Stepbrother Beloved

CHAPTER TWO

TANNER

OH, MY girl, my Maggie, my Margaret….

Her body felt so soft, so yielding. I wrapped my arms around her and buried my face in her hair, breathing in that smell of coffee and chocolate and Maggie that I knew so well. My cock felt massive, electrified, and I worried I might come right there in the hallway before we’d even gotten our clothes off. It felt so fucking good to press it against her mound. We were almost the same height and the fit was perfect, like two pieces of a puzzle finally coming together.

Oh, Mags, oh god….

I heard stamping feet on the front porch. A key in the lock. The door opening.

Fuck.

“TAAAAANNNEEERRRR!” yelled my stepmother. She has a voice that could break glass.

My cock reacted just like you’d imagine.

I felt Maggie freeze in my arms.

“Great timing, Ma,” she whispered, with a quiet giggle.

But I wasn’t laughing. Now that my my boner had shriveled, the misgivings started rolling in. I kissed Maggie on her forehead. “Maybe it’s for the best,” I whispered back.

“The hell?” she said, pulling away from me. “Since when are you Mr. Hot and Fucking Cold? Dammit, Tanner!” and she shot me a furious glare and went into her room.

Here we go again. We love each other, there’s no doubting that. If I could just resist temptation for once, maybe we’d be in a better place.

But it’s so hard. Hell, she makes me so hard. Every time I see her, it gets worse. I can’t stop wanting her, and I have to keep anything from happening, because there’s no way I’m risking what we have just for some fucking. I’m trying to be responsible and take the long view here.

Maggie and me? We’ll fucking argue about anything. Ever since we were teenagers we just…we just keep ending up like this, with one of us pissed off at the other one. We’ve barely spent any time together since we were kids, but it seems like most of it has been spent sulking or arguing.

Now tell me—how is that a vote for starting a relationship? I mean like a girlfriend, romantic thing. Because with my Margaret, it’s not something you start and then quit on. It’s not something to try out and cross your fingers. If we go down that road, it’s forever. We haven’t ever talked about it but I bet that’s one thing we can agree on.

Thing is, my pecker keeps wanting to stir up trouble. I get aroused the second she walks into the room, I want to peel her clothes off, see her naked, thrust myself into her until I lose consciousness.

Is that any way to think about your little sister? Or to make a rational decision?

You see my predicament? And that’s not even the half of it. I could go on for days about all the reasons we’re wrong for each other. If only I could get my cock to listen.

I wanted to go talk to her but I’ve learned over the years that it’s best to let her alone for a little while. She tends to fly off the handle but calm down pretty quickly if you don’t push her. She’s not like her mom, that screeching harpy, who gets pissed and the anger keep ratcheting up until no one is safe.

And speaking of her mom, I figured I better go see what she was yelling about. I trotted downstairs, my body feeling the discomfort that comes with a hard-on to nowhere.

“Hey Mom,” I said, trying to sound friendly. You can spend all day trying to hit the right tone with her, one that won’t set her off, but good luck with that. I just give it one shot and and if it doesn’t work, I take off, to the woods usually.

“I lost your father!” she said, her voice shrill.

“Huh?”

“We were at the supermarket, I told him to go get three cans of cranberry sauce, and he disappeared!”

“Which supermarket?”

“You know, the one we always go to. He never came back with the cranberry sauce. I need the cranberry sauce, Tanner! You can’t have Thanksgiving without cranberry sauce!”

“Right,” I said. It’s usually safe to agree with her lunacy. It’s sort of like whipping the cape to the side as the bull charges by, and you’re hoping not to get nicked by a horn. My dad probably went off looking for the nearest liquor store, but I don’t say that to my stepmother. That would be like waving the red cape and then standing right behind it. My body would be gored to pieces.

“Okay, well, I’m sure he’ll turn up. Would you like me to go out and get the cranberry sauce?”

“Well, somebody’s got to! We can’t have Thanksgiving without cranberry sauce!” she shrieks.

