Step F*#k: Part Three (A Stepbrother series Book 3) (6 page)

Our shower experience wouldn’t have happened, either, if she hadn’t taken that vibrator in there with her, and happened to be moaning loudly enough that I was able to hear in my room, where I was simply trying to decompress after spending two and a half hours on Dad’s boat with his pals and several coolers of shitty American beer.
 

But I think of it as the universe’s way of saying that certain things are just meant to be. And even when I got up from my bed and went to investigate what these sounds were, I wasn’t actually planning on getting into the shower. I thought maybe I’d just watch for a moment and then slip away, undetected. A bit of voyeurism, if you will.
 

She looked so fucking hot, though. It was like porn, or a live webcam, but better, because she was there in person. Standing under the spray of water, eyes closed, feeling herself up with one hand, the other working that vibrator between her legs. I was rock hard in about two seconds flat. And she was more than happy to let me just come right into the shower.
 

Ah, but now. We’re dried off, my hair still damp and spiky, her own brown tendrils dripping water onto the shoulders of her t-shirt. She’s come into my room, which at first I think is a good sign, but one look at the expression on her face and I know we’re about to get back on the same merry-go-round we’ve been on since finding out our parents were going to be married.

“Jai,” she starts, but I hold up a hand.

“I already know what you’re going to say.”

“You do?”

“Yes. You’re going to tell me how you can’t believe that you let this happen again, that we shouldn’t be doing this, that we’re going to be stepsiblings and should anyone find out that we’re doing this, we’ll likely be burned at the stake . . . Am I close?”
She gives me a pouty look. “If you knew all that, then why did you come into the shower?”

“I really wasn’t planning on that. I wasn’t.”

“But you did.”

“I suppose one could ask why did you let me in? But,” I say, as she starts to respond, “I’m not actually going to ask you that. Because the main problem we’re having here is that you’re over-thinking it. All of it. And this shouldn’t be an intellectual matter.”

“I’m not interested in hearing your philosophy about it,” she says. “And I don’t believe that you weren’t planning on doing that. Because if you weren’t planning on doing it, you wouldn’t have come in in the first place. I really feel like you don’t give a shit how I feel about this, and it doesn’t seem to matter how many times I tell you that we need to stop—you won’t listen. You—”

I take the two big strides needed to close the distance between us and I press my mouth against hers. I kiss her, but not forcefully. If she pushes me off I’ll step back. But her mouth is receptive, and she puts a hand behind my head, drawing me closer. I touch her breasts through the t-shirt, her nipples hardening almost instantaneously. I feel myself start to get hard again. I came bucket loads in her arse, but I swear, I’m ready to go again. . .
 

I yank her t-shirt up and pull back from kissing her mouth so I can kiss those gorgeous tits of hers. As I do so, I’m pushing my pants back off, sliding her shorts down. I fall back and pull her on top of me, holding her hips, guiding her down onto my cock. Bedroom door’s wide fuckin open, but I don’t care. Let them see.
 

“Take your shirt off,” I say, because I want to be able to see those tits bounce around as she rides me. I lick my thumb and then press it on her clit and she groans, throwing her head back, her chest heaving. She moves up and down, then in circles, then in circles the other way, then this figure-8 sort of motion, then she’s rocking back and forth on me and going up and down at the same time, like she’s in the saddle of a cantering horse. Yes, I think, I’ll be your fucking steed and you can ride me like this all fucking day and I will make you come over and over and over again . . .
 

I can tell she’s close. Even though I know she just had an epic orgasm in the shower—both did, actually—I can feel her pussy muscles contracting, her clit swelling, and I move my thumb faster and faster, like rolling a marble in oil.
 

We come at the exact same time.
 

It’s a different orgasm than the one in the shower—this one is short, explosive, and almost blackout intense. I actually see stars, little bursts of color filling in the corners of my vision, and she slumps off of me, body bucking.
 

“Come here,” I manage to say, and she slips into the nook of my arm and we lie there on the floor, and even though I’m no longer inside her, that connection is still there.
 

