3. Clara
CLARA
I barely taste the roasted chicken on my plate. Everything feels muted except the pounding of my heart and the acute awareness of Callum sitting directly across from me at the dining table.
His fork scrapes against porcelain. I flinch.
"Clara, honey, are you feeling all right?" Mom—Carol—sets down her water glass and studies me with mild concern. "You've barely touched your food."
"I'm fine." The words come out too sharp. I force myself to take a bite, chewing mechanically while heat creeps up my neck.
Callum cuts into his chicken with precise, unhurried movements.
He hasn't looked at me directly since we sat down, but I can feel his attention like a physical weight pressing against my skin.
My thighs clench together beneath the table, an involuntary response to the memory of his mouth sealed around my nipple just hours ago, drinking from me in the darkened interior of his car while I trembled and moaned and gripped his hair like I was drowning.
This is insane. This entire situation is insane.
Edward—Callum's father, my stepfather—launches into a story about a difficult client at his law firm.
Carol makes sympathetic noises and asks follow-up questions.
They're both so normal, so oblivious, sitting here talking about work and weekend plans while their children—stepchildren—share a secret that would shatter this carefully constructed family dynamic into a thousand jagged pieces.
I reach for my water glass. My hand shakes slightly.
Callum's eyes flick to the movement. His mouth curves, just barely, at one corner.
I want to throw something at him.
Instead, I clear my throat and inject a casual note into my voice. "Callum picked me up from class today."
The words land in the middle of Edward's story. Both parents pause and turn their attention to me.
Carol's face lights up. "Oh, that's wonderful! I didn't realize you two were coordinating schedules."
My stomach drops. That's not—that wasn't the reaction I expected. I glance at Callum, but his expression remains neutral, composed, giving nothing away.
"Well, Clara didn't take her car," he says smoothly. "She needed a ride, so I drove over to campus."
Edward sets down his fork and beams at his son with unmistakable pride. "That's very responsible of you, Callum. Looking out for your stepsister."
The word lands like a stone in my chest.
"You're lucky to have such a protective stepbrother, Clara," Carol adds, reaching over to squeeze my hand.
Her touch is warm, affectionate, completely unaware.
"I'm so glad you two are getting along. It was one of my biggest worries when Edward and I got married—that you kids might feel awkward around each other. "
"Very lucky," I echo faintly.
Beneath the table, something brushes against my foot. I jolt, my knee banging into the underside of the table hard enough to rattle the dishes.
"Careful," Callum murmurs.
Carol and Edward exchange an amused glance. "Someone's jumpy tonight," Edward observes.
I force a smile and pull my foot back, tucking it under my chair. Callum's foot follows, pressing deliberately against my ankle. The pressure is light, almost teasing, but it sends a jolt of heat straight through me.
I shoot him a glare across the table.
He raises his wine glass to his lips, and over the rim, his blue eyes lock onto mine. The smirk is back, subtle enough that our parents don't notice, but unmistakable.
He's enjoying this.
Carol pushes back her chair. "Edward, didn't you want to catch that documentary tonight?"
"Right, yes." Edward checks his watch. "Starts in ten minutes."
"You kids don't mind cleaning up, do you?" Carol smiles at both of us. "We'll take care of breakfast tomorrow."
"Of course not." Callum stands smoothly, already collecting plates. "Go enjoy your show."
They disappear into the living room, and the sudden silence in the dining room feels oppressive. I stack the remaining dishes with jerky, graceless movements, hyperaware of Callum moving around the table toward me.
"That went well," he says quietly.
I whirl on him. "What were you thinking? You could have—they could have?—"
"Could have what?" He sets the plates on the counter and turns to face me fully. "Realized I gave their daughter a ride? That's not exactly scandalous, Clara."
"You know what I mean."
"Do I?"
I open my mouth, then close it, heat flooding my face because I can't actually say it out loud. You kissed me. You put your mouth on my breasts. You drank my milk in the front seat of your car and made me—made me?—
His hand closes around my wrist. "Come with me."
