The moment the words leave my lips, a heaviness settles over the room, as if an invisible wall has erected itself between us.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, my fingers twitching as if they want to reach out and tip her chin so she’s looking at me. These thoughts are crazy. She’s my stepsister. I shouldn’t be thinking about what it would be like to lean over and caress her full lips with mine.
“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” she says, releasing a sigh. I can’t shake the sense that Willow’s holding something back. She turns onto her back and stares up at the ceiling, and I regret bringing up how we’ve ignored each other for four years.
She exhales a heavy sigh. “I should go back to my room.”
I want to ask her to stay, but the way my cock is stirring at the thought of gripping her creamy thighs and sinking into her warm heat keeps me watching silently asshe climbs off my bed and pads across the room to the door.
Deep down, I know I’m just projecting Angel’s rejection onto her. I can’t deny the similarities between them—the blonde hair, blue eyes, and the scent of vanilla and oriental water lilies—but it’s only wishful thinking. Willow’s a quiet little mouse, a complete contrast to the confident paramour who’s consumed my every waking thought for the last six months.
My balls ache from not touching myself for the last month, and when the door clicks closed behind her, I release a muffled groan as I reach down and palm my semi, already hating myself for what I’m about to do.
Once I’m sure Willow is gone, I roll onto my side and breathe deeply, allowing her lingering scent to wash over me as I spit on my hand and slide my pants down. My cock springs free, and the noise that slips from my lips is bordering on animalistic as I grip the base of my hardening length and give it a slow, torturous stroke. I’m not going to last long.
I close my eyes, conjuring up an image of my masked Angel’s sweet curves as she sinks down, her head tilted back in pleasure as she takes every inch of me. Imagining the marks on her skin where my fingers dig into her waist, my hand picks up its pace, jerking myself off to her memory. Only it’s not my angel that meets my heated gaze in my mind as I release a guttural growl and I spill into my hand—it’s my stepsister, with her innocent eyes and pouty smile.
Fuck me, I’m going to hell.
My panting breaths are the only sound in the room asI lie here covered in cum feeling like a fucking creep. The sooner I leave Beckford, the better. A fresh start is exactly what I need to get my head on straight.
I mutter a curse as I reach over to grab some wipes from my bedside drawer and clean myself off. My phone buzzes on my desk and I contemplate leaving it, but curiosity gets the better of me. It buzzes once more before I reach it, and I swallow down the spark of hope I feel when I see the notifications from the Euphoria app.
I stare at the screen, taking a moment to breathe before opening the message. My chest tightens when I see her username in my DMs, but it’s her words that have me collapsing on the edge of my bed and dropping my head into my hands.
@HeavenlySiren: I’m sorry for not coming to meet you tonight, but trust me when I say this is for the best.
@HeavenlySiren: I’ll never forget you.
I can’t resist shooting my shot one last time, and my fingers race over the screen as I write a reply.
@PhantomMenace: It’s not too late. I don’t leave until next week. Meet me tomorrow. At least let me say goodbye properly.
@HeavenlySiren has blocked you.
“Fuck!”
Unable to curb my frustration, I toss my phone across the room, not even flinching when it hits thewall with a loud clatter. It doesn’t matter if it’s damaged. I’ll get a new one in the UK, and it’s not like there’s anyone left in Beckford who gives a shit about me. I can’t fucking wait to get out of here.
Exhaustion sinks into my bones, and I climb into bed. I drape my arm over my eyes and try to forget about the shitshow that is my love life. I need to focus on my football career and ignore any distractions. If I’m going to make it to the EPL, I need to have my head screwed on right. No more thoughts of angels or stepsisters.
It’spast noon by the time I drag my arse out of bed the next day. I don’t even spare a glance at my phone as I leave my room, my stomach dragging me downstairs in search of sustenance.
In the kitchen, I gather the ingredients for an omelette and I let the pan heat on the stove as I go through the motions of chopping the mushrooms, capsicum, spinach, spring onion, tomatoes, and bacon. They sizzle in the pan while I crack four eggs into a bowl, whisking them with a dash of skim milk.
Gwendoline enters the kitchen as I’m plating up.
“Ah, you’re up,” she says as she makes a beeline for the coffee machine.
“Obviously,” I mutter under my breath before shovelling a forkful of food into my mouth.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing.”
“Your father wants a word with you.”
I bet he does. I don’t even grace her with a response. While I may have made some headway with Willow last night, I’m certainly not ready to extend the same courtesy to my stepmother.
