8. Soren
SOREN
A month.
That’s how long we’ve been doing this in secret.
The first week after I take her virginity, we barely sleep.
Every night she climbs the narrow stairs to the third floor room the second the rest of the house goes quiet.
Sometimes, she comes already leaking through her sleep shirt.
On other days, she comes dry-eyed and determined, the way she did the night she admitted she was starting to like me.
Either way, the door locks behind her and she is mine until sunrise.
“You’re late,” I tell her one night when she finally slips inside.
She locks the door and turns to face me, already pulling her sleep shirt over her head. “Dad stayed up longer than usual. I had to wait.”
I pull her straight onto the bed. “Next time don’t wait. Text me. I’ll come get you.”
I learn the exact pressure that makes her milk come fastest. I learn the soft, broken sound she makes when I suck too hard on a freshly emptied nipple just to feel her squirm.
I learn that she comes hardest when I keep my mouth latched while my cock is buried deep, the steady pull at her nipple and the thick stretch inside her working together until her whole body locks and then breaks in long, shaking waves that leave her gasping against my hair.
“Soren—don’t stop,” she whispers against my hair one night, voice already shaking. “Please, just like that… keep drinking while you’re inside me.”
I do. I never stop until both sides are soft and she is trembling under me.
One night she falls asleep still half on top of me, my cock soft inside her, milk drying on both our chests. I stay awake and watch her breathe.
“You’re going to get us caught one day,” I murmur against her temple, even though she can’t hear me, “and I still won’t stop.”
When the sky starts to lighten I carry her back to her own bed, clean her carefully, and slip out before anyone can notice.
In the second week, Rick leaves town for three days on business. Mom goes to bed early every night. We stop pretending the third floor room is the only option.
I take her in her own shower with the water running full blast, her back against the cold tile, one of her thighs hooked over my arm while I fuck her slow and deep and drink from her at the same time. Milk runs down my face and mixes with the spray.
“You’re so full tonight,” I say against her wet skin, switching sides. “Did you skip the pump on purpose?”
She gasps when I suck harder. “Maybe. I wanted you to take it.”
She comes twice before I let myself finish, and even then I stay inside her until the water starts to cool.
“Don’t pull out yet,” she whispers, arms still locked around my neck. “Just stay.”
Another night I wake her at two in the morning just by sliding under the covers and latching onto a full breast. She doesn’t even open her eyes at first. She only arches and sighs and threads her fingers into my hair like she’s been waiting for it in her sleep.
“Good girl,” I murmur against her nipple. “Just like that. Let me empty you.”
I drink until both sides are soft, then push her thighs apart and lick her until she comes quietly against my mouth, still half-dreaming.
“Soren…” she breathes, barely awake. “Don’t leave yet.”
I pull her against my chest and hold her until her breathing evens out again. I leave before dawn.
We get reckless in small ways.
Once, she comes into my room while I’m on a video call with a client. She locks the door, strips without a word, and climbs into my lap facing away from the camera. I keep my voice steady while she grinds down on the hard line of my cock through my pants, milk already beading at her nipples.
“Yes, the numbers look good,” I say into the laptop, voice even. Under the desk my hand grips her hip hard enough to bruise. “I’ll forward the revised contract by tonight.”
The second the screen goes dark I bend her over the desk.
“You’re going to pay for that,” I tell her, already pushing inside. “Teasing me while I’m working.”
“I know,” she gasps, fingers curling against the wood. “I wanted you to.”
I fuck her until the only sound in the room is the wet slap of skin and the soft, desperate way she says my name.
One night near the end of the third week we almost get caught.
Mom gets up for water at 1:40 a.m. I hear the floorboard creak outside Selena’s door while I’m still inside her, mouth latched to her breast, her legs locked around my waist.
We freeze. Neither of us breathes. The footsteps stop right outside.
For three long seconds, I am certain the door is about to open.
Then the steps continue down the hall toward the kitchen.
We stay completely still until we hear her go back to her room and close the door.
Only then do I start moving again—slower, quieter, but I don’t stop.
The risk only makes me harder. The near-miss only makes her wetter.
