myself from catching her up against my chest, holding her, kissing her in front of my father and Rebecca? My arms have been so empty without her, my eyes seeking her everywhere I go. Even though I know she won’t be there. But God…God, I needed to stay away. I need to stay away.

Or she will end up beneath me.

Or on another inappropriate FaceTime call.

Images flash in my mind. Her nude, nubile body writhing, her slim fingers busy on her clit, her voice calling my name. Jesus, I’ve never been so hot in my life. I don’t know how I’ve lasted a week since that phone call without seeing her. I grow sicker with need every day.

I take a long drink of the whiskey in my hands, ordering myself to stop staring at the door and focus on what my father is saying.

“Did you hear me, Tristan?” My father nudges my shoulder with his own tumbler of whiskey. “The former president has endorsed you for governor.”

“Has he?”

“Just tweeted it. Less than an hour ago.”

I should be thrilled by this. I should be demanding we celebrate. Instead, all I feel is a dull, distant ripple of pleasure. “Incredible news. Good work, father.”

Visibly relieved by my response, he slaps me on the back. “You earned it.” I hear the purr of a car engine outside, my muscles knotting as the maid hustles toward the door. “Ah, that’ll be Rebecca with Cate. I’m told she’s come very far with her lessons.”

I take another swallow of liquor. “Good.”

After the debacle with the first instructor, I made sure to hire several women with excellent credentials, yes, but also known for their patience and kindness. I called every reference they provided and spoke to them myself to be sure no one hurt Cate’s feelings again.

The maid opens the door and Rebecca walks in with a mile-wide smile, her shoulders thrown back triumphantly. “Gentlemen. May I present to you, the new and improved Cate!”

I’m unprepared for the transformed girl who walks through the door.

I expect my fairy from the glen to be wearing a pretty dress.

Maybe have her hair up.

Instead, a glossy, graceful version of her appears, more exquisite than anyone has the right to be. Jesus Christ. She’s so beautiful, she’s almost offensive. Her posture is straight, hair in soft, blonde waves, skin glowing. And the dress. It’s structured on top. Sparking. Showcasing her high, round tits. Then it flows into a long, light pink, see through skirt. Her thighs are visible, all the way up to her glittering panties beneath.

She was tempting beyond belief before. Now? She could wave her pinky and start a war.