“Holy shit,” she says. “I don’t even know what that was. But it was . . . incredible. I didn’t even know my body could feel that way.” She sounds awed, and it is, really, something to be in awe of. Yes, I’ve had plenty of sex, plenty of great orgasms and even plenty of earth shatteringly awesome orgasms, but nothing even close to this. I don’t know how to explain it, I don’t know what it means, but the sex we have had is nothing short of miraculous. Because it doesn’t seem possible that a body could feel so good, that another person’s body could make you feel this way.
 

I kiss the top of her head. I know she’s going to jump up at any moment and be frantic about someone finding us here, but right now she’s curled next to me, our heavy breathing just beginning to return to normal, and I want to stay like this for as long as possible.
 

That evening, we have another cookout. I don’t have many early childhood memories of my father ever being that great a cook, but he’s clearly been spending time perfecting his grilling skills. Emma’s sitting with her mom and sister on the lawn chairs, facing the lake. The sun’s just going down and Dad asks me to light the Tiki torches and then help him over at the grill.
 

“How are you doing, son?” he asks when I approach. He’s standing there, spatula in hand, lording over the Weber like he’s king of the castle. Well, in this case, I suppose he is. The meat sizzles, and smoke wafts out of the circular drum in big belches. “You enjoying yourself so far?”
 

He’s got this anxious look on his face, and for a moment I’m suspicious; does he somehow know what’s going on with Emma and me? I really don’t care if anyone knows (and I assume they will, eventually) but I know that Emma would flip her shit. I look over where they’re sitting, glasses of wine in hand. They’re facing away from us, so all I see over the backs of the chairs are the backs of their heads; similar shades of brown hair, Emma’s twisted up into a bun that every strand of hair seems valiantly trying to escape from. Her neck is slender and delicate, and I think of the hickey I gave her there the first night we met.
 

I glance back at my father. No, if he suspected anything, I don’t think he’d be looking at me anxiously like this. And then I realize that he is worried whether or not I’m having a good time, which is ridiculous, because I’m having a smashing time, though he wouldn’t necessarily have any way of knowing this, seeing as my good time is in direct correlation with how often Emma and I get to fuck.
 

But it’s a good sign, really, and I feel a momentary tenderness toward my father. Perhaps he really has changed. Maybe we can have something of that father-son relationship I spent most of my childhood wanting but knowing I could never have, because my father was a self-absorbed Hollywood actor.
 

“Yeah, I’m having a good time, Dad,” I say. “It’s been nice and relaxing.”

“Good. That’s good to hear. More and more people will be arriving over the next few days, so things will start to get a little more hectic. Tonight’s really the last night with just the five of us. I’d say everything’s gone pretty much how I hoped. I have to admit, I was a little concerned about the five of us just not . . . coalescing as a group. That happens sometimes, you know. People feel awkward, or there’s these long, uncomfortable silences, but that really hasn’t been the case at all, has it?”

“No, I can’t say it has.”

Dad almost looks a bit misty-eyed, which I try not to chuckle about. The emotions continue though, when we’re all sitting at the table with our plates of food. I’ve got a burger, a sausage, an ear of corn slathered in butter, and a generous helping of green salad.
 

“Everything looks delicious,” Stephanie says, and Dad raises his beer bottle to toast me.
 

“Jai helped.” He tilts the bottle in my direction and then takes a sip. I didn’t really help at all, unless you count standing in close proximity of the grill, breathing in the carcinogenic fumes, but if Dad wants to play it off like it was some amazing feat of teamwork that allowed this dinner to come into existence, then I will indulge him that.
 

“And I was telling Jai, and I’d like to reiterate it all to you, just how happy I am that we’ve had such a great time together,” Dad says. “The wedding will be soon, which means we’ll all be family, officially, but I want you to know that I think of you all as my family now, and that I don’t want any of you to hesitate if there’s something you need, or anything you ever want to talk about. Because that is what family is for. And I mean that. Whatever it might be—money, advice, just someone to listen—I want to be that person.”