By the end of the month the secret is no longer just a secret. It’s an addiction.
I think about the taste of her milk while I’m on calls.
I think about the way she looks when she comes while I’m reviewing contracts.
I start finding excuses to stay in the house longer.
I start canceling things I would never have canceled before.
The thought of going back to the way things were—of keeping my distance, of pretending she is only my stepsister—feels impossible now.
We still never touch each other when anyone else is in the house. We still never leave evidence. But the secret is starting to feel less like a secret and more like the only real thing either of us has.
She takes the emergency pill after every time. I never have to remind her. It makes the recklessness feel a little safer, even if nothing about what we’re doing is actually safe.
By the end of the month, the kitchen is the last untouched space. Too open. Too many ways someone could walk in.
That is the only reason I haven’t taken her there yet.
Today, the house is empty. Mom leaves for book club. Rick is stuck at the office until at least six. No housekeeper.
It’s also my birthday.
I don’t celebrate birthdays. Never have. Mom mentions birthday dinner earlier but drops it the second I tell her not to bother. For me, they’re just normal days.
But today somebody’s more excited than me.
This morning, she comes into my room while I’m still getting dressed.
“Hey,” she says, leaning against the doorframe. “It’s your birthday.”
“I know.”
“Mom already tried the whole dinner thing. You shut it down pretty fast.”
“I don’t need anything.”
She tilts her head, watching me. “Okay. So what do you need then? We can’t exactly leave town without them asking questions, but we could still do something. Stay in. Order food. Watch whatever you want. Or just disappear for a few hours while the house is empty.”
“Selena.”
“I’m serious. Give me something. A gift? Anything.”
I keep buttoning my shirt. “I don’t need anything.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Nothing.”
She goes quiet for a second, then a little smile tugs at her mouth. She steps closer, voice dropping into that soft teasing tone she only uses with me now.
“Okay. Well… I already have an idea then. Something only we can do while the house is empty. And it doesn’t involve leaving this place.”
I look at her. “What is it?”
She just bites her lip and backs toward the door.
“You’ll see.”
An hour later, I’m at the small desk in the corner of my room, the one I use as a mini office when I’m home. Spreadsheets open, reports scatter, trying to lock in new marketing strategies for the next quarter.
My phone buzzes on the desk. I read her message.
Selena: Come downstairs in the kitchen. I have a surprise for you.
I stare at the screen for a second.
This girl. So stubborn. I told her I didn’t need anything and she still went ahead and planned something anyway. Probably some small party or a gift she thinks I’ll actually want.
I push the chair back and head down anyway.
The kitchen is quiet when I walk in.
I stop.
She’s already at the island. Back half-turned toward me.
Wearing nothing but one of Mom’s old white aprons.
The thin fabric ties behind her and barely covers the front.
Flour dusts her hands and there’s a light smear of it high on her bare thigh.
She’s stirring something in a mixing bowl in the sexiest way I can describe.
Selena’s not like this. She’s always been shy. Restricted. Careful. The girl who used to blush if I looked at her too long. And now, she’s standing here like this, offering herself on my birthday like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
She doesn’t jump. Doesn’t try to cover herself. She just looks over her shoulder at me, calm, and keeps stirring.
“I thought you might want to help,” she says, voice teasing. “I figured I’ll just bake your cake right here. Since it’s your birthday… I’ll do anything you want me to do in this kitchen.”
She reaches across the island for the flour bag on the far side. As her arm stretches, the apron shifts. The side of one heavy tit slips free for a second. When she twists a little farther to grab it, I get the full view of her bare ass and the loose ties resting against the small of her back.
Fuck.
Her ass is full and round, soft in the best way, the kind of curve that makes my hands itch the second I see it.
The thin apron strings frame it perfectly. Every small shift of her weight makes it bounce just enough to pull my attention completely away from the mixing bowl.
I’ve seen her naked more times than I can count by now, but something about her standing here like this, completely unashamed, hits differently.
I shut the door and return to her.
“Keep mixing.”
She looks at me over her shoulder again, surprised, but turns back to the bowl and resumes stirring. The spoon scrapes against the sides.
I walk up behind her until my chest is almost touching her back.