Yes. I believe she’s covered that already. “I’m happy to go. What time is dinner?”

“5:00 sharp. That means butt in the chair at 5, Tanner! Not rolling in covered in mud at 5, you hear me?”

Oh, I heard all right. The neighbors down the block heard. I grabbed my keys and took off. The neighborhood stores were all closed but I figured one of the big supermarkets on the highway would be open. I had my new Lexus and I admit it was still a thrill to drive, even just to the supermarket. I got the fucking cranberry sauce out of the way and then thought about going to the woods, just for a little while, to clear my head.

I was feeling unsettled, even sad, and for me the woods is the most reliable place to be when I’m feeling that way. Sometimes when I thought about Maggie, the whole thing seemed so easy. The love is there, the laughs, the attraction. Isn’t that pretty much all you need? But then those thoughts lead quickly to images of her kissing the tip of my cock, and opening her pretty mouth for it, sucking the head, and I fucking lose control. I start tugging at my cock so fast I nearly burn the skin off, and I explode in a paroxysm of animal lust for my Maggie.

And that, obviously, is part of the problem. It’s not like I think sex is bad or anything like that. I tell her it’s because she’s my stepsister but I know that’s not really the problem. It’s that I know, I fucking know, that we shouldn’t be messing around unless the commitment is total, and I…I…it’s not like I have anything against commitment in principle, it’s just that Mags and I want such different lives, how is that ever going to work? She hates that I want to be outside as much as possible. Hates that I skipped college and don’t work in an office. Would never work in a office.

And doesn’t that mean she doesn’t love who I am, in some fundamental way? Doesn’t that mean that all the attraction I feel I shouldn’t act on? I don’t want the kind of marriage where one person is always trying to change the other one, or has given up but stays resentful and unhappy because their life together wasn’t what she really wanted.

Maggie wants to live in a city, in an apartment, building up her bank account. That’s so not me I can’t even tell you. Give me a sleeping bag and a propane stove, and I’m good to go. Or least, I’m good for months at a time that way.

At least, that’s how it used to be.

Things in my life have changed, though I haven’t told anyone in my family yet. Not that anyone’s asked. No one has even said

a word about the primo Lexus I’m driving. Yes, I skipped college, and yes, I avoid sitting in an office as much as possible. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be a financial success. I believed that all along and now I’ve proved it. My new travel company—mostly luxury trekking but with some side ventures as well—is doing more business than it can handle at the moment. I had to get the Lexus because that’s the kind of transportation my clients expect.

I’m not sure when I’ll admit to Maggie that it’s a pretty sweet ride.

The company has done so well I’m already richer than fuck. Rich enough to be able to give money to the environmental organizations I care about. For sure rich enough to keep Maggie feeling secure. But you know, sometimes what seems like a solution just creates another problem, because I know Maggie has worked really hard to do well in school, she’s got all kinds of career plans, and I don’t want to swoop in and say, “Hey, you can forget all that, I’ve already made the money, so just sit back and look pretty, you don’t have to lift a finger.”

I don’t think that would be fair. I want her to fly on her own, you know?

I’m trying to be responsible here. I’m trying, as hard as I can, not to let my love for her and my constant stiffy in her presence make all the decisions.

But my god, when I see her, when she’s near, I lose my fucking head.

I decided to put off the woods, not wanting to risk showing up late and muddy for Thanksgiving dinner and setting off a stepmother explosion. So I drove back to the house with my cans of cranberry sauce. I love Thanksgiving, actually, or at least I used to. It’s the one holiday I have some happy memories of—both from before my mother died when I was six, and even after. Good, comforting food and then outside to find a touch football game. Nothing complicated.

My mother used to make the best mashed potatoes on earth. I was an only child and used to hang out in the kitchen while she cooked. I know it makes me sound like a sentimental fool but I can get teary eating mashed potatoes, even all these years later, just because they make me so happy to remember my mom.