After making my body writhe with ecstasy, birthing in me a belief in heaven and God and angels and the ever-after because his possession of me had been so perfect. He’d left.
Well, tonight I’m repaying that favour. I’m going to make him feel better than he’s ever felt and then I’ll leave him.
‘Tonight’s about what you want, Manning.’
IF HER STRAP DROPS another inch I’ll see the top of her breast, and suddenly I need to see it more than I can say.
I have to ask her to leave. To throw her out on that perfect arse of hers.
Proximity is danger; but do I care?
‘Is it?’ The question is gravelled and gruff, my words showing my frustration. But it’s not frustration with her so much as how wrong this is and how incapable I seem of avoiding it.
She nods slowly, the simple movement a sensual promise, her hooded eyes latched to mine. ‘Tell me what you want.’
I want her to go; I need her to stay.
I want her to not be my fucking stepsister—my dad’s adopted daughter.
I want to not think of her with the full backlog of my knowledge.
I want to see her as just this: a woman who wants to fuck me.
I wish I could separate this Astra from the Astra I know intimately in every way. The Astra I saw grow up, the Astra I adored when she was a child and came to lust after when she was a teenager and burgeoning into a young adult. The Astra I can’t get out of my head.
‘And whatever I want you’ll do it?’ I prompt, surprised that I can sound so commanding and calm when my cock is hard and my pulse is thready.
‘I’ll do anything.’ She nods, her expression determined despite the soft tone of her words.
She closes the distance between us, her fingers toying with that strap, and I hold my breath, silently willing her to push it lower.
‘You want to see me,’ she declares, her eyes challenging me to admit it.
‘I’m seeing you now.’ I shrug, as if I’m not gagging to feast my eyes on her beautiful flesh.
‘And that’s enough?’
She pouts, her lower lip jutting out, begging me to drag it between my teeth. Fuck.
‘You shouldn’t be here.’ I make one last-ditch effort towards sanity.
Her smile shows she knows it. ‘I’ll go if you ask me to.’
There. It’s easy. Just tell her to leave. Just tell her she’s your stepsister and you meant what you said in Manhattan—that it shouldn’t have happened. Tell her to put a fucking coat on or something, so no one else can see what you do: those beautiful pert breasts straining at the silky fabric of her dress.
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