Red & Black: s*x, Love, and Lingerie

Home alone with my stepbrother 2

The next few days felt like walking on a live wire. Every time we passed each other in the house, the air got thick, electric. We tried to act normal—pretended the pool moment and the hallway whisper hadn’t happened—but our bodies didn’t listen.

In the kitchen one morning I reached past him for a mug. His hand brushed my lower back as he stepped aside, fingers lingering just long enough to press into the dip above my ass. Heat shot straight between my legs. I didn’t pull away. I just leaned into it a little, letting him feel how soft I was under the thin fabric of my sleep shirt.

Later I “cleaned” the living room in the shortest denim cutoffs I owned. No panties again. I bent over to dust the coffee table, ass up, thighs slightly parted. I knew he was on the couch pretending to read emails. I felt his stare like hands. When I straightened, I caught him adjusting himself, jaw clenched. Our eyes met for half a second before we both looked away.

By the third day I was soaked just from breathing the same air as him.

Then the storm rolled in.

Thunder cracked so loud the windows rattled. Lightning flashed white through the curtains. The power died with a soft pop, plunging the house into black. Rain hammered the roof like it wanted to break in.

I waited maybe ten minutes before I couldn’t stand it anymore.

I padded down the hallway in my thin white tank top and tiny sleep shorts. No bra. n*****s already tight from the cool dark and the anticipation. My bare feet were silent on the hardwood.

I knocked softly on his door.

“Ethan?” My voice came out smaller than I meant. A little shaky. I played it up—just enough.

The door opened. He stood there in low-slung gray sweatpants and nothing else. Even in the dim glow from his phone flashlight I could see the ridges of his abs, the trail of dark hair disappearing under the waistband. His eyes were heavy, shadowed.

“Lila. What’s wrong?”

Another boom of thunder. I jumped—real this time—and stepped closer. “The storm. It’s… loud. Can I just… stay for a minute? Just to talk?”

He hesitated. Then he stepped back. “Come in.”

His room smelled like him—clean soap, something woodsy, a hint of the cologne he wore to work. The bed was huge, sheets already rumpled. I climbed in without asking, pulling the covers up to my waist. He sat on the edge, stiff, like he didn’t trust himself.

I scooted closer. Pressed my side against his. My thigh brushed his. He was warm. Solid.

Thunder rolled again. I shivered and curled into him, letting my breasts press against his arm through the thin tank. He sucked in a breath.

“You okay?” he asked, voice rough.

“Yeah.” I tilted my head so my lips were close to his ear. “You’ve been hard for me all week, haven’t you?”

He went still. “Lila—”

“I felt it. At dinner. In the hallway. Every time you look at me.” I shifted, letting my leg drape over his. The thick ridge in his sweatpants pressed against my thigh. Hot. Throbbing. “You want me.”

“This is wrong.” His voice was low, almost a growl. “You’re my stepdaughter.”

I slid my hand down his stomach, slow. Fingers brushing over the waistband. Then lower. I wrapped my palm around him through the fabric. He was so thick my fingers didn’t meet. He hissed.

“Please, Ethan…” I squeezed gently, stroking up and down. “I need it. No one has to know.”

The name did it. Not Daddy. Ethan. Like I was claiming him as a man, not a stepdad. Something snapped.

He grabbed my wrist—hard—then flipped me onto my back so fast I gasped. His mouth crashed down on mine. Rough. Hungry. Teeth and tongue and no gentleness at all. I moaned into it, arching up, kissing him back just as hard.

Clothes came off in seconds. My tank yanked over my head. His sweatpants shoved down. My shorts peeled away. Then we were skin to skin, his heavy c**k pressing against my stomach, leaking already.

He kissed down my neck, my chest. Sucked one n****e hard enough to make me cry out. Then lower. He spread my thighs wide with rough hands and buried his face between them.

I almost came the second his tongue touched me.

He ate me like he was starving. Long, flat licks, then fast flicks over my c**t. Sucking. Growling against me. Two thick fingers pushed inside, curling, pumping while his mouth worked my c**t. I grabbed his hair, hips bucking, sobbing his name.

“Daddy—oh God—Daddy—”

I came hard, shaking, thighs clamping around his head. He didn’t stop. Kept licking, sucking, fingers still moving until the second orgasm ripped through me even stronger. My whole body arched off the bed.

Then he was over me again. c**k in his fist, lining up. The head nudged my entrance—hot, slick, huge.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped. “Tell me now.”

I wrapped my legs around his waist. “Don’t you dare.”

He pushed in slow. Inch by inch. Stretching me open. I whimpered at the fullness, the burn. He groaned like it hurt him too—in the best way. When he bottomed out, hips flush against mine, we both froze for a second, breathing hard.

Then he started moving.

Slow at first. Deep, rolling thrusts that hit every spot inside me. I clawed at his back, moaning into his neck. “Harder. Please—harder—”

He snapped. Thrusts turned brutal. Bed creaking. Skin slapping. His hand wrapped around my throat—not choking, just holding—while he f****d me like he owned me. I begged. I cried out. I came again around him, walls fluttering, squeezing.

He pulled out at the last second. Fisted himself. Hot ropes of c*m splashed across my stomach, my breasts. We both shook, panting, wrecked.

For a long minute we just breathed.

Then reality crashed in.

He rolled off me, staring at the ceiling. “This can’t happen again, Lila. It can’t.”

I turned on my side, watching him. His c*m was still warm on my skin, sticky. I dragged a finger through it, brought it to my lips, tasted him. Salty. Him.

I smiled slow.

“We’ll see,” I whispered.

Then I slipped out of his bed, grabbed my clothes, and padded back to my room—his release still glistening on my stomach, thighs slick, heart racing.

I didn’t wipe it off until morning.

And even then, I smiled at the mirror, remembering how he’d broken. How he’d filled me.

We weren’t done.

Not even close.