Rules

CHASE

I woke up hard.

Not the lazy morning wood that fades after the first piss.

This was full, throbbing, relentless—the kind that replays last night in high-definition slow motion. Her thighs locked around my waist in the pool. The way she’d sobbed my name when I hit that spot. The hot, slick gush when she came so hard she soaked us both. The broken little “no more” that turned into “don’t stop” five seconds later.

I rolled onto my back, sheet tented over my hips, and grinned at the ceiling like an idiot.

She’d *squirted*.

My sharp-tongued, wall-building stepsister—virgin until roughly seven hours ago—had fucking *squirted* on my cock like she’d been saving it up for years.

And then she’d tried to quit.

Tried.

I laughed—low, rough, still half-asleep—and palmed myself through the sheet just to take the edge off. One slow stroke. Two. Fuck, I could still feel her. Tight. Wet. Clenching like she wanted to keep me inside forever even while she was crying uncle.

I’d stopped—eventually.

Mostly because she looked like she might actually black out if I kept going. But I’d made damn sure she came one more time before I pulled out. Just to prove a point.

The point being: those orgasms belong to me now.

Every. Single. One.

I kicked the sheet off, stood, stretched until my spine popped. Morning light sliced through the blinds in sharp gold bars across my abs, my thighs, the very obvious evidence of how badly I still wanted her. I didn’t bother hiding it. Let it show. Let the whole house see what she does to me.

Shower was quick—cold enough to function, hot enough to remember the way pool water had sluiced between us. I jerked off fast and efficient under the spray, picturing her face when she came the last time—eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream, tears on her lashes. Came so hard my knees nearly buckled.

Towel around my hips, hair dripping, I walked out into the hallway like I owned the place.

Because I kind of did.

She was already downstairs.

I heard her before I saw her—coffee grinder whirring, soft clink of a mug, fridge door opening and closing. Domestic. Innocent. Like she hadn’t spent half the night getting railed within an inch of her life.

I leaned in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, towel slung low.

She froze mid-reach for the oat milk. Back to me. Shoulders going stiff.

“Morning, Winters,” I drawled, voice still gravel-rough from sleep and last night’s shouting. “Sleep well?”

She didn’t turn right away. Just closed the fridge door very carefully. When she finally faced me, her cheeks were already pink, but her chin was up, eyes defiant.

“Fine,” she said. Too crisp. Too controlled. “You?”

“Like a baby.” I smirked—slow, filthy. “Dreamed about this tight little pussy clenching around me while you begged me to stop. Woke up so hard I almost came just thinking about it.”

Her mug hit the counter with a sharp clack.

“Jesus, Chase.”

“What?” I pushed off the doorframe, walked toward her—casual, predatory. “Too soon? Should I wait until after breakfast to remind you how many times you came on my tongue before I even got inside you?”

She sucked in a breath. Her nipples were already visible through the thin tank she’d thrown on—hard, obvious. She crossed her arms like that would hide them.

“You’re disgusting,” she muttered.

“And you’re wet again.” I stopped right in front of her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back. “I can smell it.”

Her pupils blew. Lips parted. But she didn’t back up.

“You’re so full of shit,” she whispered. But her voice cracked on the last word.

I leaned in. Let my lips brush the shell of her ear.

“Am I?” I murmured. “Because last night you were dripping down my chin, crying my name, telling me it was ‘too much’ while your cunt tried to suck my soul out through my dick. And now you’re standing here clenching your thighs together like you’re not already soaked just hearing me talk about it.”

She made a small, involuntary sound—half moan, half whimper.

I grinned against her skin.

“Thought so.”

I didn’t give her time to argue.

One hand shot out, wrapped around the back of her neck, yanked her mouth to mine—hard, possessive, swallowing the little gasp she let out when our teeth clicked. She tasted like coffee and outrage and the faint salt of last night still clinging to her lips. My other hand slid straight between her thighs, cupping her through the thin cotton of her sleep shorts.

Soaked.

Fucking *drenched*.

I growled into her mouth, fingers pressing the fabric against her clit in slow, deliberate circles. She jerked—hips snapping forward—nails digging into my bare shoulders like she was trying to anchor herself or mark me or both.

“Tell me again I’m full of shit,” I rasped against her lips, voice low enough that it stayed between us. “Tell me you’re not dripping just thinking about how deep I was inside you last night.”

