Risking Everything

Jace’s cock was still buried to the hilt inside his stepsister when Vanessa’s voice floated up from the foyer like a goddamn foghorn of doom. “Kids? I’m home early! Traffic was a miracle!” Lila’s eyes went saucer-wide, her pussy fluttering around him in pure panic-arousal. They were naked as the day they were born—well, born separately, thank Christ—perched on a dusty mattress in the attic, surrounded by boxes of forgotten Christmas ornaments and one extremely incriminating charcoal sketch of teenage Lila’s tits that had started this whole mess.

Jace clapped a hand over her mouth before she could squeak. His other hand stayed locked on her hip, holding her impaled. Twenty-eight years of brooding tattoo-artist self-control were currently losing a cage match to the fact that his twenty-two-year-old stepsister’s cunt was still clenched around him like it had a personal grudge against blue balls. Downstairs, keys clattered into the bowl. Footsteps. Vanessa humming some awful pop song.

“Don’t you fucking move,” he breathed against Lila’s ear, but the little literature nerd had never obeyed a single order in her life. She rolled her hips in a tiny, filthy circle, grinding her clit against the base of his cock. Her whisper was pure wickedness. “I don’t want to stop. We’re already screwed if she finds us. Might as well get screwed properly.”

Jace’s laugh came out strangled. “You’re insane.” But he was already pulling back an inch and sliding home again—short, wet, dangerous strokes that made the old mattress sigh. Every thrust was a risk. Every wet sound felt loud enough to summon the ghost of every disappointed parent ever. He kept his palm sealed over her mouth while she moaned into it, eyes sparkling with the same bold heat that had gotten her through three years of grad seminars on forbidden desire in Victorian novels. Turns out the real curriculum was right here, balls-deep in the attic while Mommy Dearest unpacked groceries two floors down.