Total pages in book: 188
Estimated words: 179812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 899(@200wpm)___ 719(@250wpm)___ 599(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 179812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 899(@200wpm)___ 719(@250wpm)___ 599(@300wpm)
Before I can marvel over his thank you, he pushes in, and I flinch with the pain of his initial invasion. Once he’s all the way inside, I arch my back and moan. Still draped over me, all sweaty and big and delicious, he puts a hand on my mouth and whispers, “And keep your voice down.” I nod and he pulls out slightly before pushing back in, catching my moan with his hand and whispering, “Because our sister’s back.”
I gasp under his palm, going rigid, but he keeps going, moving in and out, slowly and deliberately, making me whimper while also keeping me quiet.
“Because this is a secret, right? We don’t want her to know,” he continues, whispering. “That we’re fucking. That we’ve been fucking all night, and we’ll fuck more. We’ll fuck until I have to get back. We don’t want her to know that her sister was being a whore for her brother’s cock. So her brother had to give her some. Her brother had to feed his big, fat dick into her sister’s pretty pink pussy and fuck her with it because she wouldn’t leave him alone.” He keeps moving in and out of me, whispering all the dirty things that make me go even crazier, that make me moan harder. That make me go to pieces for him as he continues, “We don’t want our sister to know, baby, the things we’re doing up here, the things I’m doing to you with my dick and the things you’re letting me do to your pussy, are the things no brother or sister should ever do to each other. Doesn’t matter if you add ‘step’ in front of it. But it sure as fuck makes my stepsister’s pussy wetter and makes her come harder, thinking about it.”
The moan I emit at this is the loudest one yet, and I know for a fact if he wasn’t covering my mouth, Snow and all our neighbors would’ve heard it. But I can’t help it even if I wanted to. Because his filthy words also make me come, and as always, he follows me to the edge.
It takes a few minutes for us both to come down from the high. To calm our panting breaths and cool down our sweaty bodies. But the moment I gather enough sense, I flip to my back, ready to get out of bed and check on Snow. I don’t get very far however. Because he puts his arm on my tummy and hauls me to his side.
I push at his chest. “But Snow—”
He has his head on the pillow, his eyes closed, his face and his body both looking sated, sleepy. “Already took care of it.”
“What?”
He squeezes my waist. “Gave her breakfast, her meds. Told her you were still sleeping. And that you probably would be asleep for a while.” He sighs, nuzzling his face in my spread-out hair. “Last I checked before I came up here, she was downstairs, reading her book. So she’s fine.”
“What about all the stuff—”
“Took care of that too. Cleaned up the kitchen, the hallway. Cleaned up all the broken glass, boarded the window for now. Called someone to take care of it when Snow’s in school tomorrow so she doesn’t notice it.”
The flowers he got me last night were left in the hallway, right outside of my room, abandoned. Like he’d dropped them before he ran outside and got a soccer ball instead to burst through my window. Last night, after round number one, we showered together and went downstairs to get something to eat. Which is when I found them and brought them upstairs along with strawberries and cream, his favorite.
I also took the time to check on his knees. They were scraped because of the glass, but apparently athletes have really elaborate first-aid kits and medical supplies. So I was able to clean it all up and bandage it to my heart’s content. After, of course, a lot of resistance and ‘it’s not a big deal’ from him.
It takes a second after he’s assuaged all my worries for my heart to calm down. Once it’s beating at a normal rhythm, I put my hand on his jaw, cupping it, caressing it, thanking God that his eyes are closed or he’d be able to see how much I love him. How my heart, my blood, my very essence beats for him and no one else. Then, “Thank you.”
Finally, he opens his eyes, all dark and pretty, and I swallow, trying to hide all these feelings inside of me. “It’s my job.”
“What?”
He flicks his eyes over my face for a second. Then, in a tone that belies his relaxed stance, he says, “You say I don’t talk.”
“I’m sorry?”
“So this is me talking and telling you it’s my job.”
“Your job to do what?”