The Uber dropped me three houses down because the driver couldn't read the cul-de-sac signs, and by the time I reached Cindy's front door, my palms were already slick with sweat. I wiped them against the thick fleece of my oversized hoodie — gray, shapeless, zipped up so high it chafed my chin. The baggy sweatpants swished with every step, hiding the length of my legs, disguising the curve of my hips. I'd dressed like a ghost. Invisible. Untouchable.
Please don't look at me today. Please be normal today.
But the door swung open, and there he was.
Jake Sterling filled the doorway like a wall of expensive cologne and coiled muscle. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that looked carved from oak. Dark hair, tousled just enough to suggest he'd run his hands through it after work. That jawline — God, that unfair jawline — could have cut diamonds. He smiled, and it was the smile of a saint.
It was also the smile of the man who had cornered me in the laundry room last month, pinned my wrists above my head, and whispered, "You smell like fear and virginity, Jessica. I'm going to fuck both out of you."
"Hey, kiddo," he said, stepping aside to let me in. His hand brushed the small of my back as I passed — possessive, deliberate. "Cindy's been slaving over the stove all day. You're in for a treat."
The house smelled of rosemary and roasted meat, warm and domestic. Cindy floated out of the kitchen, apron tied around her waist, her face glowing with that ridiculous happiness she always wore when Jake was home. My big sister. My protector. The woman who had convinced me to move to this city, to this university, to this house of quiet horrors.
"Jess!" She enveloped me in a hug that smelled like vanilla and maternal love. "You look exhausted. Are you eating enough? You're so pale."
If only you knew why, I thought, my eyes darting to Jake, who was watching us with a predator's patience from the dining room archway.
The table was set for three. Crystal glasses. Linen napkins. A centerpiece of lilies — Cindy's namesake, Jake's little romantic gesture that made her swoon. It was perfect. It was a trap.
"Sit, sit," Cindy urged, gesturing to the chair nearest the kitchen. "Let me grab the stew."
But Jake was already there, pulling out the chair next to his. The one in the middle. The one where I would be sandwiched between sisterly love and masculine corruption.
"Actually," he said smoothly, his hand resting on the chair back, fingers drumming once — thump — against the wood, "she should sit here. Better lighting. I want to see her face while she eats."
Cindy laughed, oblivious. "You're such a sap. Fine, but don't bore her with your office stories."
And just like that, I was trapped.
The wood of the chair was cold through my sweatpants. Jake slid into the seat to my right, his thigh pressing immediately against mine. Not an accident. Never an accident. The heat of him radiated through the layers of fabric, branding my skin.
Cindy bustled back with a tureen of chicken stew, chattering about her book club, about the new sectional sofa they were buying, about how happy she was that I was close enough to visit. She served me first, ladling rich, golden broth into my bowl, chunks of meat and mushrooms steaming seductively.
"Eat," she commanded with a smile. "You're too skinny."
My spoon trembled in my hand.
Under the table, Jake's hand found my knee.
A jolt shot through me. I nearly dropped the spoon. Cindy was facing the kitchen, her back to us for a split second as she reached for the bread basket.
"Steady," Jake murmured, his voice a low vibration that seemed to travel straight to my cunt. His fingers dug into the soft fabric of my sweatpants, kneading the flesh above my knee. "Wouldn't want to spill. Your sister worked so hard."
Cindy turned back, beaming. "Jake, tell Jessica about the chicken. It's that organic farm you found."
"Ah, yes." Jake's hand began to slide upward, slow, inexorable, while his face remained the picture of urbane hospitality. "Special breed. Raised free-range. Very… robust. Male birds only. They grow big. Thick. You really taste the quality of the meat."
His fingers reached the junction of my thigh, pressing against the loose seam of my pants. My breath hitched. I clamped my thighs together, but he wedged his hand between them, forcing them apart with casual, terrifying strength.
"I—I'm sure it's delicious," I squeaked, my voice an octave too high.
Cindy frowned, leaning across the table. "Honey, you're flushed. Are you getting sick?"
Yes. I'm sick. I'm sick with your husband's fingers crawling toward my pussy.
"Just… warm," I managed. "It's warm in here."
Jake's knuckles brushed my cotton panties.
And I was already wet.
God, I hated myself for it — but the fear — the delicious, twisted fear — had been pooling between my legs since I'd stepped through the door. He knew it. He could probably smell it.
"Warm is good," Jake said, spearing a piece of chicken with his fork. He brought it to his mouth, chewing slowly, his eyes locked on mine. "Warm means alive. Responsive. You want your meat warm, Jess. You don't want it cold and dead. You want it hot. Pulsing. Ready to be devoured."
His index finger slipped beneath the elastic of my panties.
A whimper caught in my throat. I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper. My pussy clenched, gushing slick heat onto his finger as he parted my folds with insulting ease. He didn't tease. He didn't play. He simply invaded, sliding one thick digit into my tight channel while Cindy discussed fabric swatches for the new couch.
"Oh, I like the charcoal," Cindy said, her voice fading into background noise as Jake began to pump his fingers in and out of me under the table. He added a second, stretching me, his thumb circling my clit with mechanical precision. The tablecloth hid us — a thin barrier of linen between holy family dinner and filthy violation. My hips wanted to buck. My body wanted to betray me completely.
"She likes dark colors," Jake answered for me, his voice steady even as he finger-fucked me with increasing speed. His wrist flexed, driving his fingers deep, curling them to hit that spot that made my vision blur. "She likes things that are… forbidden. Don't you, Jessica?"
My head nodded, frantic, terrified she'd see the sheen of sweat on my forehead, the way my nipples had hardened into painful peaks against the fleece of my hoodie.
"See? She's just shy." Cindy reached across the table to pat my hand — the same hand that was white-knuckling my fork. "Eat up, sweetheart. You've barely touched your food."
Jake's fingers were drenched now, squelching obscenely in my soaked cunt. He shifted closer, his shoulder pressing against mine, and leaned toward my ear as if inspecting my bowl.
"Your sister wants you to eat," he whispered, his breath hot against my lobe. "But I want you to come. I want you to cream all over my fingers while she's sitting right there. And then, later, when she's washing dishes, I'm going to drag you into the garage and shove my cock so far down your throat you'll forget your own name."
He twisted his fingers, grinding his palm against my clit.
The orgasm crashed over me like a wave of shame and ecstasy. I shuddered, my thighs snapping shut around his hand, trapping him there as my pussy spasmed, clamping down on his invading digits. I stared blankly at my bowl, my mouth open in a silent scream, my entire body rigid with the effort of suppressing the moan that tried to tear itself from my chest.
"Jess!" Cindy's voice cut through the haze. "Your face is beet red! You're burning up!"
Jake slowly withdrew his hand from my pants, his fingers glistening with my arousal under the chandelier light. He brought them to his nose, inhaling with a satisfied smirk, then sucked them clean — one by one — while staring directly into my eyes.
"She does feel warm," he agreed, his tongue swirling around his middle finger. "Maybe she should lie down after dinner. I'll… tuck her in. Make sure she's comfortable."
Cindy stood, concerned, her chair scraping against the hardwood. "I'll get the thermometer."
The second her back was turned, Jake grabbed my chin, his fingers — still wet with my cum — pressing against my lips, coating them with my own taste.
"Open," he commanded.
I opened. I sucked. I tasted my shame.
"Good girl," he growled. "Now finish your dinner. You're going to need your strength for what comes next."
I picked up my spoon with trembling fingers, my pussy still throbbing, my panties soaked, my mind broken. Across the table, my sister hummed happily, searching the medicine cabinet.
And beside me, the devil adjusted his cock through his dress pants and smiled.