I just don't know why that idea seems so fucking boring. Or why the prospect of screwing with my stepsister is so much more appealing.
When Delaney comes home from work to see me sitting in the leather armchair in her room, my feet propped up on the ottoman, reading a novel, a smile crosses her lips, but she quickly hides it. "What are you doing in my room?" Delaney asks. "Haven't you ever heard of privacy?"
"Well, that's not hypocritical of you at all, Delaney Marlowe."
"I didn't linger after leaving the condoms," she says. "How long have you been here?"
"Long enough," I say, my gaze trailing down the length of her body. Delaney has a way of making even the most conservative outfit look sexual. She's not wearing those fuck-me boots this time, but the heels she has on make her legs look positively indecent. They're an inch too high to be appropriate office attire, putting them squarely in the category of being hot-as-fuck. Now all I can think about is her wearing nothing but those shoes.
"Long enough to what?" Delaney asks, exasperated. "What are you staring at?"
"Your shoes," I say.
She looks down at her feet, her hair falling forward, the way it did in my dream when she was on her knees. I have to shift uncomfortably in my seat at the thought of Delaney on her knees between my legs. "What's wrong with them?"
"Nothing," I say. "Everything's right with them. The heels would make perfect handles."
She scrunches up her forehead, wrinkling her nose at the same time, like she's smelling something funny. I don't think she knows she does it, but it's the same thing she used to do when we were teenagers. It's cute. She kicks her foot up and looks at her heel, then back at me. "What are you talking about, handles?"
Is she playing coy, or does she literally not know what I'm getting at? "They'd make great handles, if your feet were above your head," I repeat. "Would you like a demonstration?"
I stand up and cross the room, even though she waves me down.
"Thanks for that lovely image," she says. Her face is flushed red.
"You're blushing."
"Because you're vulgar," she says.
"Keep wearing shoes like that, and don't expect me to be civilized." I'm standing so close to her that when I breathe in, I can smell the scent of her shampoo again, cookie-flavored something or other that makes me hungry.
"I don't think you can be civilized," she says. "I'm not sure you have the capacity."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"I didn't mean it as one."
"I don't know," I say. "I think you like the fact that I'm vulgar."
"I think you're deluded."
"You're the one who filled my drawers with condoms," I point out. "It doesn't take Freud to figure out the meaning behind that."
Her eyes open wider. "You gave me a model of your…"
"Cock?" I shrug. "I thought it might help you visualize me better when you're touching yourself, darlin'."
"I don't visualize you at all, thank you very much," she says.
"No?" I ask, reaching up to move a strand of hair off her shoulder. My hand grazes her collarbone, and I lean in close to her, my mouth near her ear. "Well, I think about you."
When I pull away, she looks at me, her mouth open slightly. "Gaige, I –"
"I know," I say. "We have to keep it professional."
Her expression shifts and she runs her hands down the sides of her skirt. "Professional. Yes. Exactly. We're friends. I'd like to stay friends."
"So you don't want to hear what I've thought about you, then."
"No. Definitely not."
I lean close to her, my lips near her ear. "Then I definitely won't tell you that I've thought about running my fingers along the inside of your thigh, until I reach that little crease at the top, near your pussy."
"Gaige –" She says my name, protesting, but it's weak, and she doesn't move away. I slide my hand around her waist, to the small of her back.
"I definitely won't tell you that I've thought about the expression you'd make when I touch my fingers to your pussy lips for the first time."
"No," she says. "Don't."
But she doesn't move. I pull her tight against my growing hardness, and she puts her palms on my chest. I'm not sure if she's about to push me away or not. She doesn't look at me, and I speak softly again close to her ear. "I definitely won't tell you that I've thought about how warm and wet you'd feel, how slick you'd be as I slide my fingers inside you."
Delaney makes a sound in the bottom of her throat, something like a mix between clearing her throat and a moan. "You can't say –"
"I'm not saying anything, Delaney," I say. "Certainly not that I've thought about how you'd look riding my face."
Now she looks at me, her eyes wide. "You can't say things like that."
"Things like how I want to hold your hips down against me while you sit on my face and come on my tongue?" I whisper.