Holy shit.
My stick-in-the-mud stepsister actually has naked photos on her phone.
Did she take them in bed? In a mirror? In her bra and panties, or completely bare?
Without me consciously trying to, my brain fills in the blanks. I picture her holding her phone above her in bed, onearm draped across her breasts. Maybe her fingers are parted a little, giving you a peek at the pretty pink nipple underneath.
My hardening cock presses against my boxers, and shame washes over me. Pippa’s notreallymy sister, but I still shouldn’t be thinking about her like that. It’s messed up.
And Idefinitelyshouldn’t be trying to figure out a way to get her phone so I can scroll up and see those pics anyway.
Get back to fixing her profile, moron.
“Hey, no shame in the game,” I say quickly. “I can just get your profile pics off Instagram.”
I shove the other half of my burger in my mouth and open IG. Even though I already know what photos I want to use, scrolling through my phone gives me a good reason to look away from Pippa while I wait for my cock to calm the fuck down.
Scrolling through, it doesn’t take long to find what I’m looking for. There’s a pic she posted from our family vacation to the Bahamas last year, one where she wore this stringy bikini (black, of course.) The only reason she even posted it was because she happened to meet some mystery author she liked on the beach and made me take a pic. Otherwise, she’s not the type of person to put a swimsuit photo on the main grid.
She looks good in it though, if you crop out the old guy. Her tousled bob is extra curly from the ocean water, and the cut of the swimsuit bottom makes her legs look a zillion miles long.
The other pic is on Cat’s IG, not Pippa’s. It shows Pippa in that café they always go to, smiling with a coffee. She’s wearing a slouchy sweater that hangs off one shoulder and a necklace with a green stone. The light from the window is catching her face just right, illuminating the freckles she gets on her nose that she’s always trying to hide. She looks natural and happy, not as uptight as she normally does.
I screenshot both posts and text them to Pippa. “Those two.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Did youreallyhave to put in the bikini pic? Yeah, that’sreallygoing to attract the kind of guys I’m looking for.”
“This is how you have to think about it,” I explain patiently. “When you make a profile, you’re auditioning to be a part of a guy’s life. Your pictures are showing him how you’ll look when you do stuff together, like grab a coffee or go on vacation where, yes, you might end up wearing a bikini.”
She leans against the counter, crossing her arms, her eyes narrowed skeptically. “Are you just bullshitting me?”
I flash her a shit-eating grin. “I don’t know. You tell me.”
She sticks out her tongue at me. “You suck at this. You didn’t even pick enough photos.”
Well, she’s right about that. She should have at least three, but none of her other pictures were just right. She needs one more photo, something eye-catching, sexy but still mysterious. The outfit she’s wearing right now would be perfect for that, actually…
Well, if you want something done right, sometimes you have to do it yourself.
“Go get some high heels,” I demand. “We’re taking a picture.”
“I’m not playingAmerica’s Next Top Modelwith you, Ryan.”
“Just do it, okay? I swear, I’m not going to make you look stupid. If I make fun of you or anything, I give you full permission to punch me in the stomach as hard as you can. I won’t even flex when you do it.”
She smiles brightly. “Deal. Now I almost hope you do act like an ass, because I’ve been doing a lot of pilates and my arm is pretty strong.”
I resist the urge to tell her that her bicep is about the size of a Nilla Wafer. Not that it matters—I’m not going to give her an excuse to punch me. I have no plans to tease her or mess up thepictures on purpose. Now that I have the idea for the photo in my head, I want to get it right.
While she grabs her shoes, I head back to my study to grab my ring light. I keep it handy for when I play video poker, because I’m not going to let myself look like crap for all the ladies watching.
Unfortunately, Pippa’s hellbeast has curled up on exactly the sofa spot I have in mind. I wish I could just pick it up and move it, but that’s not happening. For whatever stupid reason, it loathes me. If I get within a foot of it, it swipes at me with claws that Pippa probably sharpens.
“Get off,” I tell it. “Go. Shoo.”
It just stares at me and flicks its tail, unimpressed.
“Stop harassing Waffle,” Pippa says, setting down a pair of shoes with an impressively high heel and a red sole. “We can just take the photo somewhere else.”
