13. Meeting My Sassy Stepsister Again
MEETING MY SASSY STEPSISTER AGAIN
Trevor
The city looks its best at night. In the daylight, Minneapolis is nothing but cement and ice, glass reflecting glass, a million people pretending not to stare.
But up here, after dark, the view from the penthouse is a revelation—a slow pulse of headlights on Hennepin, the flares from the stadium, a spiderweb of red taillights in every direction.
It’s all very pretty and all very irrelevant.
But I’m not watching the city. I’m watching my own reflection in the window: blue eyes, pale under the uneven light, and a jawline that looks harsh and set, especially after two fingers of Laphroaig.
The glass is cold in my hand. I roll it between my palms, scotch swirling, the ice melting fast in the climate-controlled room.
My shirt is half unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to my forearms, collar open to show a sliver of the tattoos that climb up my left arm.
My hair’s a little messier than usual, but I don’t bother with it.
I have other things to think about, chief among them the fact that I’ve jerked off twice this afternoon to pictures of my stepsister.
Yeah, I did that.
And now, I want more.
The images continue to haunt me. I can see them, even now, reflected in the double-paned glass:
Kayleigh, on her bed, the light honey-soft on her skin, her tits perfect and round, nipples the color of new strawberries, hair like liquid gold.
The next shot: her fingers spreading herself wide, pink pussy glossy and a little swollen, slick enough to catch the flash.
In the last one—the one I keep replaying like a slow-motion car wreck—she’s on her side in front of the full-length mirror, one knee drawn up, the soft round curve of her ass framed perfectly in the glass.
She’s looking straight at the camera with a naughty sparkle in those big blue eyes, lower lip caught between her teeth, while her free hand parts her ass cheeks just enough to show off the pale, innocent ring of her anus.
It’s beautiful and obscene in equal measure, and I’ve already left two loads on the floor of my shower thinking about it.
Fuck, I’m so screwed. I check my watch for the third time in ten minutes.
7:32. She said she’d be here at eight, but I know Kayleigh well enough to expect her early.
She’ll sit in the garage, run her lines, maybe give herself a little pep talk.
She’s never on time, but she’s never late, either.
Always a few minutes shy of the moment. I like that about her.
If I have to wait for a late woman one more time, I might just kick her to the curb for the hell of it.
Now, the glass is almost empty. I set it down and pour another, the bottle neck clinking against the rim.
I don’t bother to cap it. The sound echoes through the quiet, and for a second I’m aware of how alone I am—how the penthouse, with all its luxury and space, is nothing but a mausoleum for one.
Funny, I’ve never thought of it that way before.
Sure, it was silent and still, but I value my peace.
Now, when I think of the blonde girl about to arrive, this place seems empty without her.
I need her mess. Her sass, and her shyness.
Kayleigh brings something that I didn’t realize I was missing.
Damn, I said I was losing it, and obviously, I was right.
Then I hear it: the telltale ding of the elevator, the soft, eager shuffle of feet outside the door. My heart leaps into my throat even as I try to quell my excitement. I smile and kill the scotch in one mouthful, letting the burn scrub my throat clean.
When she knocks, I take my time opening the door. Let her sweat for a second. Let her wonder if maybe I’m not going to answer at all, if maybe she should just turn around and flee. But she doesn’t. Kayleigh is nothing if not stubborn.
I pull the door open.
My innocent stepsister stands there, a vision in white and blonde and panic.
The dress is a white bandage mini that looks poured onto her, the neckline a steep, lascivious V that divides her cleavage all the way to the solar plexus.
It’s not a dress so much as a suggestion.
Her skin glows against the fabric, especially the inside of her thighs, which are bare and golden.
She’s gone braless, obviously, and unless I miss my guess, she’s ditched the panties too—there’s no seam, no ridge, nothing but the faintest shadow of the dress clinging to the delta between her legs.
Her heels are tall, and dizzyingly steep, with thin white straps that wrap around her ankles like a lover’s hands.
Holy shit, what a pair of fuck me shoes.
But there’s something innocent about her too.
Kayleigh’s hair is done in loose, soft waves, tumbling over her bare shoulders, and her makeup is heavier than usual: smoky eyes, high color on her cheeks, lips lacquered a hyper-gloss pink.
She’s gone for maximum impact and, because of the playacting, she doesn’t look anything like herself.
Or maybe she looks more like herself than ever before.
