Stepbrother Forbidden

I looked down at Logan's blazer wrapped around me.

No. It can't be.

I turned my head and pressed my nose against the right shoulder of the blazer.

Another deep inhale.

No fucking way.

Shock coursed through me. Why the hell did Logan's blazer smell like the man who'd danced with me. Was Logan the guy who'd palmed my breasts and kissed my neck? If so, had he known it was me or had he thought he was dancing with Cassie?

"Alyssa, get in the car."

Startled, I discovered that Melanie and Jared were waving goodbye as they drove away and Logan had the car stalling, waiting for me while Cassie had already hopped into the front passenger seat. During the drive home, that stupid hope spluttered back to life once more. The hope convinced me that Logan had known it was me and not Cassie since Cassie and I were nothing alike. Her breasts were bigger and her dress had sequins. Surely he would've noticed the difference! The hope encouraged me to nourish it, that maybe there was a chance Logan didn't hate me as much as I'd thought.

And when Logan dropped me home but drove off with a smiling Cassie, the hope dimmed a little, but it quietly assured me as I got ready for bed that someday, I'd no longer have to hope at all because whatever I hoped for would've been made into reality.

4: Logan

"Had fun last night?"

I lifted my arm away from my eyes. Alyssa propped her forearms on the back of the sofa I was lying in, leaning over to watch me. I could see down the front of her shirt. The fleshy tops of her breasts made for a fantastic view. She must have noticed my staring because she looked down at her chest then stood up straight, a light blush colouring her face.

"Perv."

I covered my eyes again. "You're the one who had them on display. And yes, I had an obscene amount of fun last night. Obscene."

Last night was the worst. I'd suffered the mother of all blue balls because I'd dry-humped and felt up my stepsister, and instead of relieving myself in the willing arms of Cassie, I'd been a true gentleman and headed home to a cold shower and an unsatisfactory self-applied handjob.

I'd been a real bonehead and a disgusting bastard. Not only could someone have seen us, Alyssa had been drunk while I was stone sober. She hadn't known who exactly she'd been grinding her perfect ass against, but I had been fully aware of whose soft body I'd been fondling. Shame and guilt coalesced into something thick and heavy in the pit of my stomach and I could feel anger being borne from that horrible mass. I was angry at her, angry about this situation; mostly, I was angry with myself.

But I suppose my lone consolation from last night was that I'd gotten the chance to feel her luscious body against mine. Both a shame and a relief that she would never know it was me.

"Did you dance with me last night?"

Shit. Play it cool. Deny, deny, deny!

I moved my arm away from my eyes to look at her again. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I danced with a guy last night and your blazer smelled like him. So I thought..."

"It wasn't me," I said.

She didn't look convinced. "Are you sure? Because—"

"Look, it wasn't me," I snapped. "I danced with Cassie all night. Besides," I continued, my frustration fully underway now, "maybe if you didn't dress like a slut then you wouldn't have random guys grinding up on you."

I instantly regretted what I'd said, but the damage was already done. Her face looked like she'd been slapped and if there was anything lower than a heel, then that was how I felt.

I sat up. "Alyssa, I'm—"

"Wow," she said, shaking her head as she backed out of the room. "Just, wow, Logan. No level of mean is too high for you."

My apologies fell on deaf ears. She'd already left the room.

***

After a few days of the silent treatment and absolute ignoring of my presence from Alyssa, I caved to the wisdom of the internet. 'How to apologize to a woman' returned over sixty-three million results. The first link I clicked on had an actual list.

I could have asked one of my friends, but that would be weird. Frankly, men did not ask for advice about women from other men. Not unless the advice was about various tactics on getting into women's pants. I mean, yeah, I could've probably asked my friends but their filthy minds would supply filthy suggestions. They wouldn't care if she was my sister. Stepsister. Whatever.

Anyway. Alyssa's coldness didn't bother me. Clearly, she was the one with the problem here. OK, alright, fine. Implying she was slutty hadn't been nice. It was an assholish thing to do, actually. And maybe her persistent unwillingness to even acknowledge my presence bothered me a little. A lot. Too fucking much. Where was the Alyssa that took my mean streaks in stride and shrugged them off? Or even the Alyssa that gave back as good as she got? I didn't like this new one very much. I didn't enjoy the quiet but obvious resentment that exuded from her whenever she and I were in the same room. She had to be fixed! But how?

Nothing I read online offered any further insight or tips than what I'd already considered or tried myself. I'd apologized sincerely multiple times, but my words had only been met with rude silence. Offering her flowers or something of astronomical price value felt too over the top, and a little too much like a cheating husband paying penance to his furious wife. Perhaps 'User IcUPb4M3' on the last messaging board I'd looked at briefly was right: wait it out and see. She'll come around soon.

But a few more days went by and she still refused to speak to me.

"Don't you think you're overreacting?" I said one afternoon.

She scowled. "You haven't seen overreacting yet, dickface."

I smiled. She glared. I wanted to kiss her. She looked ready to kick me in the balls.

Finally, the Alyssa I knew.