Chapter 5: Drake

The truck smells like sawdust and stale coffee, but all I can think about is her perfume. I'm forty minutes early, parked outside her building like some insane stalker.

Not inaccurate.

I check my phone—4:22 PM. My knuckles are white on the steering wheel. My cock’s been half-hard since I woke up. Which was painful considering I had to work a whole day with Fraser and Garrett breathing down my neck about Marie.

She’s my stepsister. Dad’s voice echoes in my skull.

I grab my tool bag anyway. The weight of it feels like penance. Maybe if I focus on fixing the light, I won't focus on her thighs.

I knock at 4:58. Heart hammering. The door opens.

“Hey big brother,” she teases, and I’d appreciate the jab if I wasn’t busy looking at what she’s wearing. She’s going to make this difficult.

A high-waisted denim skirt sits at her little waist, covering barely two inches of her thick thighs. She’s in this adorable white billowy crop top that is off-the-shoulder. Then I see the real killer.

She’s not wearing a bra.

Tension knots in my jaw; I can feel my teeth press, threatening to crack.

"Big brother," I repeat, my voice a low growl. She's doing this on purpose—testing me, pushing every boundary I tried to draw in Sharpie last night.

My eyes rake over her again.

“You’re playing with fire, kid.” I say low enough I don’t think she hears. I step inside without waiting for an invitation, forcing my eyes to the flickering kitchen light. 

She lets me pass, her cheerful little chirp following me in, “I’ve got lasagna in the oven, home made.”

Don't look at her tits. Don't look at her tits.

I take in her apartment instead. It’s a typical college girl’s space. Throw pillows scattered across a sagging couch, textbooks stacked like crooked towers on the coffee table, and fairy lights drooping from thumbtacks along the wall. A laptop buried under fashion magazines on the coffee table, framed photos clustered on every surface, and that IKEA bookshelf everyone buys freshman year.

I set the whiskey bottle on her formica counter with a thunk. “Figured you’d need this. But now I’m thinking I need it more.”

My dick is throbbing against my jeans. She’s my father's wife's daughter. “Show me this light.” I say calmly, looking anywhere but at her.

“Uhm, it’s right here.” She points directly above us.

Duh.

The fluorescent fixture hums and flickers above us, casting harsh shadows across her bare shoulder. 

Focus on the goddamn job.

I set the tool bag down with more force than necessary, the metal clanging against her cheap linoleum. “You know,” I say, my voice rough as I pull out my voltage tester, “most people would wear a bra when their stepbrother's coming over.” I shouldn’t be saying this. I shouldn’t be noticing. “Unless you’re trying to get me to fuck up.”

I climb onto her kitchen counter without asking, jeans stretching tight across my thighs. From up here, I have a perfect view down her top. “Hand me that Phillips head.”

When I glance down at her, she’s smirking, but she hands me the screwdriver.

“My tits are too small for most men to notice,” she says, “I go without a bra all the time.”

My hand freezes mid-reach, screwdriver hovering between us. I force my eyes from her chest to her face, and the insecurity there makes something protective and primal rear up in me.

“Too small?” Jesus, she's actually serious. I take the screwdriver, but I don't move. “Marie, I’m forty years old. I've seen tits that could suffocate a man and tits that fit in a champagne glass.” I let my eyes drop deliberately, then drag them back to hers. “Yours are fucking perfect.”

She bites her lip. Fuck.

I turn back to the light. The fluorescent panel pops off with a snap. “Now stop fishing for compliments and hand me that voltage tester.”

I fuss with the light in silence for a while. My suspicions are confirmed. This isn’t an issue with the bulb, it’s an electrical problem. I’ll need to get an electrician out here.

“I’ve got good news and bad news,” I say, dropping down from the counter with a thud that probably pisses off her downstairs neighbors, “The good news is, your lasagna smells delicious. The bad news is, we need an electrician to come out to fix this.”

“Oh, shit,” she says. “Well let’s drink to the bad news.”

She hands me a glass and I clink it against hers. The fluorescent light hums above us, casting flickering shadows across her bare shoulder. 

Should leave. Should absolutely fucking leave.

But my boots stay rooted to her linoleum.

“You're not old enough to drink to bad news,” I say, but I'm already sipping from the glass.

My eyes find hers over the rim. “This electrician’s going to cost you. Couple hundred, easy.” I plaster on a playful grin, “Unless you’ve got another way to pay me.”

The words come out before I can stop them. It’s a terrible joke, but I’m interested in seeing what my brilliant, brave girl says.

