Home alone with my stepbrother 2

Zara’s POV

By morning, the power was still out, the storm was raging, and Caleb, well, was still infuriatingly hot.

I padded into the kitchen barefoot, my oversized shirt slipping off one shoulder. He was already there, leaning against the fridge, shirtless again, sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips, and his V line on display for me to lust after.

I didn’t say good morning.

I didn’t need to.

I opened the fridge, leaned in slowly, maybe too slowly, and made sure he got a full view of my barely-covered backside. I could feel his stare burning into me. And when I straightened up with a bottle of water, I felt his eyes on me. Dark! Heavy. Burning.

But when I turned, he was already walking away—headphones in, expression unreadable.

Still, I caught the flicker in his eyes before he turned. And that flicker said everything.

He wanted me.

Just as much as I wanted him.

Even if he didn’t want to admit it.

And I am going to make him admit it.

So, I kept pushing. Just a little. A brush of my hand when I passed by. A stretch in front of him that arched my back just right. Innocent, but not really.

And that afternoon, after a long, hot shower, I did something completely reckless. Something I was sure would work.

I walked out with a towel and water dripping off my body.

The hallway was dim, soft candlelight from the living room casting long shadows across the floor. Caleb was in the kitchen, sipping something from a mug, and when he turned and saw me—

He froze.

His eyes dropped instantly. Down my neck, across the curve of my chest. The towel stopped mid-thigh, exposing my shaved, long legs. One tug, and it would fall.

I paused in the doorway, pretending not to notice his gaze. “Hot water’s still working, I think you should hurry up and bathe before it stops working,” I said casually.

He didn’t answer.

Just stared.

Jaw clenched. Knuckles were white around the mug.

Good. I wanted him uncomfortable. I wanted him shaken.

By evening, we were back in the living room. Candles flickering. Rain tapping at the windows like impatient fingers. Caleb had a deck of cards in his hand, and I plopped down next to him, folding my legs beneath me.

“Strip poker?” I teased.

His jaw twitched. “Don’t push it.”

“Too late,” I smiled.

We played a few rounds—nothing serious. Just Go Fish and harmless chatter. But the air wasn’t harmless. It was thick. Charged. Like the storm outside had slithered into the room and wrapped itself around us.

Then came the moment.

I reached for a card. Leaned across the coffee table slowly, deliberately. My hoodie shifted, my neckline dipping, and my shorts riding higher. I didn’t look at him—I didn’t have to. I could feel the way his breathing changed.

And then his voice was low, almost a growl.

“I know what you are doing. You shouldn’t play with fire.”

I froze.

My heart thudded so hard I was sure he could hear it. I turned my head slowly to face him.

“Maybe I want to burn.”

Silence.

The kind of silence that happens just before something explodes.

He dropped the cards.

One second, I was sitting there, and the next, his mouth was on mine.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was raw and full of every ounce of tension we’d buried for two damn years.

His hands slid into my hair, gripping, tilting my head back as his tongue slid against mine. I gasped into his mouth, gripping the hem of his shirt, but there was no need—he was already shirtless. Already hard against my thigh.

He stood abruptly, lifting me like I weighed nothing, and carried me into the kitchen.

My back hit the counter. I barely had time to moan before his lips found my neck, then my collarbone, then lower. His hands roamed—bold and hungry—sliding up under my shirt, down my thighs, everywhere at once.

My legs wrapped around his waist on instinct. My towel had long since dropped. I didn’t care.

I wanted his mouth. His hands. All of him.

“Fuck, Zara,” he groaned, voice wrecked.

His fingers dug into my hips as he ground against me. My breath hitched, eyes fluttering shut.

The thunder outside roared again, like the sky screamed for us to stop.

But we didn’t.

Not until his lips paused against mine, both of us breathless, our bodies humming from the edge we’d found ourselves on.

“This is wrong,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

I looked at him, heart racing, lips swollen, skin burning.

“But it feels so right,” I whispered back, pulling him down to me again.

And this time, he didn’t stop.