I was still holding my breath when I heard the water shut off upstairs.
The house was quiet — too quiet — and the coffee in my cup had gone cold. Not that I cared. My brain had been hijacked by everything that had happened in the last 12 hours.
She knocked on my door like she owned me.
She whispered in my ear like she wanted to bite it.
She walked into my room like it was hers.
And now?
She was in the shower.
Or had been. Until two minutes ago.
I tried to shake the image — steam, soap, her skin glistening wet, water tracing every curve — but my imagination refused to cooperate. It was painting a vivid picture, and I hated how much I loved it.
She's your stepsister.
You barely know her.
You're not supposed to be turned on by this.
Too late.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs made me flinch like I'd been caught doing something criminal.
I turned just as she entered the kitchen, towel around her shoulders, wearing nothing but a loose tank top and black sleep shorts that hugged her hips like sin in cotton form.
No bra.
No shame.
And absolutely no awareness of the destruction she was causing.
She stretched — arms above her head, back arched slightly — and the hem of her tank lifted just enough to flash a sliver of toned stomach and the curve of underboob.
My coffee mug cracked in my hand.
"Oops," she said sweetly, "did I startle you?"
I cleared my throat, trying to fix my grip. "No. You didn't."
She leaned against the counter next to me, her skin still damp, smelling like coconut shampoo and something else I couldn't name — something deeper, darker, almost instinctual. It made my head fuzzy.
"You seem tense again," she said, dragging one finger slowly along the edge of my forearm. "Maybe you need a long, hot shower. I just got out, so the water's still warm."
I turned to look at her — big mistake.
Her tank was soaked in spots, slightly see-through, clinging to the outline of her chest. Her nipples were visible, perfectly shaped, peeking through the thin fabric like a test of my self-control.
"You didn't... wear a bra," I muttered.
She smiled. "Bras are so restricting. Don't you think?"
I opened my mouth to respond — and immediately closed it.
There was no safe answer. She knew it. I knew it.
Then she picked up my coffee, sipped it, made a face, and said:
"Cold. Want me to warm it up for you?"
I shot a quick whimpy "I can microwave it."
She pouted. "That's no fun."
And then, without waiting, she leaned in and placed the mug in the microwave — giving me a full, unfiltered view down her tank top. Her skin glowed in the morning light, soft and damp and close enough to touch.
I turned away.
If she keeps this up, I'm going to do something stupid.
The microwave beeped.
She handed me the cup, our fingers brushing — slow, intentional.
"Careful," she whispered. "It's hot."
So was she. Too hot. Nuclear.
---
Later, I tried to escape to the living room, hoping distance would cool things off. She followed, of course, like she was on a mission to keep me at a slow simmer.
She flopped onto the couch next to me, legs bare, curled up like a cat with too much confidence.
"Whatcha watching?" she asked, leaning against my shoulder, breasts pressing softly into my arm like it was no big deal.
"I wasn't watching anything."
"You are now."
She grabbed the remote and flicked through channels until she landed on some trashy romance movie. Half-naked people moaning. Soft lighting. Intimate close-ups. Perfect.
She tilted her head toward me.
"Do you think sex scenes are realistic in movies?"
I nearly choked on my own tongue. "What?"
"I mean, all that moaning and writhing," she said casually, tucking her legs under her, "do you think people really do that?"
I stared straight ahead. "I—uh—I don't know."
She smirked. "You're blushing."
"I'm not."
"You are."
She slid closer.
"You're so fun to tease, you know that?"
And you're insane, I wanted to say.
A beautiful, dangerous lunatic.
But instead, I stayed silent as her fingers brushed my thigh, just above the knee. Just enough to short-circuit my brain.
Then — mercifully or cruelly — she stood.
"Anyway," she said, stretching again, slow and deliberate, "I'm gonna go put on something... tighter."
She looked over her shoulder as she walked out of the room.
"Unless you prefer me like this?"
I didn't answer.
She didn't need me to.
---
When she was gone, I finally exhaled — heart pounding, hands clenched, brain melting.
This wasn't normal.
This wasn't safe.
And yet… I couldn't stop thinking about her.
Not the way she dressed.
Not the way she smelled.
Not the way she said my name like it tasted good on her tongue.
I knew something was wrong with her. Something not-quite-human.
And whatever she was doing… it was working.
Because every time she touched me, every time she whispered, every time she smiled like she owned me…
…I wanted to let her.