Deep End
"With their parents on a cruise, he's stuck at home with his curvy stepsister and a backyard pool. The heat wave makes everything harder to resist."
"They're really doing this."
Mia stands next to me on the driveway, watching our parents' Uber pull away. Two weeks. A Mediterranean cruise. "You kids will be fine on your own," Mom said, like we're not both in our twenties.
"They're really doing this," I agree.
The car disappears around the corner. Mia and I look at each other.
"So," she says. "Two weeks."
"Two weeks."
"Alone."
"Yep."
She grins. "Race you to the pool."
The thing about Mia is: I'm not supposed to want her.
She became my stepsister six years ago, when my dad married her mom. I was nineteen. She was twenty-one. We'd known each other for maybe three months before we were suddenly family, expected to treat each other like siblings.
But Mia doesn't look like a sibling.
Mia looks like every fantasy I've ever had, wrapped in curves and sarcasm.
She's twenty-seven now. Five-foot-four. Easily two-thirty, maybe more—thick everywhere, soft everywhere, the kind of body that makes bikinis look pornographic. Dark curly hair. Brown skin from her Puerto Rican mom. Wide hips and thick thighs and an ass that haunts my dreams.
And right now, she's climbing out of the pool in a black bikini that barely contains anything.
"You're staring."
I blink. She's standing on the pool deck, water streaming down her body, hands on her hips.
"Sorry. I was—"
"Staring. I noticed." She doesn't look mad. She looks... curious. "What were you looking at?"
"Nothing."
"Liar." She walks toward me, slow, water droplets catching the sunlight. Her belly jiggles with each step. Her breasts bounce. The bikini bottom is riding up between her thighs. "You've been looking at me like that since we were nineteen."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you don't." She stops in front of my deck chair. Close. Too close. "That's why you always leave the room when I'm in a swimsuit. Why you can't look me in the eye after Thanksgiving dinner every year. Why you—"
"Mia."
"Tell me I'm wrong." Her voice drops. "Tell me you don't think about me. That you haven't thought about me for six years."
I can't.
Because I have.
"This is fucked up," I say.
"Probably." She sits on the edge of my deck chair, and I can feel the heat of her skin. "Our parents would lose their minds."
"They would."
"So we should... not."
"We should definitely not."
Silence. The summer sun beats down. Sweat trickles down my back. And Mia is right there, wet and glistening and watching me with eyes that know exactly what I'm thinking.
"I'm going inside," she says. "To shower. In my bathroom. With the door unlocked."
She stands. Walks away. Her ass sways with each step.
I watch her disappear into the house.
Then I count to thirty and follow her.
The bathroom door is open.
Steam billows out. I hear the shower running. I step inside, and she's behind the glass door, water cascading over her naked body.
She sees me. Smiles.
"Took you long enough."
I've imagined this so many times.
Stripping off my swim trunks. Opening the shower door. Stepping in with her. But the reality is better—she's bigger than I let myself picture, softer, more real. Her breasts are massive, hanging heavy, dark nipples stiff from the water or from anticipation. Her belly is round and soft, pressing against me when I pull her close. Her thighs spread to make room for mine.
"We shouldn't do this," I whisper.
"Probably not." Her hand wraps around my cock. "Do you want to stop?"
"Fuck no."
She laughs and strokes me, and I groan and grab her ass—huge handfuls, overflowing my grip—and we're kissing, finally, six years of tension exploding in the steam.
I spin her around.
Press her against the shower wall. Her ass pushes back against me, and I slide my cock between her cheeks, grinding, teasing.
"Don't tease," she gasps. "I've been waiting too long for you to tease—"
"How long?"
"Since the wedding." She presses back harder. "Since I saw you in that suit and thought, 'Why couldn't we have met a year ago? Before we became family.'"
"We're not real family."
"Tell that to everyone else."
"I don't care about everyone else." I reach around, find her clit, start rubbing. She moans, loud, echoing off the tiles. "I care about you. I've always cared about you."
"Then show me."
I do.
I drop to my knees.
The shower water hits my back while I spread her cheeks from behind, and God, she's beautiful—thick thighs, round ass, pussy already swollen and glistening with more than just water.
I lean in and lick.
