The air in Laura's bedroom was thick, humid, electric. She was still on him, soft weight pinning him to the mattress, one perfect breast spilled free from her silk camisole and crushed against his chest like warm velvet. Her palm—God, her palm—rested squarely over the rigid bulge in his sweats, fingers curled unconsciously, as if measuring the throb of his cock through the fabric. Alex's hips jerked once, involuntary, seeking more pressure. The scent of her—vanilla, sweat, and something darker—flooded his senses. Every instinct screamed to flip her, rip the camisole clean off, and fuck her hard until she screamed his name roared through him like a storm.
But a voice roared in his skull: She's your stepsister, Alex!
The last word hit like a slap. He gripped her shoulders—firm, grounding. "Sister," he rasped, "it's okay. No ghosts. Your hair snagged on something."
Laura blinked, terror fading. She eased back an inch. The freed breast swayed, a slow, hypnotic bounce. Alex's gaze snapped to the wall.
She noticed, cheeks flaming. With trembling fingers, she tucked herself back into the camisole. "Ddid you see anything?"
"No!" he blurted. "Didn't see your boobs!"
Her stare burned. Alex winced. "Ah—"
SLAM.
The door shut in his face.
In his room, Alex paced, cock aching, pulse hammering.
"What was my fault? She jumped on me....Ah ! I did scare her. It is my fault."
He collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. Sleep was a lost cause. All he could think about was that breast—round, perfect, the way it had molded to him. His hand drifted south, then froze.
She is your Stepsister.
Morning light spilled through the kitchen skylight. Alex flipped pancakes, trying to outrun the memory. Laura drifted in, barefoot, wearing an oversized college tee that barely skimmed her thighs. No bra. The outline of her nipples pressed against the cotton.
"Hey," she said, voice small. "I shouldn't have slammed the door. Wasn't your fault. It's not like you pulled my hair."
His throat went dry. "Don't worry, sister. Natural reaction. No apology needed."
Laura's chin lifted, arrogance sliding back like armor. "You're right. I don't apologize. You got the best reward of your life before I kicked you out."
"Reward?"
"You saw my boob." She smirked. "That's a privilege, perv."
"This bitch," Alex muttered, then louder: "Your boobs aren't that special."
Laura's eyes flashed. "You didn't say that!"
"I did say that." Alex smirked.
"Then show me your dick," she shot back, voice filled with anger. "Let's see how special yours is."
Silence crashed over the kitchen.
Laura's cheeks blazed. "What are you making me say, perv!"
"I did what?"
She bolted upstairs, footsteps thundering.
Alex stared at the smoking pan.
Did I… make her say that?
Fifteen minutes later, Laura crept back, arms crossed. Alex slid a plate across the island. "Breakfast is in—"
"Don't talk to me." She shouts.
"Fine. Have it your way, lady."
She cracked eggs into a fresh pan. A hiss—then a sharp cry. Alex vaulted the counter. "What happened?"
"My finger touched the pan!" She cradled her right hand, index red and trembling.
Without thinking, Alex seized her wrist, drew the burned digit to his lips, and slipped it into his mouth. Warm, salty skin. The faint taste of vanilla lotion. His tongue curled instinctively, soothing the sting.
Laura's breath hitched. Her wide eyes locked on his—shock, heat, something reckless. Alex froze, her finger still between his lips, pulse roaring in his ears.
One! Two!
She yanked free.
"I—uh—instinct," Alex stammered.
"Perv." She twisted to the sink, rinsing the finger. "You ruined my omelette. Make another."
He did, silent. They ate in thick silence, forks scraping plates.
Upstairs, Alex collapsed onto his desk chair, face in hands. "What are you doing?"
He booted up his PC, loaded a shooter. Bullets flew, but all he felt was the ghost of her finger on his tongue. He quit midgame.
Apologize. Tell her it was instinct. You're not a perv.
He marched to her door, knocked. No answer. The door was ajar.
That's weird. He nudged it open.
The room was dark, curtains drawn. Laura lay on her bed, headphones on, laptop balanced on her stomach. The screen's glow lit her face—mouth open, eyes halflidded, a soft moan escaping with every breath.
Her one hand was inside her shorts, fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles. The fabric shifted with each stroke, outlining the rhythm of her pleasure.
Alex froze in the doorway, cock surging to life, heart slamming against his ribs.