The Right Sister | NEON LIT

I see her the moment she walks in.

Ellie is wearing a burgundy wrap dress that clings to every curve — and there are so many curves. Full hips that sway when she walks. Breasts that strain against the fabric. A softness to her belly that the dress doesn't hide, doesn't try to hide. She's not built like Claire. She's not built like anyone I'm supposed to want.

But I want her. I've wanted her for four years.

"David!" Claire appears at my elbow, pressing a wine glass into my hand. "Can you check on the appetizers? Mom's losing her mind in the kitchen."

"Sure." I tear my eyes away from Ellie, who's hugging her father, laughing at something he's said. When she laughs, her whole body moves.

Claire kisses my cheek and disappears into the crowd. Her father's sixtieth birthday has brought everyone out — aunts, uncles, cousins I've never met. The house is full of noise and bodies and the smell of too much food.

I head toward the kitchen. I don't look back at Ellie.

I feel her looking at me.

The appetizers are fine. Claire's mother is not losing her mind; she's efficiently commanding a small army of caterers. I make myself useful anyway — moving trays, refilling ice, doing the things a good son-in-law does.

That's what I am. The good son-in-law. The safe choice.

Claire and I met at a work conference. She was organized, practical, pretty in a clean, uncomplicated way. We dated for a year. Got engaged. Got married. It was all very sensible.

I met Ellie at the engagement party.

She'd been living abroad — some art program in Barcelona. She walked into that party in a flowing green dress, dark hair loose around her shoulders, and smiled at me like she knew something I didn't.

"So you're the one who finally locked down my sister," she'd said, shaking my hand. Her grip was warm and firm. "Claire always did have good taste."

I think about that handshake more than I should.

I'm refilling my wine when I feel someone behind me. Close. Too close for a crowded room.

"You've been watching me."

Ellie's voice is low, meant only for me. I can smell her perfume — something warm and spicy.

"I don't know what you mean." I don't turn around.

"Liar." She says it like an endearment. "Upstairs. Five minutes. First door on the right."

Then she's gone, slipping through the crowd like she was never there.

I stand frozen, wine glass in hand. My heart is pounding. I should find Claire. I should stay down here, surrounded by family, safe from whatever Ellie is offering.

I drain my wine and head for the stairs.

The door is open just a crack. I push it open and step inside.

It's a guest room — generic floral bedspread, watercolor landscapes on the walls. Ellie is sitting on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, watching me with those dark eyes.

"Close the door."

I do. The click of the latch sounds very loud.

"You came." She smiles, and there's something predatory in it. "I wasn't sure you would. You're usually so... obedient."

"I shouldn't be here."

"No. You shouldn't." She uncrosses her legs, recrosses them slowly. The dress rides up her thigh. "But here you are. Like you were at Thanksgiving, when you couldn't stop staring at me across the table. Like you were at Christmas, when you 'accidentally' brushed against me in the hallway."

"That was—"

"An accident?" She laughs. "David. I'm not stupid. And I'm not my sister."

She stands. She's wearing heels that put her almost at my height. She walks toward me slowly, deliberately, each step a small seduction.

"You married the safe choice," she says. "The practical one. The one who makes lists and schedules sex for Sunday mornings."

My face burns. She's not wrong.

"But you've been looking at me like you're starving since the day we met." She stops inches from me. This close, I can see the swell of her cleavage, the soft curve of her neck. "Haven't you?"

I don't say anything. I can't.

"Haven't you?" Her voice hardens.

"Yes."

The word tears out of me. Four years of denial, crushed in a single syllable.

"Yes what?"

"Yes. I've been... looking at you."

"Looking." She tilts her head. "That's a polite word for it. Try again."

"Wanting you." My voice is hoarse. "Wanting you. Every time I see you. Every time you wear something like that. Every time you laugh or touch me or just... exist."

"Better." She traces a finger down my chest, stops at my belt. "What do you want to do to me, David?"

"Everything."

She smiles. Not mocking — pleased. Like I've finally given her the right answer.

"Good boy."

She doesn't kiss me. She makes me wait.

She circles me slowly, trailing her fingers across my shoulders, my back, my chest. Examining me. Claiming me.

"Do you know how long I've known?" she asks. "Since the rehearsal dinner. You were watching me during the toasts. Claire was right next to you, and you were watching me."

"I didn't mean—"

"Don't." She stops in front of me, grips my chin, forces me to meet her eyes. "Don't apologize. Don't pretend. You've spent four years lying about what you want. Not tonight."

She releases my chin and steps back. Reaches for the tie of her dress.

"Tonight, you're going to be honest."

The dress falls open. She's wearing a black lace bra that barely contains her breasts, matching panties that cut across her full hips. She doesn't try to hide herself, doesn't suck in her stomach or angle her body to look thinner. She stands there, all of her, and lets me look.