"No." But even as I say it, he's already pulling me toward the hallway, and I'm following, my heart hammering against my ribs.
He guides me past the living room where the television murmurs, past the stairs, and into his bedroom at the end of the hall. The door clicks shut behind us, and suddenly the space feels too small, the walls pressing in, the king-sized bed dominating the room.
"What are you doing?" I yank my wrist free and back toward the door. "They're right downstairs."
"They're watching television." Callum leans against the door, arms crossed, blocking my exit. "They won't come up here."
"This is—you can't just—" I struggle to find words through the haze of panic and something else, something darker, coiling low in my belly. "This morning, what you did, what we—it can't happen again."
"What I did?" His eyebrow arches. "You were the one gripping my hair. Moaning my name."
"Because—" My face burns. "Because you—it wasn't?—"
"Use your words, Clara."
"You're my brother!" The word bursts out of me, sharp and desperate.
He pushes off the door and takes a single step forward. "Stepbrother. We're not blood."
"That doesn't matter. Our parents are married. We live in the same house. This is?—"
"What?" Another step. "Wrong?"
"Yes!" I back up until my legs hit the edge of his bed. "Yes, exactly, it's wrong, it's?—"
"Our parents got married three months ago." His voice drops, steady and calm and utterly certain. "That doesn't make us anything real."
The words hang in the air between us.
"It makes us step-siblings," I whisper.
"It makes us two adults who happen to live under the same roof." He closes the distance, and now he's right there, towering over me, his presence overwhelming. "Nothing more."
"Callum—"
"Tell me you didn't feel anything in that car." His hand comes up, fingers curling under my chin, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. "Tell me you didn't want my mouth on you."
I can't. The denial sticks in my throat because it would be a lie, and we both know it.
His thumb brushes across my lower lip. "That's what I thought."
"This is insane," I breathe.
"Probably." His hand slides from my chin to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair. "But I don't care."
He kisses me.
Not like this morning—not claiming and sudden and overwhelming.
This is slower, deeper, his mouth moving against mine with deliberate intent.
His tongue traces the seam of my lips and I open for him without thinking, and then he's tasting me, exploring, drawing a helpless sound from my throat that makes him growl low in his chest.
My hands come up between us, pressing against his chest, but I'm not pushing him away. My fingers curl into his shirt instead, gripping the fabric, holding on as his kiss turns more demanding.
When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing hard.
"I shouldn't want this," I whisper. "I shouldn't want my stepbrother's?—"
"But you do." His hands drop to my waist. "Don't you?"
I close my eyes. "Yes."
"Good girl." The praise sends a shiver through me. His fingers find the button of my jeans. "Then stop fighting it."
"Wait—" Panic flares. "What are you?—"
"Relax." He pops the button free, then the zipper, and I suck in a sharp breath as his hands push the denim down over my hips. "I'm taking care of you."
"Callum—"
"Trust me, Clara." The jeans pool at my ankles and he guides me to step out of them, leaving me in just my sweater and plain cotton panties. His gaze drags down my body, dark and hungry, and I fight the urge to cover myself. "Lie down."
"I don't—I've never?—"
"I know." His hand presses gently against my chest, pushing me back onto the bed. "That's why I'm going to show you."
I sink onto the mattress, my heart racing. He follows, kneeling between my legs, his large hands settling on my knees and pushing them apart. The position is vulnerable, exposing, and I instinctively try to close my thighs.
"No." His grip tightens, holding me open. "Keep them spread for me."
"This is?—"
"What you need." His fingers hook into the waistband of my panties. "What you've been needing since the moment you saw me."
He's right. God help me, he's right.
He pulls my panties down and off, and then I'm bare from the waist down, exposed to his gaze in the dim light of his bedroom. His jaw clenches.
"Fuck," he mutters. "You're already wet."
Shame and arousal war in my chest. I can feel it, the slick heat between my thighs, evidence of my body's betrayal.
His thumb traces up my inner thigh, getting closer to where I'm aching and empty and?—
"Ahh—" The sound escapes me when his thumb brushes directly over my clit. My hips jerk.
