Shared Walls
"Their parents' honeymoon leaves them alone in the house for two weeks. She's his new stepsister—thick, shameless, and tired of pretending she hasn't noticed him staring."
The wedding was beautiful. I didn't pay attention to any of it.
I was too busy watching Maya.
She stood across the aisle, maid of honor to her mother's bride. Dark braids piled on her head. A burgundy dress that hugged every curve—and there were a lot of curves. She was twenty-two, same as me, but built like a woman who'd been waiting her whole life to be looked at.
Wide hips. Thick thighs. An ass that made the dress work overtime. Breasts that threatened to spill out of the neckline.
She caught me staring. Smiled.
I looked away.
"Two weeks in Greece," Mom said at the reception, practically glowing. "Can you believe it?"
"You deserve it." I hugged her. "Both of you."
Her new husband—Marcus, a quiet accountant with kind eyes—put his arm around her. "The kids will be fine. Right, Maya?"
"Totally fine." Maya appeared beside me, champagne in hand. Her shoulder brushed mine. "Tyler and I will take good care of the house."
"I'm sure you will." Mom kissed my cheek. "Just don't kill each other."
"No promises," Maya said. Then she winked at me when no one was looking.
They left the next morning.
I was in the kitchen, making coffee, when Maya came downstairs. She was wearing an oversized t-shirt and nothing else. Her legs were bare, smooth, thick as tree trunks. The shirt ended just below her ass.
"Morning, stepbro." She stretched, and the shirt rode up. She wasn't wearing underwear. I saw everything.
"Jesus, Maya—"
"What?" She dropped her arms innocently. "We're family now. Family is comfortable around each other."
"There's comfortable and there's—" I gestured at her. "That."
"That?" She poured herself coffee, bending over more than necessary. The shirt rode up again. "I don't know what you mean."
I retreated to my room.
Day Two
She sunbathed in the backyard. Topless.
I found out when I went to get the mail and glanced through the sliding glass door. She was on a lounger, face-down, bikini top untied, her thick body glistening with oil.
I stood there longer than I should have.
She rolled over. Saw me. Made no move to cover herself.
Her breasts were full and heavy, nipples dark and hard from the sun. She waved.
I walked face-first into the door frame.
Day Three
"We should talk about what's happening," she said at dinner.
"Nothing's happening."
"You stare at me constantly."
"I don't—"
"Tyler." She set down her fork. "At the wedding. In the kitchen. Yesterday through the door. You look at me like you want to eat me alive."
"You're my stepsister."
"So?"
"So that's not—we can't—"
"Can't what?" She stood. Walked around the table. She was wearing shorts and a tank top—more clothes than usual, but still too little. "Can't acknowledge that there's something between us? Can't admit that every time I walk into a room, you lose the ability to speak?"
"Maya—"
"I'm not going to pretend." She stopped in front of me. "I've dated guys my age. They're boring. Selfish. They don't know how to look at a woman like me—like I'm something to be worshipped, not tolerated."
"And you think I do?"
"I know you do." She took my hand. Placed it on her hip. "The way you look at my body—like it's too much and exactly enough at the same time. Do you know how rare that is?"
I didn't move my hand. I should have. I didn't.
"This is a bad idea," I said.
"Probably." She stepped closer. Her breasts pressed against my chest. "Do you care?"
"Yes."
"Liar."
She kissed me.
Her mouth tasted like the wine we'd had with dinner.
She kissed like she did everything else—bold, unapologetic, taking what she wanted. Her hands fisted in my shirt and pulled me closer. I grabbed her ass—both hands, squeezing—and she moaned into my mouth.
"Finally," she breathed. "I've been waiting for you to do that all week."
"We're supposed to be siblings."
"Stepsiblings. There's no blood." She pulled back enough to look at me. Her eyes were dark, hungry. "Our parents fell in love and got married. That's their choice. But we're adults. We get to make our own choices."
"And you're choosing this?"
