I didn't sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, she was there — Lila.
On my bed. On top of me. Underneath me.
In my shirt. Out of her shorts.
I woke up hard, frustrated, and one deep breath away from doing something I couldn't take back.
Her scent lingered on my pillow — sweet, dizzying, dangerously addictive.
It clung to my sheets like it knew what I was thinking.
Like it encouraged it.
> You're losing it, I told myself.
Get out of the house. Take a walk. Touch grass. Ice your balls.
But then my phone lit up.
LILA:
> Your shower's still warm. Hope you don't mind—I borrowed it 😉
That was the first red flag.
The second was when I heard the moan.
Soft. Breathless. One floor up.
Coming from my bathroom.
I stood frozen in the hallway, hand halfway to the doorknob.
> Don't do it.
She's your stepsister. You need boundaries. You need—
"Mmm… Eli…"
I opened the door.
---
Steam poured out of the cracked bathroom door like a portal to hell.
The glass was fogged. My towel was damp. My shampoo bottle lay knocked over on the edge of the tub.
I should've walked away.
But I didn't.
The bathroom was empty.
The shower was off.
But the mirror—god, the mirror.
Lila.
Still in my oversized shirt. One thigh hiked up on the sink.
Panties pushed aside.
Two fingers between her legs.
And she wasn't looking at herself.
She was looking straight into the mirror — like she knew I'd walk in.
Like she wanted me to.
"Eli…" she whispered again, lips parted, head falling back.
I stood there. Staring. Stunned.
Watching the slow arch of her back. The way her breath hitched.
The pure, raw heat of her moving under my shirt — the same one I'd worn to bed three nights in a row.
Her fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles.
"You feel so good…" she whispered to the empty room. "So full. So warm…"
I didn't say a word. Couldn't.
"I know you're watching," she said softly.
I froze.
"You think I don't notice?" she added, eyes half-lidded in the mirror. "The way you look at me? The way you react when I touch you?"
She smiled — soft, slow, dripping confidence.
"I like it."
And then she moaned again — louder this time — her whole body shuddering as she arched her hips against her hand.
I backed away like I'd just witnessed a goddamn ritual.
---
Downstairs, I collapsed onto the couch, still half-hard and entirely ruined.
> She wanted me to see that.
> She planned it.
And the worst part?
I didn't want to forget it.
I wanted more.
Her body. Her voice. That flushed, breathless look in her eyes.
The sound of her moaning my name.
The way she made sin look holy.
---
She came downstairs an hour later like nothing happened.
Wearing my shirt. No pants. No apology.
Her skin still glowed, her legs bare, lips slightly swollen like she'd been kissing someone for hours.
She walked right up to me, leaned down, and kissed my cheek.
"Morning, Eli."
My throat tightened.
She sat on the couch next to me — too close — and pulled her knees to her chest.
"I'm starving," she said. "Think you can help me… satisfy my cravings?"
I looked at her — really looked — and realized something had changed.
The teasing was still there, but now there was hunger. Real hunger.
Not just lust. Something darker.
Deeper.
> She's feeding on me, I thought.
Every look. Every touch. Every dream she plants in my head.
But I didn't stop her.
I didn't move when her fingers trailed over my thigh.
I didn't flinch when she leaned in and whispered:
"Let me taste you."
And when her hand slid under the blanket…
…I let her.