Page 29 of The Accident

“You’re beautiful, Kayleigh,” he says, like it’s a simple fact. “But I think you already knew that, or you wouldn’t have sent the pictures.”

I want to die, and also to live in this moment forever. My hands don’t know what to do, so they hover uselessly in my lap.

He doesn’t move to touch me further. Instead, he sits back, arms folded, and just watches.

I should hate this. I should be humiliated. But instead, a slow, syrupy heat develops between my legs, the ache there so needy.

The air between us is so charged that I think if I breathe too hard, I’ll set the sofa on fire.

He’s testing me. He’s seeing if I’ll follow through, if I’ll let him look, if I’ll own what I sent.

So I do. I open my legs, just a little—enough for the city below to see, if the glass was a two-way mirror. My clit throbs, an electric ache. I can’t help it: I want him to see. I want him to see the center of my femininity, and to know of the effect he has on me.

His eyes flick down, taking in the stiff nub, then up. He smiles, slow and dangerous.

“You’re even sexier in person, Kayleigh,” he murmurs.

I let the words wash over me, and for a moment, I feel weightless.

Somewhere in the room, the city buzzes on, oblivious.

But in this glass box, forty stories up, the game is over, and we both know who won.

11

TASTING HER INNOCENCE

Trevor

Isit on the sofa, forty floors above the city, and watch my stepsister try not to disintegrate. The light pouring through the windows turns her hair white-gold, satin yet feral, loose around her shoulders and still a little damp from the shower. There’s a spatter of faint freckles across her collarbone. She has her knees together now, but it doesn’t do much to hide her body. I could say she’s shy, but it’s more complicated than that—Kayleigh’s the type who burns herself for warmth. She pulls the plush hotel-grade robe like she’s going to put it back on, realizes what she’s doing, then forces herself to let go, arms dropped at her sides, big breasts bobbling.

Good. She needs to do what I tell her to do and nothing more.

The city’s a slab of mirrors, haze, and gridwork out beyond the windows, but I don’t look at it. Not when there’s this much beauty at arm’s length. I’m in a mood to enjoy things slowly.

She’s nude, every inch as flawless as the pictures suggested: big, creamy tits made to bounce, areolae the color of fresh lipstick; a belly with just enough curve to mark her as real; a pussy so pink and clean it’s like a page ripped out of a fantasy. And the nervous flush on her cheeks, the way she can’t keep her hands still, the way her breath catches every time I look at her—those, too, are part of the spectacle. I savor them all.

She starts talking before I can stop her.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Kayleigh blurts, voice so brittle I’m afraid she might crack open and spill onto the carpet. “It’s—it’s insane. We’re step-siblings, Trevor. It’s illegal in, like, a million states. And it’s so wrong⁠—”

I let her wind herself up. I like seeing her in motion, how the apprehension and the want cancel each other out in her face.

“You want to tell me why you’re trembling, then?” I ask, calm as a snake. “Or why you called me at five in the morning, and not someone else?”

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Her eyes cut away, and she’s silent for a moment. Then she shakes her head, a tiny, panicked flick.

“I just—I panicked. I wasn’t thinking.”

I stretch my arm along the back of the sofa, lean into the velvet and let my legs sprawl. “You don’t look panicked. You look aroused, sweetheart. I’ve been with a lot of women, and it’s obvious.”

The compliment makes her gasp. She sucks in a breath, her whole chest rising, the upper slopes of those huge tits catching the pale light and casting faint, soft shadows. Her nipples are stiff and utterly delectable. They look ready for a suck, but she’s not ready yet. Kayleigh needs to be softened a bit before I go in for the kill. Sure enough, my stepsister tries to fold her arms over her breasts, but aborts the attempt, settling for tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Trevor, please,” she whispers. “This isn’t me. I’m—I’m not like Stella, or Cassie, or those other girls you date. I’ve never done anything like this. I’ve never even—” She clams up, color rising from her collarbone to the tips of her ears.

“Never what?” I prod, my voice low and unhurried.

She’s staring at the coffee table. “Well, I’m a virgin, actually. I’ve never been touched. I was going to wait until marriage, or at least until I was engaged, so I’m innocent, Trevor. So we can’t do this. I’m sorry.”