She moaned—soft, broken—then bit my bottom lip hard enough to sting.

“Shut up and fuck me,” she hissed.

That was all I needed.

I spun her around—fast—bent her over the island. Her palms slapped flat against the granite. I shoved her shorts and panties down her thighs in one rough yank, not even bothering to get them all the way off. They tangled around her knees.

She spread her legs wider on instinct.

I notched myself at her entrance—still slick from last night, still swollen—and thrust in hard.

No warning.

No slow stretch.

Just one brutal, claiming stroke that buried me to the hilt.

She cried out—sharp, too loud—then immediately slapped a hand over her mouth.

I leaned over her back, chest to her spine, mouth at her ear.

“Quiet, baby,” I murmured, already pulling back only to slam in again. “Wouldn’t want Mom and Dad hearing what a greedy little slut their daughter turned out to be.”

She whimpered behind her hand—body clenching around me so tight I saw stars.

I fucked her like that—hard, fast, relentless—each thrust shoving her hips into the counter edge. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the kitchen, obscene and unmistakable. Her muffled moans vibrated against her palm. My balls slapped against her clit with every stroke.

“Feel that?” I growled, angling deeper, hitting that spot that made her legs shake. “That’s me owning this pussy. Every fucking inch.”

She nodded frantically—tears leaking from the corners of her eyes—not from pain, from overload.

I reached around, found her clit with my fingers, rubbed fast little circles while I pounded into her.

“Come for me,” I ordered. “Come on my cock like a good girl. Show me how much you hate me.”

She shattered.

Back arching, thighs trembling, hand slipping off her mouth as a choked sob tore free. Her cunt pulsed around me—rippling, milking.

I spun her around, kissed her—slow, filthy.

Then I dropped to my knees.

Licked her clean—slow, thorough strokes of my tongue—until she was trembling again, hands fisted in my hair, whispering broken little “Chase—fuck—stop—I can’t—”

I stood. Kissed her once more. Soft this time.

“Rules,” I said against her mouth.

She blinked—dazed, wrecked. “What?”

“Rules.” I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “No one can know. Ever. Not a fucking word.”

She nodded—small, automatic.

“Only when they’re not home,” I continued. “No risks. No close calls.”

Another nod.

“And no feelings.” My voice dropped. “This is just sex. Just… relieving tension. Nothing more.”

“Deal,” she whispered.

Footsteps.

Heavy, unhurried—the distinctive creak of Richard’s old loafers on the third step from the bottom.

Mom.

We both froze—my mouth a heartbeat from hers, her thighs still trembling around my hips, my fingers still curled possessively into the soft flesh just above her ass.

The kitchen island was the only thing hiding us from the hallway angle.

Barely.

I yanked her tank down in one rough motion, covering the evidence of what we’d just done. She shoved my towel back into place with frantic hands. We sprang apart like teenagers caught with a joint—her spinning toward the coffee maker, me turning to the sink like I’d been rinsing a glass the whole time.

Mom rounded the corner.

“Morning, you two!” Her voice was bright, caffeinated, oblivious. She was already in yoga pants and a cropped hoodie, hair in a high ponytail, phone in one hand, AirPods dangling from the other. “I thought I heard voices. Early birds today?”

Sloane didn’t miss a beat.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she said, voice clipped, shoulders squared like she was facing a firing squad. She poured oat milk into her mug with exaggerated care, not looking at me. “Too much… noise in my head.”

Mom laughed—light, unsuspecting. “Wedding brain. I get it. Richard’s the same. He’s already up, muttering about centerpieces like they’re national security.”

I forced a snort. Leaned one hip against the counter, arms crossed over my bare chest, towel still slung dangerously low. “Yeah. Real high-stakes stuff. Whether the peonies match the napkins.”

Sloane’s eyes flicked to me—sharp, venomous.

“Some of us care about details,” she said coolly. “Not everyone can just show up shirtless and call it a personality.”

Mom blinked between us, smile faltering for half a second.

I smirked—slow, mean, the same smirk I used to use before we started fucking. The one that said *I know exactly how much you hate me right now*.

“Careful, Winters,” I drawled. “Keep talking like that and people might think you’re jealous of my abs.”

Her lip curled. “I’d rather die.”

