9. Zachary
ZACHARY
The estate belongs to us today. Raymond and Carol left this morning for a business trip—some property acquisition upstate that required both their presence. They won't be back until tomorrow evening at the earliest.
Zoey sits across from me in the kitchen, eating breakfast with a small smile playing at her lips. She knows what this means. An entire day and night without hiding, without rushed encounters behind locked doors, without constantly listening for footsteps.
"What are you thinking about?" I ask, though I already know.
Her cheeks flush pink. "Nothing."
"Liar." I stand, rounding the table toward her. "You're thinking about what we're going to do with all this privacy."
She bites her lower lip, that innocent gesture that drives me insane. "Maybe."
I pull her up from the chair, capturing her mouth in a deep kiss. She melts against me immediately, her hands gripping my shoulders as I walk her backward toward the stairs.
"Zachary," she breathes between kisses. "We have all day?—"
"And I plan to use every minute of it." I lift her easily, carrying her up the stairs toward my bedroom. "Starting right now."
My bedroom door closes behind us with a soft click. No need to lock it—we're completely alone. The freedom of it makes my pulse quicken with anticipation.
Zoey stands near the bed, watching me with those light blue eyes that never fail to affect me. A week ago, she told me she loved me. I've replayed that moment constantly since then, the way her voice shook with vulnerability, the terror in her expression that I might not feel the same.
I do. More than I've ever felt anything for anyone.
I cross to her slowly, drinking in the sight of her. Twenty years old, beautiful, mine. She belongs to me completely now—body, heart, soul. And I belong to her just as thoroughly, though I doubt she fully understands the depth of my obsession yet.
"Come here," I say quietly.
She steps into my arms, tilting her face up for my kiss. I take her mouth with deliberate possession, tasting her, claiming her. My hands slide down her back, pulling her closer until every inch of her body presses against mine.
When I break the kiss, we're both breathing harder. Her pupils are dilated, lips swollen and parted. Perfect.
"I want you," I tell her, though she already knows. I always want her. "Slowly. Taking our time."
She nods, fingers already working at the buttons of my shirt. I let her undress me, enjoying the way her hands tremble slightly as she reveals my chest, my shoulders, my arms. She traces the tattoos there with gentle fingertips, still fascinated by them even after weeks together.
My turn. I remove her clothes piece by piece, savoring every revealed inch of soft skin. Her shirt, then her bra, freeing her small perfect breasts. Her jeans, sliding down her legs to pool at her feet. Finally her panties, leaving her completely bare before me.
"Beautiful," I murmur, backing her toward the bed. "Always so fucking beautiful."
She sits on the edge of the mattress, then lies back as I guide her down. I remove the rest of my own clothes quickly, then join her on the bed, covering her body with mine.
"We have all afternoon," I remind her, kissing along her jaw. "No rushing. No fear of getting caught. Just us."
"Just us," she echoes, her voice soft and trusting.
I take my time exploring her body with hands and mouth, relearning every sensitive spot that makes her gasp and arch beneath me. Her neck, her breasts, the curve of her waist. She responds so perfectly to my touch, so eager and responsive.
When I finally position myself between her spread thighs, she's already wet and ready for me. I slide inside her slowly, watching her face as her body accepts mine. Still so tight, even after all the times I've taken her.
"Zachary," she moans, wrapping her legs around my waist.
I begin to move, slow deep strokes that make her clutch at my shoulders. The freedom to take our time, to be as loud as we want, makes everything more intense. No need to muffle her cries or rush toward completion before someone notices we're gone too long.
Her pussy grips my cock with perfect heat, pulling me deeper with every thrust. I bury my face against her neck, inhaling her scent, losing myself in the feel of being inside her.
"I love you," she whispers against my ear.
The words still hit me like a physical blow every time she says them. "I love you," I reply roughly, increasing my pace. "Mine, Zoey. Always mine."
"Always yours," she agrees, her voice breaking on a moan.
I can feel her getting closer, the way her body tightens and her breathing becomes erratic. I change my angle slightly, hitting that spot inside her that makes her cry out sharply.
"Oh God—Zachary?—"
A sound downstairs interrupts us—the distant but unmistakable sound of the front door opening.
I freeze, still buried inside Zoey, my mind racing to process what I just heard. We're not expecting anyone. Raymond and Carol aren't supposed to be back until tomorrow.
Zoey hasn't registered the sound yet, too lost in sensation. "Don't stop," she breathes, trying to pull me closer.
