“Oh! Oh! Ohmmmm, yes. Fuck me. Please." Who knew things would spiral this fast?

Well it's another Friday night and I'm in my home, the weight of not having a functional social life crushing on me like a wave that doesn't quite know what to do with itself. At nineteen it's not totally unusual to be home on the weekend with no one to talk to, more homework than you deserve and an irrational fear of the coming Monday. What is unexpected though is the sound of your bathroom door clicking open while you're touching yourself.

Why?

Because you know your socialite mother is attending some new event to boost her social capital and get “investors" for her crazy business ideas. Your new stepfather is working late, trying to seal an important collaboration deal... So you're alone… with the hot stepbrother you just met a month ago and have been avoiding like a death sentence because the first time you saw him you felt something you shouldn't have– desire, a strange yet deep yearning you don't even understand. So imagine him pushing your bathroom door open right as you're rubbing your clit to an image of him in your head and the first thing he says upon seeing you is a low "fuuuck.”

But would I blame him for having barged in? My noise must have drawn his attention. If only I had kept my damn mouth shut, locked my bedroom door– why the hell did I leave it ajar?– or maybe even decided not to play with myself in the first place. This wouldn't have happened. He's my step brother for goodness sake.Yet the problem is beyond the fact that he is here. It’s that he isn't really reacting. Yet…If it had been my mother that had burst in like this at least she would have screamed at me and talked about how much of a disgrace I am to her, like the way I came into her life wasn't bad enough– out of wedlock. I could deal with that. My stepfather? He would pretend he didn't see anything and ask my mother to handle it which would lead us back to Scenario One. But a stepbrother you've been crushing on since the first time you saw him though… I expect him to just ahem his way out of this one– avert his gaze, tell me why he's here and then escape as quickly as he came in. But no, this step brother comes even closer and I swear I grow wetter by the moment at his approach. I forget for a moment that I am covered in nothing but foam from my bath, one finger stroking vigorously in the space between the petals of my clit. Soon another whine is escaping my lips, stifled yet audible. It takes me a moment to realize that I hadn't even let out an ordinary moan. No, it had come with a name. His. And now the secret is out in the open.

He knows that he's the one in my head.

“Sophie," Dominic says quietly.But I just hum in response.

“Say it again." “No," I shake my head for emphasis. "No.”

“Say it." It sounds so hoarse and breathy that for a second I wonder if this feeling– frustration as punishing as this– is mutual.

"Dom,”

I finally whisper, looking timidly at him through soaked lashes. In a flash he closes the distance between us and joins me in the spray, not pausing to even take his clothes off. Soon he's all I see, chiseled, angular jaw and eyes that would undo any woman taking up all the space in my vision.

Then hands… everywhere. Cupping my face, caressing my breasts, palming my ass, squeezing, pulling me closer so that I can feel how hard he is for me– odd, quiet and boring little me making him so aroused. I'm literally on cloud nine because here is a guy who always went out with the classiest chicks in school– high profile girls whose families make the kind of money that would terrify anyone. Obviously he never really noticed me and in fact has been living with me in this house like I was a ghost. Now I'm making him feel things. Dangerous, wicked things. How… flattering.

Yet it goes beyond that to the pure, naked ecstasy simmering between us; how thoughtless and reckless this whole thing feels. The high alone is well on its way to making me orgasm. But I need more. One look at Big Brother and I know he's going to give it to me. His eyes promise me sin, ruin and everything in between– no preamble, no justification, just raw heat rolling off him and into me like a vengeful storm. Before I can even make sense of what is going on his shirt is off, a drenched mess at our feet and rows of toned muscle pulsing with an otherworldly energy slide into my view. Soon he has my back to the tiled wall as his lips take mine at an angle and mould against them until my own name becomes a distant memory in my brain. I forget the fact that I am currently making out with my own step brother and we're both naked in my bathroom. Guilt is a mile away at this point. All that I feel is sweet, undiluted pleasure– I'm dripping in ways that have nothing to do with the shower overhead and it is absolute euphoria; incomprehensible bliss that tingles along the roots of my hair.

My wolf only has to whisper “Mate,” just once for it all to make sense.

Everything– the way I am unraveling like a dirty secret under Dom's skilled hands; how it seems like my center of gravity shifts every time I set my eyes on him and my legs feel like they can't bear my weight anymore. At the announcement from my wolf my hitherto shut eyes open like a trap door in the dark to find his gaze on me. He knows.

His wolf must have briefed him too.

But before I can say anything, ask how on earth the moon goddess could have played such a cruel game with us, he drives his cock inside me and my brain just blanks.

With a jolt I wake.