"Sensitive." His thumb circles the swollen bundle of nerves, slow and deliberate, and pleasure sparks through me in sharp, overwhelming pulses. "Has anyone ever touched you here, Clara?"
"No," I gasp.
"Good." His other hand presses against my lower belly, holding me in place as his thumb works my clit in steady, maddening circles. "No one else gets to."
My hands fist in his comforter. The sensations are too much, too intense, building in a way I don't understand, tightening low in my core.
"Look at you." His voice is rough. "So responsive. So perfect."
His thumb leaves my clit and I almost sob at the loss—until I feel his finger sliding lower, through the wetness, finding my entrance. He pushes inside slowly, just the tip, and my entire body goes rigid.
"Oh—"
"Breathe," he orders. "Just breathe, Clara. Let me in."
I force myself to exhale, and he slides deeper, one thick finger stretching me open. The intrusion is strange, foreign, but not painful. He holds still, letting me adjust, his free hand stroking soothing patterns on my thigh.
"That's it." He withdraws slightly, then pushes back in, setting a slow rhythm. "You're gripping me so tight."
A second finger joins the first and I cry out, my back arching off the bed. It's too much, the stretch, the fullness, the way his fingers curl inside me and press against something that makes stars explode behind my eyelids.
"Callum—I can't?—"
"Yes, you can." His fingers pump steadily, dragging against my inner walls, hitting that spot again and again until I'm writhing beneath him. "You're going to come on my fingers, Clara. You're going to soak my hand."
"I don't—ahh—I don't know how?—"
"Your body knows." His thumb finds my clit again, rubbing in time with the thrust of his fingers. "Just let go."
The pressure builds impossibly higher, tension coiling tighter and tighter in my core. My breasts ache beneath my sweater, and I feel the familiar sensation of milk beginning to leak, warm and wet against the fabric.
He notices. His gaze snaps to my chest, to the growing dark spots on my sweater, and something feral crosses his face.
"Fuck, you're leaking." He doesn't stop fingering me, doesn't slow down. "You get wet everywhere when you're aroused, don't you?"
"Please—" I don't even know what I'm begging for anymore.
He leans down, his mouth hovering just above my pussy. "Say my name."
"Callum—"
His tongue licks a long, slow stripe from my entrance to my clit.
I scream.
The orgasm crashes into me like a tidal wave, white-hot pleasure ripping through every nerve ending.
My pussy clenches rhythmically around his fingers, pulsing hard, and he groans against me, licking and sucking my clit while I shake apart beneath him.
Milk floods from my breasts, soaking through my sweater completely, and I hear myself making sounds I've never made before—raw, broken, desperate.
"That's my girl," he murmurs against my pussy. "Come for me. Give me everything."
He doesn't stop. His tongue continues its assault on my clit, lapping at my juices, drinking me down, and his fingers curl and thrust through the spasms until I'm sobbing, my hands shoving weakly at his head because it's too much, too intense.
Finally, he pulls back. His mouth and chin glisten with my wetness. He brings his fingers to his lips and licks them clean, his eyes never leaving mine.
Then he reaches up, pressing his palm against one of the wet spots on my sweater. When he pulls his hand away, his fingers are coated in milk. He brings them to his mouth and sucks them clean.
"Perfect," he says quietly. "Every part of you."
Reality crashes back. I scramble upright, nearly falling off the bed in my haste to grab my jeans and panties. My hands shake as I yank them back on.
"This is so wrong," I whisper.
"Clara—"
"No." I can't look at him. Can't process what just happened, what I let him do, how my body responded. I'm still trembling from the aftershocks. "I can't—I have to go."
I bolt for the door, wrench it open, and flee down the hallway to my own room. I slam the door behind me and lean against it, my chest heaving, my body still humming with residual pleasure.
From down the hall, I hear his door close. A moment later, the sound of water running in his bathroom.
I slide down to the floor and press my palms against my burning face.
What have I done?