"I'm choosing you." She pulled her tank top over her head. Her breasts bounced free, heavy and perfect. "Now take me upstairs before I lose my patience."
Her bedroom was pink and messy—clothes everywhere, makeup scattered on the dresser. She pushed me onto her bed and climbed on top of me.
"I want you to understand something." She ground against me, her thick thighs squeezing my hips. "I'm not some delicate flower. I'm not going to break. I want to be fucked, Tyler. Hard. Like you mean it."
"I can do that."
"Prove it."
I flipped her over. She yelped, then laughed as I pinned her wrists above her head. Her breasts heaved with each breath.
"Better," she said. "Now the shorts."
I pulled them off. She was soaked—I could see it glistening between her thick thighs. She spread her legs wide, shameless.
"No underwear," I noted.
"Haven't worn any since Mom left. I wanted to be ready."
"Ready for what?"
"For whenever you finally grew a pair and made a move." She reached for my belt. "Your turn."
When I pushed inside her, she screamed.
Not in pain. In relief.
"Yes—fuck, yes—" Her nails raked down my back. "I knew it. I knew you'd feel like this."
She was tight—impossibly tight for how wet she was—and her thick body cushioned every thrust. Her breasts bounced. Her ass jiggled against the mattress. She wrapped her legs around me and pulled me deeper.
"Harder," she demanded. "I said harder—"
I gave her harder.
The headboard slammed against the wall. She was loud—so loud—moaning and screaming and begging for more. I covered her mouth with my hand and she bit down on my fingers.
"Don't you dare stop—"
I didn't.
She came three times before I finished.
The first was quick—barely two minutes in, she went rigid and shook. The second came when I flipped her over and took her from behind, her ass slapping against my hips. The third happened when I pulled her hair and called her a good girl, and she exploded around me, collapsing onto the mattress.
When I finally came, I pulled out at the last second—spilled across her back.
"Next time," she panted, face-down, "inside. I'm on birth control."
"Next time?"
"We have two weeks, Tyler." She rolled over, smeared in sweat and cum. "You think I'm letting you out of this bed?"
Day Seven
She wasn't lying.
We fucked in her bedroom. My bedroom. The shower. The kitchen counter. The couch where our parents had probably made out.
"Does this make us terrible people?" I asked one night, her head on my chest, our legs tangled together.
"Probably." She traced circles on my stomach. "Do you regret it?"
"No."
"Good. Me neither." She looked up at me. "When they come back—"
"We'll be careful."
"We'll be secret." She sat up. Her breasts hung heavy, nipples still hard. "But we're not stopping. I waited too long to have you. I'm not giving this up."
"Even if it means sneaking around forever?"
"Forever is a long time." She climbed on top of me. I was already hard again. "But I'm willing to try."
Day Fourteen
They came home tan and happy.
Maya and I greeted them at the door, standing a respectable distance apart. Mom hugged me. Marcus hugged Maya. Everything looked normal.
"How was it?" Mom asked. "Did you two get along?"
"We found some common ground," Maya said.
"More than I expected," I added.
They bought it. Of course they did. They were too blissed out on honeymoon afterglow to notice the way Maya's hand brushed my lower back when she walked past.
That night, after everyone went to bed, I heard a soft knock on my door.
She slipped inside. Closed it behind her.
"They're asleep," she whispered.
"We shouldn't—"
"Quiet then." She pulled off her nightgown. Naked underneath. "Very, very quiet."
We've been doing this for six months now.
Family dinners where we play siblings. Late nights where we play something else entirely.
Mom talks about how happy she is that we've bonded. Marcus jokes about us being friends.
They have no idea.
Maya catches my eye across the Thanksgiving table, where she's sitting between her mother and mine. She's wearing a sweater that shows off her cleavage. Under the table, her foot slides up my leg.
"Anyone want more pie?" Mom asks.
"I'm good," I say.
Maya smiles. "Me too."
We're not talking about pie.