Home Again
"She left for college as his awkward stepsister. She came back as something else entirely — and she needs his help with something in her room."
Maya's been back for two weeks, and I've been avoiding her for thirteen days.
Not because I don't like her. That's the problem.
She left for college four years ago — eighteen, skinny, quiet. The kind of stepsister who ate dinner in her room and flinched when you talked to her. We weren't close. We weren't anything.
She came back... different.
I first saw her when she walked through the front door with two suitcases and a broken engagement. She'd filled out — hips, thighs, breasts that strained against her t-shirt. Soft belly visible when she stretched. And her eyes. There was something in them that hadn't been there before. Something knowing.
"Hey, stepbro." She'd smiled at me, and I felt it in my chest. "Miss me?"
I've been hiding in my room ever since.
Saturday afternoon. Dad and her mom are downstairs watching some movie. I can hear the muffled dialogue through the floor.
A knock on my door.
"Yeah?"
Maya opens it without waiting for an invitation. She's wearing a white tank top and gray cotton shorts that hug every curve. No bra. I can see the outline of her nipples through the fabric.
I look at my laptop. Very intently.
"Hey, I need your help with something."
"What?"
"I bought a mirror for my room but I can't hang it by myself. Need someone to hold it while I mark the wall."
I should say no. I should say I'm busy. I should say literally anything except—
"Sure."
She smiles. "Thanks. Come on."
Her room still has boxes stacked in the corner. She's been back two weeks and hasn't fully unpacked. Part of me wonders if she's not sure she's staying.
The mirror is leaning against the wall — full-length, ornate frame. She picks it up and climbs onto her bed, standing on the mattress.
"Okay, I'm going to hold it up, and you tell me when it's level."
She lifts the mirror, pressing it against the wall above her headboard. The position puts her body on display — arms raised, tank top riding up to show the soft curve of her belly, breasts lifted.
I'm eye-level with her hips. Her thighs. The way those shorts cling to her ass.
"Well?" she asks. "Is it straight?"
"What?"
"The mirror. Is it level?"
"Yeah. Yeah, it's good."
She marks two spots with a pencil. "Okay, now I need you to hold it while I find the drill."
She hands me the mirror and climbs down. I step onto the bed to hold it in place. From downstairs, I can hear explosions from the movie.
"Don't move," she says. "I'll be right back."
She's gone for two minutes. I stand there like an idiot, holding a mirror, trying not to think about her nipples.
She comes back without a drill.
"Can't find it." She climbs back onto the bed with me. The mattress dips under her weight. "But while you're here..."
"Maya—"
"You've been avoiding me." She's standing close now. Too close. I can smell her — something floral and warm. "Why?"
"I haven't been—"
"You have." She tilts her head, studying me. "You barely look at me. You leave the room when I walk in. What's wrong? You don't like the new me?"
"That's not—"
"Then what?" She takes the mirror from my hands, sets it aside. "Because I've noticed something, James. When you do look at me? You can't stop."
My face burns. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"No?" She steps closer. Her chest is almost touching mine. "So you weren't staring at my ass yesterday when I was getting water? You weren't looking down my shirt at breakfast?"
"Jesus, Maya—"
"I'm not mad." Her voice drops. Softer. "I'm just wondering why you're pretending."
The TV drones downstairs. Canned laughter. Her parents — our parents — have no idea their kids are standing on a bed together, barely a breath apart.
"This is..." I shake my head. "We can't."
"Can't what?" She's enjoying this. I can see it in her eyes — the spark, the challenge. "I haven't said what I want yet."
"Maya."
"Say you haven't thought about it." She reaches up, touches my jaw. Her fingers are warm. "Say you haven't looked at me and wondered what I look like under these clothes. Say it, and I'll let you go back to your room."
I can't say it.
Because I have thought about it. Every goddamn night since she came home.
"That's what I thought." She smiles — not cruel, but knowing. Victorious. "So the question is... what are we going to do about it?"
I should leave. I should walk out of this room and take a cold shower and pretend this never happened.
Instead, I kiss her.
She makes a small sound against my mouth — surprise, then satisfaction. Her arms come up around my neck. Her body presses against mine, soft and warm and fuller than any girl I've ever touched.
My hands find her hips. God, her hips. I grip them and pull her closer, feeling her curves against me.
"Quiet," she breathes against my lips. "They're right downstairs."
"Then we shouldn't—"
"We absolutely should." She pulls back just enough to grab the hem of her tank top. She pulls it over her head in one motion.
Her breasts spill free — heavy, round, perfect. She sees me staring and smiles.
"Touch me."
I do. I cup them, feel their weight, brush my thumbs over her nipples. She bites her lip to keep quiet.
