A Taboo Desire

"You'd like that," I say, a grin of my own spreading. Even though Cathy's hunger for men is a well established fact, she has more than once expressed her curiosity in "the softer curves of the smarter, sexier, most bad-assed sex on the planet" as she puts it, on more than a few occasions. I'm certain I'll be the first to hear when she has ventured into that area.

"If the stories are true, he’s man enough to handle two horny mares," Cathy says. "Total satisfaction guaranteed, Sally. When was the last time you could say that?" Never. Not that anyone needs to know that much, like ever.

"I never said I'm horny over…" I start and self-consciously fall silent.

"Your future stepbrother?" Cathy says teasingly, nothing but Cheshire grin. I cringe. Thanks for putting the words I hate to it. "Sally, every time we talk about the stud who—"

"You," I interrupt, pretending I'm not feeling hot and sweating bullets. "You talk about him and I listen, because I'm such a great friend. The indulging kind, you know."

"The stud who puts all other studs to shame," Cathy continues, as if I never uttered a word, "those big blue eyes of yours acquire that glazed look."

I'm almost relieved she didn't say "cum-hungry look" and I’m grateful for the waitress' return with our drinks.

"So what are you planning on doing about it?"

Nothing, I'm about to say, when I see them in a convertible, making their way through traffic. Him, and some laughing bimbo in the passenger seat next to him. My body responds just as intensely as it did when I first laid eyes on him—a mixture of lust from my loins mixing the heartache that springs from my chest into a lethal cocktail. All of it topped off with a jealousy like I never had before.

"Well, look who’s here," Cathy says, but I'm not really listening. I'm like a lioness, ready to go for the bitch's jugular as I watch her throw her head back and laugh, looking perfect. Cassandra Zyoski. The new face of the modeling world. I hate her with a passion already. "Lucky girl," Cathy muses.

Not if I have a say in it, my jealousy roars.

Suddenly the rays of the setting sun no longer looks so good. They have a really bad feel about them, and so do the birds that cut through the sky with wings like razorblades.

The convertible comes to a halt in the procession of cars that are waiting for a single red light to switch to green, and he turns his head, just far enough to look over the delicate bare shoulders of his latest prey, and notices me. He smiles when our eyes meet and it is all it takes to bring me to the edge of a cardiac arrest; all the excitement that I resigned to sleepless nights written all over my face in broad daylight for him to see.

All sensory input melts away to the background until all I'm left with are the intensity of the blue of his eyes and a biological reaction that overrides my pride, reducing me once again to a hormonally wrecked woman with a pair of soon-to-be soaked panties. Like the desperate woman I am, my heart leaps with hope, just because he recognizes my existence. Pathetic hope.For what? That he will see me for the woman I am? Different to all those bimbos who drop at his feet—like I'm ready to do right here in public—if only he'd see the real me? Not the heart-pounding, limbs trembling, dilated pupils, drooling woman I am. Pathetic. But my body doesn't care about pathetic. It cares about him, at every level. That's instinct honed over millions of years of evolution. Not reason.

Then he mouths "Fuck you," and I'm ready to faint, a moan escaping from the back of my throat. Pressing my thighs together hard at the thought of it, heat explodes between my legs, just when I realize it could mean the exact opposite of what my aching body has in mind. My heart cracks so hard that I fear he can hear it. Two clean pieces, that in turn crack some more until my chest feels hollow, except for the hurt that is left by a thousand splinters. Then he is gone, trailblazing out of sight, a hopelessly love-struck woman left behind like an afterthought.

"Oh, wow," Cathy says. She is helpful like that. "You really got it bad." She loves pointing out the obvious. "Seriously, girlfriend, what are you going to do with that crush of yours, before it kills you?" Cathy says it so casually that I almost ask her if she has any ideas.

I say, "What do you mean? He's my stepbrother." Notice how I'm no longer denying the accusation? That's my pride giving in to my hormones. Right now, I'd love to be that woman next to him, and it shames me to admit I'd accept a few months if that was all fate had in store for me. Like I said, pathetic. Twenty-two and I'm acting like a girl with her very first crush.