The first thing that registers is disappointment. I'm no longer in my bedroom in the Steel mansion seven years ago. I'm currently in my luxury loft studio in the heart of Los Angeles surrounded by art, supplies and the kind of serenity that cannot be purchased in the market. Things have changed now. I am no longer the dewy-eyed, self-effacing teenager that once upon a time used to be obsessed with her stepbrother. The one who was always walking on eggshells, afraid to offend anyone, dimming her shine so that no one had cause to squint their eyes at how exceptional she was. I am successful, independent, unapologetic and most importantly over the crush that had spiralled my life out of control nearly a decade ago. I have everything I need now– a successful career, a home, cars, a child of my own. I am accomplished. Yet I can't help but feel a nag of emptiness like something is missing– a need I haven't quite come to terms with. It's obvious in how much my cheeks are flushed, how my heart thumps, beating a drumbeat I know all too well.

Unwilling to engage with the current trend of my thoughts, I push them aside and get on my feet. Money is what matters now– it's what drives the world, not emotion, love or unnecessary sentiment– and I'm about to make some more. I turn to the half-complete sketches I had been working on before I fell asleep and grab my tools to finish them, noting that I am running behind schedule. The designs need to be ready for tomorrow’s showcase and I have quite a number to make. Already I have buyers queuing and I'm not even finished yet. There's work to do. No, I am not the Sophie of yesterday. This here, is a woman who built her business from scratch seven years ago, rose from the ashes of heartbreak, rejection and penury to become a force to reckon with.*I am almost done with my current project when my little boy runs into my workspace looking too cute to even belong to this world.

“Mommy! Mommy! I'm sooooo hungry!" He announces self-righteously like I hadn't offered him some cookies earlier. The same ones he rejected just to stay longer in front of the TV. But I humour him anyway. "And what would my little prince like to eat for dinner tonight?”He pretends to mull over it.

“Ice cream?”

“Try again. You know you can't eat that this late at night. It's not healthy for you." Now he does some real thinking.

"Pasta.”

“That's a good boy. Do you want veggies too?"

“Do I have to?" “Yes, my love. What did I say about eating healthy?”

"You said to," he replies guiltily. I smile. “I did. Now will you make sure to finish your serving?”

"I will, Mommy.”

“Great.

Give me a few minutes to finish my work and we will go out for dinner, okay?”He nods and busies himself, rifling through the papers and million little items on the center table next to my station. I am still putting the finishing touches on the dress before me when he runs over, clutching a booklet tightly to his chest.

"Mommy! Mommy!”

"Yes, my dear?” I peeped down to see what has him so excited and notice the cover page of the magazine in his hand. On it is a portrait picture of Dominic Steele, first son and heir to the Steele business empire. “Why does he have my kind of eyes?" Ethan asks, looking up at me like he is genuinely confused.

“They're so grey like mine." For a moment I can't decide what to say.

“Well."

“Who's this Mommy?"

“He's the CEO of Steele Resources," I answered. This isn't a lie of course, though it is not the whole truth. “What does CEO mean, Mommy?" “It means Chief Executive Officer,” I answered patiently. "He's the Boss of the company I mentioned earlier.”My little boy nods sagely. "So do we know him? Is he a friend of yours? You're also a boss Mommy. Do all bosses know each other?”

"No, they don't. We don't know him. Now go and put on your shoes so we can get you a very gigantic bowl of Spaghetti Bolognese.”

Dinner takes two hours. Soon after Ethan is so full he can hardly breathe, too tired to ask for a bedtime story. We rush through his bath and then I tuck him in. Now I'm lying on his bed, simultaneously patting him to sleep and trying to make the hardest decision I've ever had to make in such a long time– returning home. Only some thirty minutes ago my assistant had forwarded an email to me. My step father is dead and his burial has been fixed. I am required to show up for it; pay my last respects and I want to. Richard Steele has always been kind to me. Never condescending, overbearing or difficult. We weren't as close as a biological father would be with his own child because I never really saw him in that light but the few moments we spent together, I saw the effort he made to make me feel welcome in his home. He never spoke to me harshly once when I lived at the Steele family villa and he made sure I never lacked anything. Now he's gone… my former stepfather and one of the few members of that family I don't totally despise to the moon and back. I have to go there, attend the funeral. I owe him. Beyond the gratitude I feel, it is courtesy on my part. He was my father too and though he wasn't perfect he tried his best. But am I ready for what I will face back home? Only one letter brought a flood of emotions surging through me. Imagine what going back to the place it all started would do. Heaven knows I am not prepared for it.

My gaze goes to Ethan again and my chest tightens like it would burst. I don't think he's prepared either for the truth. The real one.

And now I am home. And really, I am expecting to be wowed the moment I get here with any difference or whatever, but everything is still the same way I left it.

The beautiful gates of the Steele family villa open with the same calmness they always have, like they have all the time in the world that no one else possesses.