"Fuck," she whispers. "I've been thinking about your hands for two weeks."
"You have?"
"Why do you think I wore this outfit?" She pushes my shirt up, running her hands over my stomach, my chest. "Why do you think I made up an excuse to get you in my room?"
"The mirror—"
"I know how to use a level, James. I just wanted to see how long you could resist."
She pushes me down onto the bed.
She straddles me, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from groaning. She's heavier than I expected — solid, real, her weight pinning me to the mattress.
"God, you're hard already." She rolls her hips, grinding against me through our clothes. "All this from just looking at me?"
"Maya, if they hear—"
"Then you'd better keep quiet." She leans down, bites my earlobe. "Can you do that?"
"Yes."
"Good boy."
She sits up and slides her shorts down, wiggling out of them without getting off me. Black panties underneath. She leaves them on — for now.
"Your turn," she says, tugging at my waistband. "Off."
I lift my hips and let her pull my shorts down. She looks at me — really looks — and her smile widens.
"Oh, stepbro. You've been hiding this from me?"
"Maya—"
She wraps her hand around me and I nearly choke.
Everything has to be quiet. Every gasp swallowed, every moan caught behind clenched teeth.
She strokes me slowly, watching my face, enjoying my struggle to stay silent. Downstairs, I can hear dialogue — some action movie, explosions, car chases. Normal Saturday afternoon sounds.
Up here, I'm losing my mind.
"Please," I whisper.
"Please what?"
"I need—"
"Need what?" She's teasing me, slowing down every time I get close. "Use your words."
"I need to be inside you."
She shivers. The first crack in her control.
"Ask nicely."
"Please, Maya. Please let me fuck you."
She releases me and slides her panties to the side. "Since you asked so nicely."
She sinks down onto me slowly. Inch by inch. Her eyes flutter closed and her lips part, but she doesn't make a sound.
Neither do I. I'm biting my fist.
When she's fully seated, she pauses. Opens her eyes. Looks down at me with something like triumph.
"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" Her voice is barely a whisper. "Your thick stepsister riding you while Mommy and Daddy watch TV?"
"Fuck—"
"Shh." She starts to move. Slow, rolling her hips, finding a rhythm. "You have to be quiet. Can you do that?"
I nod.
She rewards me by moving faster.
It's torture. The best kind.
Every sound could give us away. The creak of the bed, the wet sound of our bodies, her breath catching when I thrust up into her. I grip her hips — those gorgeous, full hips — and try to hold on.
She's biting her lip so hard I think she might draw blood. Her hands are planted on my chest, nails digging in.
"I'm close," she breathes. "Oh god, I'm close—"
"Me too."
"Not yet." She slows down, makes me whine. "Not until I say."
"Maya, please—"
"Not. Yet."
She edges me — brings me to the brink and backs off, again and again. I'm shaking. Sweating. Desperate.
Finally, finally, she leans down and kisses me.
"Now," she whispers against my lips. "Come with me."
She rolls her hips one more time, clenching around me, and I shatter.
We come together, swallowing each other's moans. I can feel her trembling, feel her pulse around me. My vision goes white.
For a long moment, neither of us moves.
She climbs off me slowly, carefully. Grabs her tank top and pulls it on. Slides her shorts back up like nothing happened.
I'm still lying on the bed, trying to remember how to breathe.
"You should probably go back to your room," she says, fixing her hair in the mirror we never hung. "Before they notice you're gone."
"Maya... what was this?"
She looks at me over her shoulder. That smile again — knowing, satisfied, dangerous.
"This was me getting what I wanted." She crosses to the bed, leans down, kisses my forehead. "And you getting what you wanted. But you can't look at me weird at dinner, okay?"
"I don't think I can look at you at all."
"You'll figure it out." She pulls back. "Now go. I'll be down in five."
I get dressed on autopilot. At the door, I pause.
"Is this... just a one-time thing?"
She tilts her head, considering. "Do you want it to be?"
"No."
"Then I guess you'd better hope I buy more furniture that needs assembling." She winks. "Now go."
Dinner is surreal.
We sit across from each other, passing dishes, making small talk with our parents. Normal family dinner. Nothing unusual.
Under the table, her foot brushes my ankle.
I nearly choke on my water.
She just smiles and asks her mom to pass the salt.
Later, when I'm back in my room, my phone buzzes.
Maya: That shelf in my closet is pretty wobbly. Think you could take a look at it tomorrow?
I stare at the screen.
Maya: Parents have book club. House to ourselves.
Maya: Wear something easy to take off.
I type back: What time?
Her response is immediate: As soon as they leave.
I'm already counting down the hours.