Dad blathers on, and I start eating because I’m afraid I’m going to start laughing if I don’t have some way to occupy my mouth. Oh, if Mum could hear him now. Actually, no, that might break her heart. Because here’s Dad, some twenty-plus years too late, saying all the things that Mum always wished he had back when they were together. And there is a part of me that can’t help but wonder if he’s just saying this, if someone like him could really change, but there’s nothing disingenuous about his tone. And Stephanie, Emma and Jessica are all smiling and giving him these encouraging looks, and the scene is just so wholesome and Hallmark-movie-esque that I practically have to stuff half the sausage down my throat to keep from cracking up.
 

After we eat, everyone indulges in more wine. I can tell that Emma’s sister is getting a little tipsy, and as she’s pouring herself another glass, she asks if anyone wants to go swimming.
 

“Isn’t there something special about swimming at night?” she says. “Especially if it’s outside, under the stars.”

Yes, she must be a little buzzed, because if she looked up she’d see the L.A. clouds (also known as smog) have completely blotted out any star sightings, at least up in the sky. But the night is warm, and enough time has elapsed since we ate, and everyone’s feeling a pleasant warm fuzziness from the wine.
 

“I think a swim would be lovely,” Stephanie says.
 

“Come on, Em, let’s go get our bathing suits on,” Jess says. “Unless you want to go skinny dipping?”
“Girls! Girls!” Dad holds up his hands. “I meant what I said about us being family, but bathing suits, please.”

They giggle and scamper into the house.
 

Of course, having a house right on the lake wasn’t enough for Dad. He had a large lagoon pool built, complete with little caves, a waterfall, and lots of crevices. What is it they say? The family that swims together, stays together? Sure. So I go up into my room and don my swim trunks and slip into the pool. The water’s warm and I flip over on my back and float, toes poking above the surface of the water. Emma comes out a few minutes later, and suddenly seems shy about the fact that she’s in a bikini. She hurries over to the edge of the pool and gets in, then submerges herself and reappears many seconds later, at the far end of the pool. Jessica dips a toe in the deep end, then does have rather unglamorous pencil dive. Stephanie and Dad are clambering onto the lounge rafts, precariously balancing their wine glasses in the built-in cupholders. Oh, this is going to end well, I think.
 

“I’m swimming in a pool with a fucking waterfall!” Jessica says. She bobs past me, splashing water in my face. “You’re going to be my brother soon—I’m allowed to do that,” she says, in a not entirely unflirtatious way.
 

“I guess that means I am obliged to do this,” I say, going after her. She doesn’t put up much of a fight, and I grab her, one hand on her upper back, the other arm going under her knees, and I lift her clear out of the water and launch her a good five feet into the air. She shrieks with laughter, which is cutoff when she hits the water.
 

This goes on for a bit. I half-expect Emma to come over and join us, but she stays down at the other end. It’s too dark and I’m too far away to tell if she’s watching us, but I think she is. I can’t help but feel like she’s a bit envious. I fling her sister through the air once more and look her direction.
 

“You want a go?” I call.

“No thanks.” Her response is clipped, her tone a little cool. Jessica bobs back up to the surface and kicks a whole lot of water at me, then holds up her hands.
 

“Okay, okay,” she says. “I need to take a break. I think there’s one of those lounge rafts and a glass of wine with my name on it.” She splashes a little more water at me, I do the same, and she swims off.
 

Cheeky bird.
 

Emma, though, is not looking too cheeky herself. I swim over, where she hasn’t really moved from the other end of the pool.
 

“What do you want?” she says as I approach. “If you’re coming over to ask me to join you and my sister in a threesome, you can forget about it.”
 

“Are you feeling neglected? I was hoping you’d come over and let me toss you in the air, too.”

“So are you planning to sleep with her, too? She’s got a fiancée.”

“I heard. And no, I’m not planning on sleeping with her. I just thought I’d stop by for a friendly chat.” I lower my voice. “Obviously I wouldn’t try to shag you in the pool with our families present.”

“That’s so considerate of you.” But she’s trying not to smile, I can tell. She might not realize it, but it’s quite a turn on, this pretend resistance of hers. I position myself next to her, our shoulders touching.