His to Ruin

The air in the driveway was thick and humid, the kind of oppressive heat that made my clothes cling to my skin the second I stepped out of the car. I stood there for a moment, gripping the handle of my suitcase, staring at the house. It had been two years since I’d spent a full summer here, and the place felt different—larger, quieter, and somehow more dangerous.

The front door swung open before I could even reach for the bell. My stepbrother, Leo, filled the frame. He wasn't the scrawny kid I remembered from high school. He’d filled out, his shoulders broad and his chest defined, glistening with a light sheen of sweat. He was shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung grey sweatpants that hung precariously off his hips, revealing the sharp V-line of his pelvis.

His eyes didn't just look at me; they dragged over me. He started at my sandals, moved up my tanned legs, lingered on the curve of my hips in my denim shorts, and finally locked onto my eyes with an intensity that made my stomach flip.

"Took you long enough," he said. His voice had dropped an octave, turning into a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated in my chest.

He didn't wait for a greeting. He stepped forward, his scent hitting me instantly—a mix of cedar, salt, and raw masculinity. He reached past me to grab my suitcase, his arm brushing against my shoulder. The brief contact felt like an electric shock. He didn't pull away immediately, letting his body hover just inches from mine for a heartbeat too long before he stepped back and gestured inside.

"Mom and your dad already left for their cruise," he muttered, not looking back at me. "It's just us for the next two months."

The words sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the heat. Just us.

I followed him inside, the cool air of the house a sharp contrast to the outdoors. As I walked behind him, I couldn't stop staring at the way his muscles shifted under his skin with every step. He led me upstairs to the guest room, dropped my bag with a heavy thud, and turned to face me. The room felt suddenly very small.

"Dinner's at seven," he said, his gaze dropping to my lips. "Don't be late. I don't like waiting."

He left without another word, the door clicking shut behind him. I sank onto the bed, my heart hammering against my ribs. I felt a strange, fluttering tension in my lower belly. I knew we weren't supposed to be like this—we were family, technically—but the way he looked at me wasn't brotherly. It was predatory.

I spent the afternoon unpacking, but I couldn't focus. Every sound in the house—a door closing, a footstep in the hallway—made me jump. To calm my nerves, I reached into the bottom of my bag and pulled out a paperback I’d bought at a bookstore in the city. It was a taboo erotica novel, the kind of story where a stepbrother takes exactly what he wants from his sister. I’d been reading it in secret for weeks, the explicit descriptions of forced submission and forbidden lust fueling fantasies I was too ashamed to admit to.

As the clock ticked toward seven, I showered and dressed in a simple sundress, though I opted not to wear a bra. I wanted to feel the air on my skin, or perhaps, subconsciously, I wanted him to notice.

When I walked into the dining room, Leo was already there. He’d changed into a fresh pair of black sweatpants, still shirtless, sitting at the head of the table with his legs spread wide. Two plates of pasta sat between us, steam rising in the dim light.

"Sit," he commanded.

I sat across from him, the silence between us stretching thin and taut. We ate in a heavy, awkward quiet, the only sound the clink of silverware against porcelain. I could feel his eyes on me the entire time. Every time I looked up, he was watching me—not my face, but the way my chest rose and fell, the way my lips parted as I breathed.

"So," I started, my voice sounding small and shaky. "How's your summer been so far?"

Leo leaned back, his arms crossing over his chest, making his biceps bulge. "Boring," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "Until you walked through the door."

The bluntness of it made me flush. I tried to focus on my food, but I could feel the temperature in the room rising. Suddenly, I felt something warm and firm press against my ankle under the table. I froze. Leo’s foot was nudging mine, sliding slowly up my calf.

I didn't move. I couldn't. The sensation was intoxicating, a forbidden thrill that made my pussy ache with a sudden, sharp pulse of need. He didn't stop; his foot climbed higher, pressing into the back of my knee, forcing my legs to part slightly.

"You're shaking," he observed, a smirk playing on his lips.

"I'm not," I lied, though my hand was trembling as I reached for my water glass.

Before I could take a sip, his hand shot across the table, gripping my wrist in a firm, bruising hold. He didn't let go. His thumb began to rub slow, deliberate circles over my pulse point, feeling the frantic rhythm of my heart.

"You've been acting nervous since you got here," he whispered, his eyes darkening. "Like you're hiding something."

My heart leaped into my throat. I thought of the book hidden in my suitcase. I thought of the scenes I'd read—the ones where the brother finds out his sister's secret and uses it to break her.

"I'm not hiding anything," I whispered.

Leo’s grip tightened. He stood up slowly, the chair scraping harshly against the hardwood floor. He didn't let go of my wrist as he walked around the table, pulling me up with him. I stumbled forward, my chest brushing against his bare skin. He smelled like heat and dominance.

He leaned in, his breath hot against my ear. "I saw the book in your bag when I carried it up, little sister."

I gasped, my breath hitching. I tried to pull away, but he was too strong. He spun me around in one fluid motion, slamming my palms flat against the dining table. The plates clattered, water spilling across the wood, but he didn't care. He pressed his heavy body against my back, pinning me down.

"You like those stories, don't you?" he growled, his hand sliding down from my wrist to the hem of my dress. "You like the idea of me taking you."

Before I could answer, he yanked the fabric of my dress up to my waist. The cool air hit my bare skin, and I shivered. I wasn't wearing any underwear. I'd forgotten—or maybe I'd wanted him to find out.

"Fuck," he groaned, his voice thick with lust. "You're not even wearing panties."

He didn't waste another second. His large hand clamped over my ass, squeezing the flesh hard enough to leave marks, before his fingers slid between my thighs. I let out a broken moan as he found my clit, rubbing it with a brutal, rhythmic pressure that had me arching my back against him.

"You're soaking wet for me," he muttered, his voice a dark promise. "Just like in your little book."

He reached for the waistband of his sweatpants and pushed them down, freeing his cock.