“You’re a dog,” she laughs, “this isn’t a porno, big brother. My stepfather happens to be a billionaire. I’m not worried about a couple hundred bucks.”

I laugh too, because she’s right. Marie doesn’t take advantage of Hunter’s generosity. Not like her mother. But will Hunter pay for a needed electrical repair? Absolutely.

But I’m not going to let him. “I’ll pay for it. I don’t mind.” As far as I know, Marie doesn’t work.

“Thanks,” she smiles, and it hits me right in the gut.

My hand is reaching out before I can stop it, brushing a stray hair from her face. She does that lip bite again and I have to bite mine too.

“I shouldn’t be here,” I admit to her, “Shouldn’t be alone with you. Shouldn’t look at you like this.”

But I don’t move away. I inhale slow and deep, “Tell me to leave, little one. Tell me this is a mistake and I’ll go.”

“Drake, I—”

Buzz.

The kitchen timer goes off, breaking the spell.

I should leave. 

The words are screaming in my skull, but my boots are rooted to her floor. That lip bite is going to be the death of me.

The kitchen timer’s insistent buzzing cuts through the static in my brain. Dinner. She’s offering dinner, not a blowjob. 

Be a goddamn adult.

“Yeah,” I manage, my voice rough as sandpaper. I force my hand away from her face, from that impossibly soft skin. “Yeah, I'll stay.”

I step back, putting space between us that feels physical. Grab my whiskey glass. Knock it back. The burn helps.

“You sure you want me at your table?” I ask, watching her move toward the oven. “I'm not exactly good company right now.”

My cock is still throbbing against my zipper, and the smell of lasagna is mixing with her perfume in a way that's making me dizzy.

She looks at me with soft eyes. Eyes like she’s sorry. I want to ask her what she’s sorry for. For being brilliant, beautiful, perfect? But that’s not why. She’s sorry for the same reason I should be: we cannot do this.

“You’re always good company, Drake,” she says just as soft as her eyes. She’s plated two servings of lasagna, mine much larger than hers and she brings them to a little card table she uses as a dining table. It’s barely big enough to seat two, but it works.

“So what do you do in your free time, Drake?” She asks, “When you’re not fixing things, what are you doing?”

“You don’t want to know what I do in my free time, kid,” I say, my voice low and rough. I pull out the rickety chair anyway, the metal groaning under my weight. The table’s so small our knees brush underneath. “It’s not... respectable.”

I stab at the lasagna, watching cheese stretch and break. The scent of garlic and tomatoes fills the tiny kitchen, mixing with her perfume until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins. “I drink too much. I smoke cigars on my balcony. I drive too fast.” I finally look up, meeting those blue eyes that are too wise for twenty-one. “I think about things I shouldn't think about.”

My knee presses harder against hers under the table—accidental, then deliberate.

“I think about things I shouldn't too. And what I do with my free time is far from respectable.” She says it with a wry grin that makes me shiver.

I freeze. Is she talking about what I think she’s talking about? Surely not. But I’ll give her credit, she’s got me curious.

“Far from respectable,” I repeat, my voice dropping lower. I have to shift in the rickety chair. The metal groans. “You want to elaborate on that, kid?”

I finally take a bite of the lasagna. Holy shit. It’s good—really good—yet another reason why my girl is perfect for me. I love food. But I can’t focus on that—I’m watching her over my fork. Her eyes are still soft, but there's something else now—mischief, maybe. Or challenge. 

I continue when she doesn’t answer right away, “from where I'm sitting, you look like the picture of innocence.” I smirk, “But I have a feeling you're not."

We’re back in dangerous territory, but I don’t care. I have to know what she’s talking about. Not just because I think it might be sexual, but because I want to know everything about her. Whatever she does she thinks is shameful, I want to assure her it’s not. The thought of her feeling shame fills me with dread.

“Innocent can mean a lot of things.” She says, popping another bite of lasagna in her mouth to buy herself some time before she has to elaborate, “by some definitions, I’m innocent. I mean, I’m a virgin for fucks sake.”

My fork freezes halfway to my mouth, and I have to set it down before I drop it. My knee against hers suddenly feels like a brand.

“Jesus Christ, Marie.” My voice comes out almost pained. twenty-one and a virgin. Of course she is. The thought of being her first makes my cock ache and my conscience scream in equal measure. “Wait, so then what do you mean by what you do isn’t respectable?”

She stands and holds out a hand, grinning wickedly, “I’ll show you.”

My eyes drop to her outstretched hand, then drag back up to that smirk. That goddamn smirk that says she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.

“Show me,” I repeat, my voice barely recognizable.