“You don’t have to,” I whispered, my hand brushing his face, but he pulled me closer.
“Please... please,” he breathed, searching my eyes.
I nodded. “Okay.”
“Sit on the first step. Spread your legs,” he said, still smiling.
“W-What?” My voice trembled.
“Do it.”
I obeyed, stepping forward and sitting down in front of him on the first step.
I was wearing the same white nightdress I always wore, soft cotton, white and innocent. Underneath, though, I had on panties. I lifted the bottom of it as I sat, slowly spreading my legs.
“Lay back,” he said, and I arched, lowering myself against the cold step behind me. I could feel his breath against my skin. I’d never done this before. Never felt anything like this.
“I might be dying,” he whispered, voice rough, “but I won’t die until I’ve had my little stepsister as my last fucking meal.”
With a sudden surge of strength, he pulled me closer to his face.
He pushed my panties aside, revealing my swollen pussy, already aching for him. He pinched gently at first, then kissed me there before parting me with his fingers. His tongue came next, slow, tracing from the center up to my clit.
I gasped. “Oh God.”
“Yeah,” he murmured against me. “You like that, don’t you?”
“Yeah...” I moaned, eyes fluttering closed.
His tongue circled my clit as one finger curled and slid inside me, slow, coaxing, addictive. I opened for him, helpless under the rhythm of his strokes.
I’d never touched myself before. I’d always been the good girl, the quiet one. But now he was showing me how to be bad... for him.
It was so fucking wrong — and I didn’t care. I wanted more.
As his thrusts deepened, he slid in a second finger. He smiled against my clit, still working his tongue up and down my swollen, sensitive skin.
“I’ll be your first... and your last, Trouble,” he growled. I could feel every slow thrust inside me, pushing me closer to the edge.
A moan broke from my lips. “Yes... more. Please... More.”
He kept going, holding my lower lips apart as I writhed against his face. I couldn’t stop myself, my hips moved instinctively, riding his mouth, chasing the waves he sent crashing through me.
Then I started to tighten around his fingers. I was so close.
He smiled against me again, still stroking, still devouring me like he owned me.
We didn’t notice the attic door was still open, so that anyone in the house could hear us.
And someone did.
My father stood there. Pale. Silent. Frozen, as he watched his daughter writhing under the mouth of his stepson.
But I didn’t see him, not until it was too late.
I was moaning, my body trembling, eyes fluttering open just as the orgasm hit me. I saw my father, and our eyes met at the exact moment Dorian pushed me over the edge.
And I screamed his name.