Then voices drift up from downstairs. Distant but clear enough to recognize.
Raymond. Carol.
"Zachary?" Zoey's eyes widen as she finally hears them too. "Oh my God, they're home?—"
Footsteps on the stairs. Coming this direction.
"Get off, get off—" She shoves at my chest, panic flooding her face.
I pull out of her quickly, reaching for the sheets even as I realize how utterly fucked we are. There's no time to dress, nowhere to hide, no way to?—
The bedroom door swings open.
Carol enters first, mid-sentence about something. Raymond is right behind her. They both stop dead in the doorway, their gazes landing directly on us.
On me, naked, still half-hard from being inside Zoey seconds ago. On her, equally naked, sprawled beneath me in obvious post-coital disarray. On the rumpled sheets and our discarded clothes scattered across the floor.
There's no ambiguity. No way to explain this as anything other than exactly what it is.
The moment stretches out, horrible and endless. Carol's mouth opens but no sound comes out. Raymond's face drains of color, then flushes dark red.
Then Carol screams—a piercing, anguished sound that seems to shatter the frozen moment.
"Oh my God! Oh my GOD!"
Zoey shoves at me harder, and I move off her, grabbing sheets to cover her nakedness first before wrapping one around my own waist. My mind races through possible responses, damage control, but there is no controlling this.
We've been caught. Completely, undeniably caught.
"What the fuck is this?!" Raymond's voice explodes through the room, volcanic rage replacing his initial shock. "What the hell?—"
Carol backs against the wall, hand flying to her mouth. Her eyes are locked on Zoey, on her daughter naked in my bed, and the horror in her expression is absolute.
"Oh God, oh God—" Zoey clutches the sheet to her body, tears already streaming down her face. She can't look at her mother, can't seem to do anything but shake and cry.
"Get away from her!" Raymond advances into the room, pointing at me with furious command. "Get away from her right now!"
I don't move from where I sit on the bed beside Zoey. Every instinct tells me to protect her, to put myself between her and their rage.
"We need to talk about this calmly," I say, keeping my voice steady despite the situation.
"Calmly?" Raymond's voice rises to a shout. "I just walked in on you fucking my stepdaughter! There is no calm here!"
Carol makes a horrible wounded sound, still pressed against the wall. Her gaze shifts from Zoey to the bedside table, and her eyes suddenly widen with fresh horror.
I follow her line of sight and realize what she's seeing.
The framed photographs. Three of them, displayed on my bedside table where I can see them every night before sleep, every morning when I wake. Intimate shots of Zoey in this very bed—naked, beautiful, mine. I've looked at them so often I barely notice they're there anymore.
But Carol notices. She moves toward the bedside table like a sleepwalker, picking up one of the frames with trembling hands.
"What—what are these?" Her voice breaks on the question.
Raymond follows her gaze, sees what she's holding. His face somehow goes even darker with fury. "You have pictures of her? Displayed?!"
Carol picks up the other frames one by one, staring at each photograph with dawning horror. Her daughter, naked and intimate, framed like precious artwork beside my bed.
"How long?" Raymond demands, his voice shaking with rage. "How long has this been going on?!"
Zoey is crying too hard to answer, great wracking sobs that shake her whole body. She looks at me desperately, unable to form words.
I meet Raymond's furious gaze directly. "Several weeks. Since shortly after we met."
The truth lands like a bomb.
"Weeks?!" Carol's voice rises to a shriek. "During our honeymoon?!"
She collapses against the wall, sobbing as violently as her daughter. While she was celebrating her new marriage, Zoey was in my bed. The betrayal of that timing hits her visibly.
"She's your sister!" Carol shrieks at me through her tears. "We've been married one month! You're supposed to be family! What we just saw—what you were doing to her—is sick!"
"Step-sister," I correct calmly, though my pulse pounds. "We're not blood related. Your marriage was one month ago. That doesn't make us real siblings."
"That's bullshit semantics!" Raymond roars. "You're family now, you live under one roof! You were fucking your stepsister in this house!"
Zoey tries to speak, voice weak and breaking. "It wasn't—we didn't plan?—"
"Don't interrogate her." My voice hardens with command, drawing their attention back to me. "Talk to me."
Carol turns on her daughter, voice thick with tears and betrayal. "How could you do this? Under our roof, with him—I trusted you!"
"She didn't do anything wrong," I cut in firmly. "We're both adults who wanted each other."