5. Callum #2
"Yes you can." I press deeper, crooking my fingers forward, and she comes apart fast and hard—her pussy clenching in tight, rapid pulses around my fingers, her milk surging against my tongue in a sudden hot rush as the orgasm hits her.
"Ahh—! Oh—oh god—Callum?—!"
I drink every drop. I keep my hand still inside her until the clenching slows, and then I draw my fingers out carefully and lift my head.
Her face is flushed deep red, her lips parted, her eyes unfocused. She looks undone in the most complete and satisfying way I can imagine.
I straighten, take her by the hips, and turn her to face the bed.
"Hands on the mattress."
She puts them there without argument—and the easy compliance of it, from her, from Clara who argues everything, does something to me that has nothing to do with patience.
I push her underwear down and off, lift her dress—no, she's not wearing the dress anymore, and I take a moment to catalogue what's in front of me: Clara Fielding, bare, bent over the edge of her own bed, her full breasts hanging heavy below her, still leaking at the nipples, dripping slow onto the sheets.
I get my belt open and my jeans down and I position myself behind her, one hand settling on the small of her back.
"You know what you are to me?" I say it low, the head of my cock notching against her entrance.
She shakes her head.
"You're my stepsister." I press forward, slow—watching myself sink into the tight, wet grip of her inch by inch. "Eleven years younger than me. Living in my house. In my father's house." Another inch. Her back rounds as she breathes through it. "And you're mine anyway."
"Ahh—" The sound comes from low in her chest. "You're—too big—I?—"
"You took all of me last week." I stroke her back once, then grip her hip and push forward to the hilt. "Ngh— There."
"Oh—oh god—Callum—" Her elbows bend and she drops her forehead to the mattress.
I hold there for a moment, buried completely, feeling the grip of her pussy adjust around me—hot and tight and slick. Then I reach forward and slide my hand beneath her, finding her left breast where it hangs below her, and cup it in my palm.
I pull back and drive forward, and milk jets from her nipple across my fingers.
"Ahh—!"
I set a rhythm—deep, deliberate strokes, full length each time, my hand working her breast in steady pulses that draw the milk in warm, continuous streams. She is making sounds into the mattress with every thrust, small and helpless and entirely involuntary.
"Ahh—ahh—ahh?—"
"Your stepbrother's cock inside you," I say, low and rough, pulling from her breast and bringing my fingers to my mouth. Warm. Rich. "Mine."
"Don't— say that—" But she's pushing back against me on the next thrust, her hips rocking back to meet me, and whatever her mouth is saying her body is saying something else entirely.
"Don't say what?" I thrust harder. "That you're taking your stepbrother's cock? That you're bent over in your own bedroom letting me fuck you while your mother's picture is on the nightstand?"
"Callum—" It comes out wrecked. Her hands grip the duvet.
"Tell me you want it." I press deep and hold, grinding forward. "Say it."
"I want it." The words are muffled in the mattress. I reach down and grip her chin, tipping her head back.
"Say it properly."
Her eyes are wet and dark and completely, helplessly aroused. "I want my stepbrother's cock. I want—please—please don't stop?—"
I don't stop. I pin her hip with one hand and drive into her with the full weight and pace she's asking for—hard, rhythmic, each stroke burying me to the hilt while her pussy grips and releases around me.
Milk runs freely from her untended breast, spreading damp across the sheets, and the sight of it, the smell of it, the wet heat clenching around me—it pulls me right to the edge.
"Come again," I tell her. "On my cock. Now."
"I—I can't?—"
"Clara." I reach beneath her and press my thumb to her clit. "Come."
"Ahh—ahh—ahh—yes—yes?—!"
Her orgasm hits her like a wall. Her pussy clamps down in a tight, rolling clench that pulls a guttural groan out of me—her whole body shaking, her back arching, her cries loud and unguarded in the quiet house.
I follow her over. My hips snap forward three hard times and I bury myself to the hilt and come—long, deep pulses of heat flooding into her, my fingers biting into her hips hard enough to leave marks, a low, rough sound that doesn't come from any particularly civilized part of me.
We stay bent and breathless over the edge of her mattress for a long moment.
Then I pull out carefully, tuck myself back in, and gather her up from the edge of the bed. I pull back the covers and settle her against the pillows, lying down beside her, her back against my chest.
She doesn't say anything for a while. Her breathing slows. I can feel the tension in her gradually releasing, muscle by muscle, like a fist unclenching.
"They'll be home by ten," she says eventually.
"I'll be gone before ten."
Another pause. "Callum." My name in her mouth, quiet and serious. "What are we doing?"
I pull her closer, my arm across her waist, and press my mouth to the back of her neck.
"You're mine," I tell her. "That's what we're doing. You're not my stepsister who I have a complicated situation with. You are my woman. The rest of it—the house, the family dinners, all of it—that's just logistics."
She exhales slowly. It isn't quite an argument, and it isn't quite an agreement.
"You can't keep running," I say. "I won't let you."
A beat of silence. Then—quietly, tiredly, and with absolutely no remaining resistance in it—she nods.