"Who cares? Stepbrother, right? Not brother," Cathy says. I'm perspiring so badly that the back of my blouse clings to my back. Not listening, I think how that would be, dating my stepbrother. Dating the blonde god who leaves me speechless, a mess of hormones and unsteady feet.Pure biology. Not logic but desires and longings taking center stage. Realizing Cathy is talking to me, I snap out of it and turn my head to face her.

"You really are going to let that bitch steal your man, just like that?" she says and I can't help but laugh.

That afternoon I changed. I felt the change, and I knew where it would lead—surrendering to my taboo desires—and I allowed it. Not that I was happy about it, or that my pride didn't do its best to resist, but on a deeper level I already knew it was hopeless to fight it. No man had ever had that effect on me. Mark? He was neutral, like most guys are to me. A guy good for a casual fling at best, but nothing serious. Steve, however, was volcanic, like a force of nature that couldn't leave you cold no matter how much you wanted him to.

My juices are running down my thighs, and I know I will climax soon enough. Because of him, and his tongue that hits all the right spots, and the two fingers that he has shoved deep inside me.

"What do you think?" I ask Crystal, the invitation still in my hand after reading it out loud. It has been three days since that day on the terrace, when I stopped all pretence of being indifferent to Steve MacCarty. Crystal jumps off the window sill, where she had been sunbathing, and meows.

The invitation is printed on paper that feels smooth as silk. Expensive. It is handwritten and the calligraphy is flawless. Stylish. It says in big blue finely-drawn letters: look how rich I am. Rich and blessed with class—or at least rich enough to buy the appearance of class.OK, it doesn't say that literally, but that's what it comes down to. It also says that I am invited to an informal party to take place at my stepbrother's place, tomorrow evening.

It was delivered less than five minutes ago, mid-afternoon. I had just arrived home from a class that had failed to capture my full attention, my mind returning to the image of Steve with that bitch, as Cathy so eloquently put it. Silly.Pathetic. I guess at twenty-two there is still room for that in my life. After a quick shower, wrapping myself in my white bathrobe with the intent to do nothing for a while before kicking my ass into gear for some studying, one of the maids came to tell me a package had arrived, and that the delivery guy insisted I accept in person.

My curiosity piqued, I wrapped my bathrobe around me a little tighter, contemplating putting on some clothes first but then deciding against it. The maid looked excited, like she wanted to ask questions. She didn't.

A private driver in an immaculately black uniform, smoothly shaven and with a back straight like a military man, stood waiting for me in the hall when I appeared at the top of the stairs. A handsome guy, he was. In his arms was a large pink box, tied with red ribbons and a bow. On top was an envelope with my name on it. Not an ordinary package. The kind of package that told me it came from the sort of store that I avoid. Even though Mother's allowance would allow me to shop there, I don't. Why? Because I don't want to take the money for granted. I don't want to be like all the other kids with parents that have more money than sense.

Hesitating for a moment, sensing this had to do with my future step-brother, my heart rate picked up. Two weeks ago, I'd have sent the guy packing. Two weeks can make a world of difference. Faking an air of cool nonchalance, I descended the stairs, wishing I had put on some clothes when I felt my nipples tighten. I returned to my r

oom with the package pressed against my chest, the envelope pressed hard between the box and my skin. Pathetic.

Crystal meows and rubs her pretty head against my shin. I sigh and hold the box out in front of me, at arms' length, with both hands, curling my toes. The thick fuzzy carpet tickles my bare feet. If only that were the only part of my anatomy tingling. "Looking can't do any harm," I say to myself. Crystal ignores me.

Putting the box down on the low glass end table in front of the couch, I pull at both ends of the red ribbon and the knot comes undone smoothly. Crystal pushes herself against my bare leg again, her fur warm from the sun, and I pretend my heart isn't racing and that I'm not secretly flattered. Pleased. Giddy. Lifting the cover slowly, I stop halfway and let go.

Straightening my back, I take another deep breath. And another. Willing myself to rise above what is happening with my body, I take in air as if it enough to calm myself down. It isn't. Pleasure shoots from my stiff nipples as the material of my bathrobe slides down my breasts, a reminder of the danger I'm in.