The observant me sits at the back of the hired chair and watches them part, and deep down in my chest, it feels like a hand is opening me the same way the gates open, pulling me apart without asking. I notice that split right down the middle between my breasts, that line that never requests my permission before action. Yes, I know I have not been here for seven years, but is that enough reason for invisible hands to begin splitting me open from the center of my chest like gates?

Seven years though… A full seven years of building walls, building a career, building a life that has no business with this place and its inhabitants. But Richard has brought me back because he is heavy in my hands, and I cannot let him slip off simply because I am avoiding coming home. And here I am, back at my genesis.

The villa rises into view and my throat tightens, like my mouth just dumps a disturbing bone that sits horizontally in between, one that even water would have struggled to push through.

It is just exactly as I remember it in my head. Like, do you know how your head sweeps memories down your eyes while you are still confirming what you are seeing? That is the same way I feel. The place is grand, cold and beautiful, and it feels like it was never built for warmth. The stone facade spreads wide in width and tall in height, and you need to see how this structure makes me feel small just by staying inside it. And what about the manicured hedges that line the driveway, just really stunning the way I love them. And around, not a single leaf is out of place. Yes of course, appearance matters to the Steeles even in mourning.

I smooth my black dress and breathe a little. And about my boy Ethan. That young promising man is safe. He is back in LA with Miriam, my personal assistant, who has worked for me long enough to cherish him like her own child. I kissed his forehead this morning while he was still half asleep and he had somniloquy, something about me getting him waffles when I got back. I love my boy so much and that memory is the only thing keeping me alive, hale and hearty right now. And I cannot just wait to go back to my Ethan. I miss him already.

÷÷÷÷

The car stops.

The door opens.

I step out.

“Here we go.”

The reception is already filled when I walk in, all its inhabitants dressed in black, a fitting symbolism for what we are marking today. The death of Richard Steele. Besides that, quiet voices and focused faces turn toward me like I am Santa Claus. The grief that settles here is so intense and it almost blocks my nostrils from breathing. A chandelier hangs overhead, spreading soft gold light across an ocean of people I do not recognize, made up of extended family, business partners, and old friends of Richard who perhaps have no idea that his second wife had a daughter she brought into the house.

And the fact that I am more of a stranger than a homie here makes it more weird. No one remembers me here, really. I was always in the background, I have always been the quiet girl standing slightly to the left of the real picture itself.

But then I am relieved when an older woman clasps my hands and tells me Richard spoke fondly of me. I smile at the compliment and I appreciate her. A man with grey hair in a grey suit offers his condolences and I nod and thank him. I think I am good at appreciating little gestures. It is one of the few skills my mother’s house taught me that I am actually grateful for, a good moral I'll also instill in my son.

And as I am moving through the room consciously, keeping my composure intact as that’s the only thing I would not risk here, then something unexpected happens.

My wolf stills within me.

The wolf within me is not calm at all. It goes completely still. You know that way an animal freezes when it catches the scent of its predator nearby? That is exactly how my wolf stills within me. Everything in me locks in place at once in a blink.

Then the scent hits me like a sniper shot.

It comes close before I even see him. And my brain jolts awake in remembrance. I know this smell. I know this scent, dark and overwhelming to the core.

My body reacts to the data before my mind can catch up and processes it into information. My pulse shifts gear at once, my skin prickles from my arms to the back of my neck, and a suffocating heat rises from beneath my collar, draining every strength I have left to control it.

“No.” I think firmly. “No, this must be a prank.”

My wolf has other alternatives opinions.

I roll my head slowly because an assumption in my chest has already shifted from its assumed position into confirmation… And there he is.

Dominic Steele stands at the far end of the room, discussing with two men in suits, his posture alone sending a message of authority. He looks like nothing has stripped anything from him in seven years. Seven years have not been unkind to him at all. If anything, they have done the opposite. He is broader now, sharper in the jaw, more mature, extremely handsome and fully grown. What a wonder he is!

He is not looking at me. And then, he is not….

What I expect on his face is recognition, but what crosses it is far from recognition or even surprise. I do not know the right word for the look he gives me from across the room. He says nothing to me, yet his eyes carry a message I cannot read but can feel pressing through the space between us. I do not say anything to him as well. We just look at each other, locked in a moment that spans longer than it should.

Fuck!

He looks at me like I'm nothing, like a tool he once destroyed and still wants badly. I looked away first as usual. I'm always the first to look away in every context. I spent the next hour composed and completely fine. People keep sending their condolences, and I welcome them with calmness that holds everything in place. His personal assistant is also around and I ask if she needs my help with anything. I drink one glass of water and I promise myself I am not going to track Dominic’s movement through the room.

I tell myself I will not, but I am absolutely tracking Dominic’s movements through the room.