“Romantic.”

Mom cleared her throat—loudly. “Okay. Wow. Back to square one, I see.” She set her phone down, hands on hips. “I thought the silent treatment last two weeks was progress. Apparently not.”

Sloane shrugged, turning back to the coffee maker like I didn’t exist. “Some things don’t change.”

I pushed off the counter, stepped closer—close enough that my bare shoulder brushed hers when I reached past her for a mug. She stiffened like I’d electrocuted her.

“Some things do,” I murmured, low enough that only she could hear. My breath ghosted the shell of her ear. “Like how wet you get when I talk shit to you.”

Her mug clattered against the counter. A tiny splash of coffee hit the granite.

Mom frowned. “You okay, honey?”

“Fine,” Sloane bit out. Too fast. Too tight. “Just… clumsy this morning.”

I smirked wider. Poured my coffee black. Took a slow sip while staring straight at her over the rim.

She glared back—murder in her eyes.

Mom sighed. “You two are exhausting. I’m going for a walk before I start mediating again.” She grabbed her phone, earbuds already in. “Play nice. Or at least pretend. For five minutes.”

She left.

The second the front door clicked shut, the kitchen turned into a pressure cooker.

Sloane spun on me so fast I barely had time to set my mug down.

“You absolute *dick*,” she hissed, stepping right into my space, finger jabbing my chest. “You think this is funny? You think you can just—”

I caught her wrist mid-jab. Twisted just enough to spin her around and back her against the fridge. Her back hit the stainless steel with a soft thud.

I caged her there—one forearm braced above her head, the other still holding her wrist beside her ear.

“You want to hate me in front of them?” I said quietly, voice gravel-rough. “Fine. Hate me. Glare at me. Throw your little barbs. Call me disgusting. Call me cocky. Call me whatever makes you feel safe.”

I leaned in until our noses almost touched.

“But don’t pretend you don’t get off on it,” I whispered. “Don’t pretend the second they’re out of the room you don’t want my cock back inside you even though you say you can't take it. Don’t pretend you’re not already clenching just thinking about how hard I fucked you on this exact counter minutes ago.”

Her breath hitched. Pupils blown wide.

I let go of her wrist. Slid my hand down—slow—until my palm cupped her through her shorts again.

Soaked.

Again.

I pressed two fingers against her clit—firm, unmoving.

She whimpered—soft, involuntary.

“See?” I murmured. “Your body doesn’t lie. Even when your mouth does.”

She grabbed my wrist—hard—but didn’t pull my hand away.

“Fuck you,” she breathed.

“Already did.” I circled once—slow, teasing. Her hips jerked forward. “And you loved it.”

Her eyes fluttered shut for half a second. Then snapped open—furious.

“We have rules,” she said, voice shaking. “No feelings. Only when they’re gone.”

“Yeah.” I leaned in, lips brushing hers—just a ghost of contact. “They’re gone right now.”

She stared at me—chest heaving, conflict written all over her face.

Then—quiet, almost defeated:

“Upstairs. Make me take it.”

I grinned—slow, victorious.

“Atta girl.”

I scooped her up—legs around my waist, arms locked around my neck—and carried her up the back stairs two at a time.

We didn’t make it to a bedroom.

Halfway down the hallway she shoved me against the wall—mouth crashing into mine, hands already yanking at my towel.

I let it drop.

Picked her up again.

And fucked her standing—her back to the hallway wall, legs hooked over my elbows, shorts shoved to the side, my cock slamming home in one brutal thrust.

She bit my shoulder to muffle the scream.

I fucked her through two more orgasms—fast, filthy, unforgiving—until she was limp, shaking, whispering broken little “Chase—Chase—fuck—” against my neck.

When I finally came—deep, pulsing, filling her again—I held her there, pinned between my body and the wall, both of us panting like we’d run a marathon.

She lifted her head. Looked at me—eyes glassy, lips swollen.

“We’re so fucked,” she whispered.

I kissed her—slow, filthy, tasting myself on her tongue.

“Yeah,” I murmured against her mouth. “But at least we’re fucked together.”

She laughed—soft, wrecked, real.

Then she kissed me back.

But then we heard the front door open downstairs—Richard and Mom were back—and we had to scramble into our opposite rooms, hearts hammering, clothes half-on, pretending nothing had happened.