It was a Tuesday morning, the kind where the California sun slanted through the floor-to-ceiling kitchen windows like it was personally auditioning for a softcore lighting gig. Leo stumbled in barefoot, still wearing yesterday's faded black T-shirt and gray boxer-briefs that did nothing to conceal the half-hard morning wood he hadn't bothered to deal with yet. His hair stuck up in every direction; sleep still clung to the corners of his eyes. He just wanted coffee. Black. Strong enough to punish him awake.
Then he saw her.
Sasha stood at the far counter, facing away, balanced on her tiptoes as she stretched for the top-shelf mug collection. She wore what had probably started life as a normal oversized band tee—some vintage Metallica thing—but repeated washings and enthusiastic wear had shrunk it into something obscene. The hem barely skimmed the top curve of her ass cheeks. No shorts. No panties. Nothing but smooth, sun-kissed skin and the barest whisper of red lace peeking from between her thighs when she shifted.
Her magnificent ass was presented like a goddamn centerpiece.
Full, round, impossibly perky despite—or maybe because of—years of squats, Pilates, and being worshipped on camera. Each cheek was a perfect, taut globe, the kind that jiggled just enough when she rocked onto one foot to make Leo's brain short-circuit. A delicate black-ink tattoo—a delicate trailing vine of roses and thorns—curved from the small of her back, disappearing under the hem of the shirt only to re-emerge along the outer swell of her left cheek. The ink looked fresh enough that he could still see the faint raised texture.
She shifted her weight. One hip cocked. The motion sent a subtle ripple through the flesh. Leo's coffee mug froze halfway to his lips. The ceramic suddenly felt scalding against suddenly numb fingers.
He stared.
He couldn't not stare.
The faint morning light caught the fine golden hairs dusting the backs of her thighs, the subtle sheen of lotion still lingering from last night's routine. When she arched her back just a fraction more to reach the mug, the shirt rode up another half-inch, revealing the shadowed cleft between her cheeks and the tiniest glimpse of pink, glistening folds that told him—without any doubt—she was already wet.
Or still wet.
From whatever (or whoever) had kept her and Blair up until 4 a.m. again.
Leo swallowed. The coffee went down like hot ash and regret. His cock—already traitorously interested—thickened fully in his briefs, straining against the cotton until the waistband dug into his skin. He could feel the bead of pre-cum forming at the tip, soaking through the fabric in a shameful dark spot.
Sasha finally snagged the mug. She turned.
The smile that spread across her face was pure sunshine laced with sin—wide, guileless, and utterly aware of exactly what she was doing.
"Morning, Leo!" she chirped, voice bright and melodic, as though she weren't standing there bottomless in their shared kitchen. "Sleep well?"
His throat clicked dryly. "Uh… yeah. Great. You?"
She winked—slow, deliberate, lashes sweeping like velvet brushes. "Like a baby. Or, y'know… a very satisfied adult." Her tongue darted out to wet her lower lip. "Blair's still passed out. I think we broke her a little last night."
She turned back to the counter, leaned forward to pour coffee from the French press. The motion was pornographic in its casualness. Elbows on the marble, ass pushed out, thighs parting just enough that he could see the delicate inner lips glistening, swollen, flushed dark pink from recent use. A thin silver thread of arousal stretched and snapped between her folds when she shifted. The scent hit him harder now—warm coconut body butter, the faint tang of pussy, the ghost of Blair's signature vanilla-and-amber perfume still clinging to Sasha's skin.
Leo's knees nearly buckled.
He set the mug down too hard; it clacked against the counter. Coffee sloshed over the rim.
Sasha glanced over her shoulder, red hair tumbling like molten copper. "You okay there, baby bro? You look… tense."
"I—yeah. Fine. Just—" He gestured vaguely toward the hallway. "Need to… shower. Work. Something."
He turned on his heel and fled.
His bare feet slapped against the cool hardwood as he half-ran back to his room, cock bouncing painfully with every step, pre-cum smearing across his thigh. He slammed the door behind him, leaned against it, chest heaving.
The image was seared behind his eyelids in high-definition:
Sasha's perfect ass arched toward him.
The tattoo curling like an invitation.
The slick shine between her thighs.
The casual, devastating wink.
He slid down the door until he was sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, head in his hands. His dick throbbed so hard it hurt—thick, leaking, begging for attention.
He should ignore it. He should take a cold shower. He should move out tomorrow and never look back.
Instead his hand moved almost on its own.
He shoved his briefs down just enough to free himself. His cock slapped wetly against his stomach—seven inches of flushed, veined desperation, the head glossy and angry purple. He wrapped his fist around it, gave one slow, experimental stroke.
A low groan tore out of him before he could stop it.
He pictured her leaning over the counter again. Pictured walking up behind her, sliding his hands over those hips, spreading her open with his thumbs. Pictured the way she'd sigh—soft, needy—when he pressed the head of his cock against her dripping entrance and pushed inside, inch by slow, torturous inch.
He stroked faster.
Pictured her looking back over her shoulder, red hair wild, lips parted. "That's it, Leo… fuck your big sister's tight little cunt… fill me up like you've been dying to…"
His balls drew up tight. Heat coiled low and vicious in his gut.
He came with a choked, broken sound—thick ropes of cum splattering across his stomach, chest, even hitting the underside of his chin. His whole body jerked with the force of it, vision whiting out for a long, dizzy second.
When he finally opened his eyes again, he was panting, sticky, wrecked.
And still hard.
The desire that had once been a quiet, manageable hum was now a roaring bonfire inside his ribcage.
He wiped himself off with the hem of his shirt, stood on shaky legs, and stared at his reflection in the full-length mirror on the closet door.
Messy hair. Flushed cheeks. Eyes dark and glassy with something dangerous.
He looked like a man on the edge.
And the house was still quiet.
Sasha and Blair were still here.
Waiting.
He took a deep, shuddering breath.
Then he opened his bedroom door again.
The hallway smelled like coffee… and sin.
He stepped out.
The bonfire roared louder.