"Marcus!" She braces against the wall. "Oh fuck—oh fuck—"
I eat her from behind like I've been starving for it. Because I have. Six years of family dinners and holiday parties and pretending I wasn't hard under the table when she bent over in a low-cut dress. Six years of cold showers and closed doors and guilt.
No more guilt.
Now there's just her—moaning, shaking, pushing back against my tongue while I worship her.
"I'm gonna—already—fuck—"
She comes so hard she almost falls. I catch her, hold her up, lick her through it until she's sobbing and begging me to stop.
Then I stand, spin her around, and lift.
"What are you—"
"Wrap your legs around me."
She does. Her weight settles against me—two hundred and thirty pounds of stepsister, held up by my hands on her ass—and I pin her against the shower wall.
"Can you even—"
I slide inside her.
She screams.
The angle is perfect.
She's pinned between me and the tiles, her legs around my waist, and I can fuck up into her with every thrust. Her tits bounce against my chest. Her belly jiggles between us. Her cunt grips me so tight it's almost painful.
"Marcus—yes—don't stop—"
I couldn't if I wanted to. Six years of wanting this, and now I have it—have her—and I'm going to make it count.
"You feel so fucking good," I grunt. "So tight—so wet—"
"Harder—please—harder—"
I give her harder. The wet slap of skin echoes off the tiles. She screams every time I bottom out. And when she comes again—clenching around me, nails in my shoulders, my name on her lips—I follow her over.
I come so deep inside her I forget where I end and she begins.
We make it to her bed eventually.
Wet, naked, tangled together on sheets that are going to need washing.
"So," she says. "That happened."
"It did."
"Regrets?"
"Not even one." I pull her closer, feel her softness against me. "You?"
"Just that we waited six years." She laughs. "We could have been doing this the whole time."
"We have two weeks to make up for it."
"Two weeks." She traces a finger down my chest. "Think that's enough?"
"It's a start."
The rest of the week is a blur.
Pool sex. Kitchen sex. Living room sex on the couch our parents sit on during movie nights. We fuck on every surface in the house, claiming it as ours, making memories that will make future holidays very interesting.
"We need to talk about what happens after," she says one night.
"After?"
"When they come back. We can't exactly keep doing this in the room next to theirs."
"I've thought about that." I prop myself up on one elbow. "I've been looking at apartments. Closer to your job."
"...You have?"
"We're not related, Mia. Not really. If we want to be together—actually together—we can. We just have to be willing to deal with the fallout."
"My mom would freak."
"Probably."
"Your dad would never speak to me again."
"Maybe."
"It would ruin holidays forever."
"So we'll make our own holidays." I take her hand. "I'm not saying it'll be easy. I'm saying you're worth it. If you want me."
She's quiet for a long moment.
Then she kisses me—soft, deep, full of promise.
"Let's see those apartment listings."
They come home on a Tuesday.
We pick them up at the airport, all smiles and hugs and "how was your trip?" We sit through dinner as they show us photos, laugh at inside jokes, hold hands across the table like newlyweds.
Under the table, Mia's hand is on my thigh.
"You two seem closer," Mom says, watching us. "Did you bond while we were gone?"
Mia squeezes my leg.
"Something like that," I say.
We tell them three months later.
After we've signed a lease together. After we've built a life outside those walls. After we're sure enough about each other to face whatever comes.
Dad doesn't take it well. Neither does Carol. There's shouting, crying, accusations of betrayal and confusion and what were you thinking.
But eventually—months later, years later—they come around.
Not all the way. There's always a tension at holidays, a weight in certain silences.
But we're happy.
And in the end, that's what matters.
Some nights, when we're in our apartment—the one with the pool on the roof that we definitely overuse—Mia looks at me and laughs.
"Remember that first summer?"
"When you left the bathroom door unlocked?"
"I'd been planning that for three years." She grins. "Waiting for the right moment."
"What made it the right moment?"
"You were finally looking at me like you wanted to. Not like you were ashamed of wanting to." She kisses me softly. "That's all I needed. For you to stop running."
"I'm not running anymore."
"I know."
She pulls me toward the bedroom, and the roof pool will have to wait.
Some things are worth jumping into headfirst.
She's one of them.