But did it matter? I was his anyway.
The raw awareness of his unsheathed cock coupled with the fact that none of that was supposed to be happening made every thrust a thousand times more intense than I ever dreamed possible. At least I was on the pill, though I don’t think it’d have changed anything. I wanted him more than anything, and my body was willing to go into self-destruct mode to get it.
My teeth grazed over my bottom lip as I stifled a moan. I didn’t want to look at him. I didn’t want to know if he was looking at me with deep longing or unforgivable hatred. It felt like love, the way he was fucking me, but it was easier to pretend everything was fine if I didn’t have to see his face. I easily replaced it with the way I saw him in my memory: strong and resilient with mischief in his eyes. Crazy about me.
My lower back ached as every thrust forced it to rub against the wood of the door, but none of that mattered. The physical pain on the outside was miniscule compared to what was going on inside me. My body and heart worked in tandem to soak in every detail of that moment from the smell of the cologne that faintly floated from the collar of his white shirt to the way his hair felt as I gripped the back of his neck. My mind quieted itself, as if to graciously give us all a break.
Wilder groaned as he released himself inside me and I let go, riding an intense wave of all-consuming pleasure as my hips bucked wildly in response to his writhing cock.
When it was all over, he pulled out of me and I slid down the wall, my knees buckling and threatening to give out. I needed someone, or something, to cling onto before I crumpled.
I forced my eyes open, looking at him for the first time since he’d kissed me, the memory of which would forever be burned into my lips. I drank him in, starting with the two pools of blue staring into my soul. He was real. He was there. He’d just fucked me. And I had loved every second of it.
Emptiness infiltrated my spirit once again as I accepted the fact that he was no longer a part of me. I tugged my skirt down my thighs and straightened my blouse. I dared myself to speak, but I chickened out.
His buckled his pants while tears filled my eyes once again. I wanted to go back to the way we were. I wanted to smile again. I wanted to wake up next to him every morning and rush home from a long day of work and happily lose myself in a tangled web of sheets and sex. I wanted his fingers in my hair and his mouth owning every square inch of real estate on my naked body.
Uncontrollable tears pooled in my eyes before trailing down my cheeks and splashing in tiny drops on the tops of my bare feet. I couldn’t stop them if I tried. I wanted to be with him, but no amount of desire or secret fuck sessions would ever change the reality of our situation.
Wilder left my presence and returned moments later with a handful of tissues, dabbing my cheeks. How ironic that I was the one who’d hurt him so badly, and yet there he was, wiping my tears.
I didn’t deserve him and yet I needed him more than I needed the air I breathed. I stumbled to the living room, falling into the overstuffed chair and burying my face in my arm. My shoulders heaved with every sob that escaped my mouth, but my face stayed hidden. I didn’t want him to see me like that, and I couldn’t look at him again.
“This has to be the last time,” I sobbed. “This can’t happen again.”
His silence killed me. Absolutely killed me. I needed to know what he was thinking, but then again, none of it would’ve made a difference.
There was only one solution to all of this: I had to fall out of love with him.
“Please, just go,” I hiccupped into my arm.
Silence.
I felt him, just mere feet from me. He lingered for a second. And then I listened as the soles of his shoes echoed toward the door. I didn’t look up again until I’d heard it slam behind him. He was only doing what I’d asked, but it didn’t keep my heart from shattering into countless slivers that ached with every beat.
There’s a certain kind of power in words unspoken. Which was why I said nothing the entire time I was fucking my stepsister.
Stepsister. The word is such a fucking joke when you’re a grown man. It conjures up an image of a bratty, pig-tailed, pimple-faced little girl who chases you around and tries to annoy you. You’re forced to live together like one picture-perfect family as your parents pretend you’re blood related. You take family vacations and do your best to get along, creating memories you’ll someday laugh about when you’re all grown.
But I didn’t have that experience with her. Not a damn bone in my body saw her in any kind of sisterly way. We didn’t have a history—not like that, anyway.
I’d spotted her walking home around three that afternoon, and I recognized the pained look on her face. It was the exact same one I’d been wearing since I saw her that morning. So I followed her. I wanted to know if she meant what she said.
It wasn’t my intention to fuck her up against a wall and bury myself balls deep inside her as she cried and wordlessly begged for more. In a way it was fucked up on both our parts, and there weren’t any words that would’ve made any kind of sense out of what we did.
So I said nothing. It was better that way. She needed to feel my love, not hear about it. I could give her a million reasons as to why we could—why we should—try to make it work, but none would hold a flame to the way my body spoke to hers when we were together.
As far as I was concerned, she knew how I felt. I wasn’t afraid to face our strange predicament head on and take what belonged to me. But I wasn’t going to chase her around like some pathetic, pining jackass.