It’s hard to say, but I happen to adore the tramp look, so it works.
For a moment, she just stands there, arms at her sides, hands clutching a small white purse. Her chin is down, but her gaze is up, blue and wary.
I feel my cock stir in my pants. It’s instant, primal, a chemical reaction as old as the species.
“Hi,” she says, voice barely audible.
I don’t smile. I step aside, let her enter. The perfume hits me a second after she does—something vanilla, with an undercurrent of sharp citrus, maybe lemon or grapefruit. Oh shit. My cock twitches again.
She steps into the penthouse, each heel click a little too loud in the silence. The city lights turn her hair platinum and paint her bare arms with shifting lines of white and neon. She hesitates in the entry, uncertain what to do with herself.
I close the door and lock it behind us.
“You’re early,” I say, not a question.
Kayleigh shrugs, the motion nearly invisible in the tight dress. “Traffic wasn’t as bad as I thought.”
I arch an eyebrow. “You drove yourself? In that?”
She blushes, which is what I wanted. “I changed in the car after I parked,” she says, eyes darting away. “There was no walk of shame. I mean, not really,” she stammers. “Just through your lobby, but I figure your doorman’s seen everything.”
I stalk past her, headed to the wet bar, even as I speak.
“Actually, it’s funny you say that because I love when girls do the walk of shame. I don’t think it’s shameful at all, actually. It’s an homage to a night of wild fucking, hopefully with a handsome motherfucker with a big dick. So what’s so shameful about that?”
Kayleigh’s followed me into the living room, her cheeks scarlet.
“Well, I think it’s easy for guys to say, but for girls it’s a little different. We’re judged differently.”
I grin. “Well, I think we may be discussing a moot point because you’re a virgin, so you’ve never done the walk of shame. Am I right? Or have you?”
She blushes even more tomato, if that’s possible.
“No,” she says in a small whisper. “I haven’t.”
I grin again.
“That’s what a thought. So, tell me, can I offer you a drink, Kayleigh? Or are you old enough?” I jest.
She rolls her eyes, perching on the edge of the white leather sofa, knees locked together, hands clutching the little purse in her lap. “Yes, I’m old enough and I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
I pour her a scotch, but cut it with water. She’s small, and she’s probably already nervous. I don’t want to knock her out.
She accepts the glass with both hands, then sips and nearly chokes.
I watch her over the rim of my own glass, letting the silence expand. I know she hates being embarrassed like this, so I drag it out, watching the blush creep from her chest to her cheeks.
She sets the glass down, fingers trembling just a little. “So yeah, alcohol and I don’t mix that well. Well, hard alcohol at least. By the way, your place is amazing,” she manages, and gestures at the view.
“It’s a lot,” I say. “But it has its charms.”
She nods, then tries to cross her legs. The dress barely allows it, and I catch a flash of the inside of her thigh before she clamps them together again.
I move to the window, lean against the glass. I can see her reflection, the curve of her breast half exposed in the low light, her pretty pout moist. Her shoulders are tight, and the rest of her looks like she’s moments away from bolting.
“You’re not here for the view, Kayleigh,” I say, and watch as her reflection stiffens.
She swallows, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. “Why am I here then?”
I turn, cross the room in three long strides, and stop in front of her. I look down at her, arms folded, letting the moment thicken.
“Why do you think?” I say, voice low and patient.
She can’t answer. She just looks up at me, wide-eyed, her hands gripping the edge of the sofa like it’s about to tip her into open space.
I reach out and tuck a golden strand of hair behind her ear, my fingers brushing her cheek. She shivers, but doesn’t move away.
“We’re going to finish what you started this morning,” I say. “Unless you’d rather leave.”
She shakes her head.
I lean in, close enough to taste the heat off her skin, and let my hand drift down, slow and deliberate, until my fingers are on her knee.
“You look incredible, by the way,” I say, and mean it. “But you don’t have to pretend with me.”
She looks down, then up, and there’s something wild in her eyes.
“I’m not pretending,” she whispers. “I’m trying. For you.”
I smile, the first one all night.
“Good,” I say. “Because I want you. Every inch.”
She bites her lip, then nods, surrendering the last little bit of dignity.
I step back, sweep a hand to the bar. “Drink up,” I say, “You’ll need it.”
She picks up the glass and drinks, this time without a flinch.
I watch her throat work, then catch her eye as she sets the empty down.
She’s ready, or as ready as she’ll ever be.