"Well?" she asks. "Is this what you wanted?"

I cross the distance between us. My hands find her hips — God, her hips, so soft, so full — and I pull her against me.

"Yes."

She lets me kiss her. For about three seconds.

Then her hand is in my hair, pulling my head back, exposing my throat.

"I didn't say you could touch," she murmurs against my neck. "Did I?"

"No."

"Then hands at your sides. And keep them there until I say otherwise."

I force my hands down. It's the hardest thing I've ever done.

She rewards me with her mouth — kisses along my jaw, my throat, my collarbone. Her hands work at my shirt buttons, pushing the fabric aside. When her tongue finds my nipple, I groan.

"Quiet." She bites gently. "Unless you want the whole family to know what you're doing up here."

I bite my lip. She continues her exploration — hands and mouth mapping my chest, my stomach, the trail of hair below my navel.

She sinks to her knees.

Looking up at me with those dark eyes, she unbuckles my belt. Unzips my pants. Frees me.

"This is what I wanted to see," she says, wrapping her hand around me. "This is what you've been hiding."

Her mouth is warm and wet and utterly devastating. She takes her time, teasing, building a rhythm only to break it. When I reach for her hair, she pulls back.

"Hands."

"Please."

"Hands. At. Your. Sides."

I obey. She rewards me.

She doesn't let me finish. Not yet.

She stands, kisses me deep, lets me taste myself on her tongue. Then she pushes me toward the bed.

"Sit."

I sit on the edge of the bed, legs apart. She stands between them, looking down at me.

"You've thought about this," she says. It's not a question.

"Every day."

"Thought about my tits?" She reaches back, unclasps her bra. They spill free — heavy, full, nipples already hard. "Thought about my ass?" She turns, slides the panties down over those generous hips. "Thought about being inside me?"

"Yes. God, yes."

She looks at me over her shoulder. "Then put your hands on me."

I don't need to be told twice.

My hands find her hips, pulling her back toward me. I kiss the small of her back, the curve of her spine, the soft flesh at her sides. She makes a small sound — the first crack in her control.

"You can touch," she breathes. "Touch all of me."

I do. I worship her — every curve, every inch of soft skin, every place she's been taught to hide. I tell her she's beautiful and mean it. I tell her I've dreamed about this and mean that too.

When I finally slide inside her, we both go still.

"Fuck," she whispers.

"Yeah."

She rides me slow at first. Controlled. Her hands on my shoulders, her breasts swaying with each movement.

Then I grip her hips and thrust up, and her control shatters.

"David—"

"I've got you."

We move together, finding a rhythm that builds and builds. Her nails dig into my shoulders. My fingers sink into her hips. Downstairs, I can hear music, laughter, the hum of voices. Her family. My wife.

I don't care. I can't care. Not with Ellie in my arms, around me, making those small desperate sounds that tell me she's close.

"Come for me," I breathe against her neck. "Let me feel you."

She does — her whole body shuddering, clenching around me, pulling me over the edge with her.

We collapse together onto the bed, breathing hard.

Reality returns slowly.

Ellie props herself up on one elbow, looks down at me. Her hair is a mess. Her lipstick is smeared. She's never looked more beautiful.

"So," she says. "Now you know."

"Know what?"

"What it would have been like. If you'd chosen me."

There's something in her voice — not regret, exactly. Something more complicated.

"Ellie—"

"David?" Claire's voice, floating up from downstairs. "Have you seen Ellie? Mom wants to start the cake!"

Ellie smiles. It doesn't reach her eyes.

"Better go find your wife," she says. She rolls off the bed, starts gathering her clothes. "I'll be down in a minute."

"Is this—" I don't know how to ask. "Was this just—"

"Just what?" She pauses, dress in hand. "Revenge? Curiosity? A one-time thing?"

"Any of those."

She pulls the dress on, ties it closed. Crosses to where I'm still sitting on the bed.

"This was me giving you what you've been too scared to take." She leans down, kisses me softly. "What happens next is up to you."

She fixes my collar. Smooths my hair. Steps back to examine her work.

"Now you know," she says again.

Then she slips out the door, leaving me with the ghost of her perfume and a decision I don't know how to make.

I find Claire in the living room, directing the cake ceremony.

"There you are!" She kisses my cheek. "Where were you?"

"Bathroom. Long line."

"Typical." She squeezes my hand. "Come on, Dad's about to blow out the candles."

I take my place beside her. Across the room, Ellie catches my eye.

She smiles.

I know that smile now. I know what's underneath it — the heat, the want, the challenge.

Claire's hand is in mine. Her father is making a wish. The candles flicker.

Ellie mouths two words: Your move.

I don't know what I'm going to do.

But for the first time in four years, I know what I want.