100 NIGHTS OF SECRETS

“Fifty bucks says I can fuck her by the end of summer.” The words hit me like a slap, raw and ugly, right outside Jake’s bedroom door. My fingers froze on the knob. My brand-new stepbrother, six-foot-three of cocky, sun-bleached arrogance, was betting on me. On Lily. The quiet girl who’d been dragged into this beach house two weeks ago after our parents decided a Vegas wedding was a great fucking idea. His friend laughed, low and dirty. “Dude, that’s your stepsister now.” “Not by blood,” Jake drawled, voice dripping with lazy confidence. “And Jesus Christ, have you seen that ass in those little denim shorts? The way it jiggles when she walks? Those fat tits straining against every tank top like they’re begging to be let out? She’s been eye-fucking me since day one. Bet she’s soaked every time I look at her.” Heat flooded my face, my chest, my cunt. I’d noticed the stares, sure. Those piercing arctic-blue eyes tracked me across the kitchen, lingered on my hard nipples when

The Eight-Hour Drive I am twenty-one. Jake is twenty-three. We are adults, and we have spent the entire summer proving exactly how adult we can be when no one is watching. But it was wrong. There was nothing wrong with how good my stepbrother drew orgasms out of me. It was funny to think it just started with a bet. The calendar on my phone has been a countdown of red X’s since June. Every night I crossed off another day, another morning I woke up with his teeth marks on my throat, another afternoon he had me bent over the kitchen island while Mom was at book club. I told myself if we just fucked enough times, if I just let him brand himself inside me often enough, the leaving would not hurt. It was a lie. Last night I sat on the edge of his bed and watched him fold T-shirts into boxes to return to college and felt my chest crack open. So this morning, when Rick was swearing at the Tetris puzzle in the back of the SUV and Mom was trying to wedge one last lamp in sidewa

The cigar smoke is still thick when David drags me up the stairs, my wrist locked in his hand like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go. My shorts are somewhere on the den floor. My tank top is gone. I’m naked except for the flush burning across my skin and the ache between my legs that’s been there for months. He kicks his bedroom door shut, locks it, and finally looks at me. Really looks. His chest is rising too fast. His pupils are blown. The bulge in his slacks is obscene. “Color?” he asks, voice low, rough, like it hurts to speak. I’m already shaking. “Green,” I breathe. “So fucking green, Daddy.” The word rips a growl out of him. A dark, satisfied smile curls his mouth. He crosses to the nightstand in two strides and pulls out two long midnight-blue silk scarves. The fabric whispers when he trails one over my collarbone, cool and smooth against my overheated skin. “Wrists,” he says. I lift them instantly. He loops the first scarf around them, tight but

I ride him hard, my thighs already starting to tremble from the effort. The chat explodes into one long scream of caps-locked begging, everyone pleading for more. "Oh God, yes," I moan out loud, my voice echoing in the room for the viewers. Inside, I'm thinking, This is insane how did we get here? But damn, it feels so good.*


His cock feels so deep inside me, like it's hitting places I didn't even know existed. Every grind of my hips drags my clit against the hard plane of his pelvis, sending sparks through my body. Each bounce makes my tits slap against my chest, my nipples so hard they ache with need. Sweat beads between my breasts, rolling down my stomach and mixing with the slick mess where we're joined. I glance at the screen viewer count frozen at 4,112 and still climbing. Tips pour in so fast the counter blurs. They're loving this, I think, a thrill rushing through me. And so am I.


I lift up slowly until only the fat head of him stretches my entrance, teasing us both. Then I

Noah is still on his knees, face wrecked, glasses fogged solid, tears and my spit shining on his chin. His cock is half-hard again already, twitching against his thigh like it never wants to leave my mouth.
I turn, brace both palms on the low counter, and arch my back hard. My skirt rides to my waist. The black lace thong is soaked through, clinging to my lips, the wet spot dark and obvious.
He makes a broken, animal sound behind me.
“Get to work,” I say, bored and cruel. “You’ve got about three minutes before your manager does his walkthrough.”
His hands are on me instantly, trembling so hard he can barely hook his fingers in the lace. He yanks the thong down to mid-thigh and just stares for one stunned second, like he’s never seen a pussy this close before.
Then he dives in.
No teasing, no hesitation, just pure, frantic desperation.
His tongue licks one long, sloppy stripe from my clit to my entrance and he groans like he’s dying. He buries his face deeper, nose grinding again