4. Harrison
HARRISON
Three days back home feels like three years.
I stand at my office window, looking out at the manicured lawn that surrounds my father's property in Westchester.
The house is exactly what he wanted when I scouted it for him five years ago—modern architecture with clean lines, floor-to-ceiling windows, high ceilings that create a sense of space and luxury.
Six bedrooms, seven bathrooms, a pool, a home gym.
Everything a successful senior partner at Blackstone & Vale Investment Firm could want.
Everything except the ability to escape Holly's presence.
The house is large, nearly eight thousand square feet, but it's not large enough.
I hear her footsteps on the hardwood floors.
I catch her scent in the hallways—something floral and young that shouldn't affect me the way it does.
I see her at breakfast, across the dinner table, passing by my office door.
And I can't touch her. Can't pin her against the nearest wall the way every instinct demands. Can't bury myself inside her the way I did on that beach three days ago.
Arthur and Frances are oblivious, which is both a blessing and a torture.
They're pleased that Holly and I seem to be "getting along better.
" Dad mentioned it yesterday morning while we had coffee on the terrace, smiling like the bonding between his son and stepdaughter was some heartwarming family milestone.
If he only knew what kind of bonding we'd done on that vacation.
I turn from the window, move to my desk.
The leather chair creaks as I sit, and I pull up the quarterly reports I'm supposed to be reviewing.
Numbers blur on the screen. My mind wanders back to Holly—her body underneath mine, the sounds she made when I took her virginity, the way her pussy clenched around my cock.
At forty-nine, I've built everything I wanted.
Partner at one of the most prestigious investment firms in New York.
A portfolio that would make most men weep with envy.
A reputation for being sharp, strategic, untouchable.
I drive a Porsche 911, wear Tom Ford suits, vacation in places most people only see in magazines.
I never anticipated a twenty-year-old stepsister disrupting every ounce of control I've spent decades perfecting.
The wrongness of it sits in my chest like a weight. She's my stepsister. She lives under my roof—under my father's roof, technically, though I pay most of the bills. She's twenty-nine years younger than me, young enough to be my daughter if I'd been careless in my twenties.
And I don't care.
She's mine. I took her virginity on a beach with the dawn breaking around us. I've tasted every inch of her body, heard her scream my name, felt her come apart beneath my hands and mouth and cock. The world can judge all it wants—I'm keeping her.
The office door opens. Frances pokes her head in, smiling warmly.
"Harrison, we're thinking of ordering Chinese for dinner. Does that work for you?"
I force my expression into something normal, pleasant. "Sounds perfect."
"You work too hard. Your father was just saying you've been in here since you got home."
"Just catching up after the vacation." The lie comes easily. I've been in here because it's the only room in this house where I can lock the door and not risk doing something stupid.
Frances nods. "Well, dinner should be here in an hour. Holly's setting the table."
The mention of her name makes my cock twitch. I keep my face neutral. "I'll be out shortly."
She closes the door. I return my attention to the screen, but the numbers still don't register. All I can think about is Holly in the dining room, setting plates and silverware, her hands delicate and small.
Those same hands wrapped around my cock three days ago, uncertain but eager.
An hour later, I emerge from my office. The smell of Chinese food fills the house—ginger, soy sauce, sesame oil. Arthur is in the living room, watching the news with a glass of scotch. Frances moves between the kitchen and dining room, transferring food from containers to serving dishes.
Holly stands at the table, folding napkins. She's wearing a skirt—pale blue, hitting just above her knees—and a white blouse that's modest but still makes my blood heat. Her hair is down, falling past her shoulders in dark waves.
She glances up when I enter. Our eyes meet for half a second before she looks away, but that half-second is enough. I see the flush that creeps up her neck, the way her breathing changes.
She's been thinking about me. About what we did.
Good.
"Harrison, can you grab the wine from the pantry?" Frances calls from the kitchen. "I forgot to pull it out earlier."
I move through the kitchen to the pantry—a walk-in space lined with shelves of dry goods, bottles, stemware. The door closes behind me, muffling the sounds of the house.
I'm reaching for a bottle of Pinot Noir when the door opens again. Holly slips inside, closes it behind her.
The space immediately feels smaller. She's three feet away, close enough that I can smell her perfume.
