Chapter 20 #2
“We shouldn’t,” I mutter against her lips. “You’re leaving.” But my hands are already on her jaw, my mouth already mapping the line down to her neck.
“I know,” she breathes, and then her nails are sliding under my shirt, dragging up my stomach in a way that knocks the air right out of me. “You want strings.”
I groan loud enough to bounce off the basement walls and haul her to her feet without breaking the kiss. We take one step back together, and her back hits the warm metal of the dryer. She arches into me with a gasp that makes me want to taste every sound she’s capable of.
Then she’s hopping up onto the dryer like she knows exactly what I want, legs parting so I can step between them. Her heels lock behind my back, her hands gripping my shirt to pull me in.
And it’s perfect.
My body fits between her thighs like that’s where it’s always belonged. Because of course it is. The steady hum of the dryer under us, the heat of her pressed tight against me—it’s all so much and not enough at the same time.
“Is this insane?” I ask because if she says yes, I need to stop. I will stop.
But her face is flushed, eyes dark and wild. My thumbs sweep over her cheekbones just to keep from touching lower and crossing the point of no return.
“I’ve been thinking,” she says, and then she grins—reckless and gorgeous. “Maybe strings aren’t so bad if you’re on the other end of them.”
That’s it. Restraint? Gone.
Months of slow-burning control ignite in an instant.
I crush my mouth to hers, all the hunger I’ve been choking down pouring out. My hands grip her hips hard, dragging her against me until I feel every inch of her. She kisses me back like she’s been holding this in as long as I have.
Her fingers fist against my scalp, tugging until I groan into her mouth.
“God, Harper,” I rasp against her throat. “I’ve wanted you every day since that first one when you stole my wallet.”
I don’t mean to say it. But it’s the truth, and I can’t stop it now.
“Me too,” she fires back, fierce and breathless. “So take it. Take me.”
The words nearly take my knees out.
Not just permission. Surrender.
Trust.
The one thing she never gives.
I slide my hands under her shirt, slower this time. Careful. Reverent. My thumbs find the edge of her bra, tracing along the soft curve beneath.
She arches into me again, and I swear I can feel every unspoken word between us in that single movement.
This isn’t just about wanting her.
It’s about the fact that she’s mine. Not because I claimed her, but because she chose me. And I’ll die before I let someone take that away from her again.
And then—
A car door slams in the driveway.
We both freeze.
We’re tangled together, still breathing hard. The dryer rumbles beneath us like it’s trying to rat us out.
No. Not now.
“Shit,” Harper whispers. “Shit, shit, shit.”
I can feel her heart pounding against my chest. Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump. Another door slam. Voices—Mom’s laugh, Silas’s deeper one behind it.
Our parents are back. I check my watch automatically. They’re ten minutes early.
Ten minutes. 600 seconds. That’s all it would have taken.
600 more seconds and I would have—
The basement suddenly feels smaller. Hotter. The warm, reckless bubble we were in starts collapsing under the weight of reality.
Harper’s hands are still under my shirt. Mine are still on her skin. Neither of us moves.
“They’re early,” she whispers the obvious, eyes wide, lips still kiss-swollen.
I should step back. I should untangle my stepsister’s legs from around me and put some actual space between us before we get caught like this.
I don’t.
For three more pounding heartbeats, I kiss her deep again, lingering in the way her tongue tangles urgently against mine, memorizing the exact pressure of her legs wrapped around me right now—
Before I force myself to let go.
Pulling back is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
And the way her fingers catch in my shirt at the last second—like she doesn’t want to let go either—nearly kills me.
Harper’s yanking her shirt down and tugging at the hem like she can erase the last five minutes.
I’m checking everything:
Her hair: messy. Needs fixing.
Her lips: swollen. Can’t fix that.
Her shirt: twisted. She’s fixing it.
My hair: wrecked. I rake my hand through it.
My shirt: untucked. Tuck it in.
My breathing: ragged. Four counts in. Four counts out. Still too fast.
Mental checklist of evidence:
The fallen shirt: back in the washer. Check.
Our positions: separated. Check.
My obvious arousal: laundry basket covering it. Check.
But I can’t control my face. Can’t control the flush on my neck. Can’t control the way I’m looking at her.
If they catch us—
“How do I look?” she asks. Her voice is wobbly, but her chin’s up, like she’s daring me to be honest.
I glance over and can’t look away, but this time, I’m not checking, just taking her in. Lips swollen. Cheeks flushed. Hair a mess. Shirt rumpled from my hands. She looks like sin in human form.
“Like you’ve been making out with your stepbrother.”
Her mouth drops open. “Caleb!”
But then she laughs. She tries to smother it with her hand, but the sound still slips out. We’re both panicked, but she finds a way to laugh anyway. God, I love that about her.
All I want is to make her laugh again. Today. Tomorrow. For fucking ever. And frankly, these stakes are a lot less heavy than most we’ve been facing lately.
So I push more. “Your lips are wrecked. Your shirt’s all twisted. You look like someone who just made a terrible decision in a laundry room.”
Footsteps sound on the floor overhead. Keys jingle.
Panic spikes.
Harper grabs a damp towel and presses it to her mouth like that’s going to help. I just stare at her, chest rising and falling like I’ve sprinted a mile.
And then—no warning—she palms me through my joggers. Full contact. Bold as hell.
My brain shorts out. Holy. Shit. My grip on the laundry basket slips.
“Better?” She grins like she owns me. I told her so, and it’s looking like she’s starting to believe it. I think I like it. I really fucking like it.
“Not helpful,” I manage, jaw tight, because it’s either that or groan loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear.
Her hand’s still right there, gripping my junk— Oh god. My body’s making it very obvious how much it likes this.
“Harper! Caleb!” Mom’s voice floats down from upstairs. Cheerful. Clueless.
“Down here!” Harper calls back, sing-song sweet, while giving my cock a squeeze through the fabric of my shorts. “Doing laundry!”
I jerk back and swing the laundry basket in front of my body like it’s a riot shield, neck burning with embarrassment. Harper just bends down—innocent as you please—and picks up the shirt that started all this. That one piece of cotton might as well be Exhibit A in my trial for losing control.
My voice is low. “We can’t do that again—”
Not because I don’t want to. But because if we do, it will be ten times harder to stop.
“I know.” But she’s biting her lip, and I hear myself add, “—here.”
Her eyes spark. “Really?”
She’s wrecked and hopeful all at once, like she’s already picturing the next time. My body answers before my brain does. Thank God for the basket.
“If they’d walked in five minutes later—” I try, reaching for a reason I don’t actually believe.
“They didn’t.” She lays her hands over mine on the basket. Steady. Certain. “Besides, worth it.”
Two words. That’s all it takes.
The fear, the guilt, the chaos—it all gets shoved aside because she means it.
Worth it.
Truer words have never been spoken.
She’s worth it. She thinks I’m worth it. And whatever this is between us is definitely worth it. Whatever it takes.
“Tomorrow’s your birthday,” I whisper, flipping my hand over and squeezing her fingers with mine.
Footsteps on the stairs now. Closer.
I see the conflict hit her face. She looks devastated.
“I’ll come to your room tonight,” she whispers before turning back to the dryer, shields back up her casual, give-no-fucks mask on, like I didn’t just have her legs locked around my waist, her gasping my name with a vulnerability that breaks through all the armor she wears the rest of the time.
How does she do that—flip the switch in two seconds flat?
Before I can answer, Mom appears in the doorway, smiling like this is just another Saturday.
“There you two are! How’s it going down here?”
“Great!” Harper chirps. “Caleb was helping me reach something in the washer.”
Not even technically a lie.
Mom beams. “I love how well you two are getting along.”
I try not to swallow my tongue. Yeah. You have no idea.
Harper glances at me over her shoulder, eyes glittering with suppressed laughter—and something else. Something sharper.
A promise.
“I’ll finish later,” I mutter, backing toward the stairs like the dryer’s about to explode and clutching the basket to my stomach like a life preserver.
As I pass Harper, she leans in just enough for me to hear, “Tonight, Boy Scout.”
Barely a whisper. But it lands in my chest like a countdown starting.
I don’t answer. I don’t look back.
But the promise follows me.
Up the stairs.
Into my head.
Under my skin.
Tonight.