"We haven't been alone since we got back." Her voice is quiet, uncertain.
I set the wine bottle down carefully. "That's intentional. I don't trust myself around you."
She steps closer. "Maybe I don't want you to trust yourself."
My jaw tightens. "Holly, our parents are twenty feet away in the living room."
"I know." Another step. "But I can't stop thinking about the beach. About you."
Something snaps. The control I've been clinging to for three days fractures, splits apart. I move fast, push her against the shelves. My mouth finds hers—hard, deep, possessive. She melts against me immediately, her hands fisting in my shirt.
I break the kiss long enough to growl against her lips. "You're playing with fire, stepsister."
"Then burn me."
My hand slides under her skirt, finds her panties already damp. "You've been thinking about your stepbrother's cock, haven't you?"
She whimpers, her hips pressing forward into my touch. "Yes—every night?—"
I push her panties aside, slide two fingers inside her pussy. She's tight and wet, her body welcoming the intrusion. Her gasp is loud in the small space, and I swallow it with another kiss.
I finger her quickly, efficiently. We don't have time for slow, don't have the luxury of drawn-out pleasure. My thumb finds her clit, circles it with firm pressure while my fingers pump inside her.
"So wet for me, stepsister." I keep my voice low, gravelly. "Would our parents be shocked to know what a dirty girl you are for your stepbrother?"
Her hips move against my hand, chasing the building orgasm. Her breathing is ragged, desperate. She bites her lip to keep quiet.
Footsteps approach the kitchen. We both freeze.
"Holly?" Frances's voice carries through the door. "Can you grab the salad dressing?"
Holly's pussy clenches around my fingers. For a second, neither of us moves. Then she clears her throat.
"Sure, Mom. One second."
Her voice is remarkably steady considering my fingers are buried inside her. I withdraw slowly, adjust her skirt with deliberate care. She's trembling, her pupils dilated and dark.
I bring my fingers to my mouth, taste her while maintaining eye contact. Her breathing hitches.
She grabs the dressing with shaking hands, exits the pantry without another word. I wait thirty seconds, willing my cock to soften, before following with the wine.
The risk makes it better. Wronger. More addictive.
Dinner is torture.
We sit at the dining table—Arthur at the head, Frances across from him, Holly and I on opposite sides. The Chinese food is spread between us: kung pao chicken, beef and broccoli, fried rice, egg rolls.
Normal family dinner. Normal conversation.
Arthur discusses a merger his law firm is handling. Frances talks about her book club's latest selection. Holly contributes occasionally, her voice measured and calm.
Under the table, I slide my foot against her calf.
She startles slightly, her fork clattering against her plate. Her eyes meet mine across the table. I maintain a neutral expression, take a sip of wine.
My foot travels higher, pushes between her thighs.
Holly shifts in her seat. Her hand grips her fork tightly.
"Holly, you seem distracted." Frances looks at her with mild concern. "Everything okay?"
"Fine, Mom." Holly's voice is carefully controlled. "Just tired from the trip still."
My foot presses against her pussy through her panties. I can feel the heat of her even through the fabric and my sock. She's wet again, already primed from the pantry encounter.
Holly's thighs clamp around my foot. Her breathing is careful, measured. She's trying so hard to maintain composure, and it's the hottest thing I've seen all week.
"Harrison, your mother and I were thinking of planning another family trip." Arthur spears a piece of beef with his fork, oblivious to what's happening under his dining table. "Maybe skiing in Aspen this winter?"
I apply more pressure with my foot, rubbing deliberately against Holly's clit through the layers of fabric. "Sounds perfect, Dad."
Holly's face flushes pink. Her hand white-knuckles the fork. She's close—I can tell by the way her thighs tighten around my foot, the slight hitch in her breathing.
The taboo of it makes my cock throb painfully against my zipper. My stepsister is about to come at the family dinner table with our parents inches away, and I'm the one pushing her toward it.
Just before she reaches the edge, I withdraw my foot.
Her eyes flash with frustration and need across the table. I smirk slightly, take another sip of wine.
Tonight. I'll finish what I started tonight.
Near midnight, I'm in my office reviewing contracts for a new client acquisition. Sleep is impossible—hasn't been possible since we got back from vacation. My mind spins with thoughts of Holly, with the memory of her body, with the need to have her again.