Claire had been in the house too long. Too close. Too present.
She was Sarah's sister--off-limits, untouchable. And yet, every single moment she spent in my home chipped away at my restraint.
The way she moved. The way she existed in my space like she belonged there, like she wasn't wreaking havoc on my self-control. It was unbearable. It was consuming.
And I had nowhere to put it.
I sat in my office, staring blankly at my laptop screen. The words on the page blurred, meaningless. I wasn't working--hadn't been for the past twenty minutes.
Because Claire was outside.
And I was watching her.
Outside, Claire stood by the pool, bathed in moonlight.
She had stripped down to her underwear--soft, black lace that clung to her like temptation made flesh. Her hair cascaded down her back, her skin glowing under the dim lighting, smooth and inviting.
I should have walked away.
But I didn't.
I stood there, watching her.
Her hands ran through her hair, stretching her arms above her head, arching her back. The movement made her stomach tighten, the fabric of her panties dipping lower on her hips, teasing me.
She turned slightly, giving me the perfect view--the curve of her ass, the swell of her breasts beneath the thin lace.
My body responded instantly.
The frustration, the tension, all of it boiled over.
I unbuckled my belt with slow, practiced movements, letting my fingers slide over the unbearable tightness beneath.
My breath shuddered out as I palmed myself, eyes locked on Claire.
I imagined how she'd feel--how warm, how tight, how soft.
Would she moan? Would she let me take her mouth first, the way I'd fantasized? Or would she turn around, press her hands to the cool glass, and let me claim her from behind?
My grip tightened.
Outside, she dipped a foot into the water, sighing as she lowered herself in. Her head tipped back, her throat exposed, vulnerable.
I bit my lip, stroking harder, my stomach clenching at the thought of my hands on that throat, my teeth against that pulse point.
She shifted, swimming closer to the edge, resting her arms on the ledge, her chest pressing forward, barely concealed by the lace.
I stifled a groan, my pace increasing, chasing the edge, chasing the release she'd unknowingly forced me to seek.
It came hard--violent, shattering--a flood of pent-up frustration spilling over as my body locked up.
I sucked in a sharp breath, blinking through the haze, my chest rising and falling in deep, uneven gasps.
Down by the pool, Claire's eyes flicked toward the house.
***
By the time dinner rolled around, I was composed. Or as close to composed as I could be after what had happened.
I wasn't going to think about it.
I wasn't going to wonder if Claire had known, if she had seen, if that smirk had meant anything.
But then she came to the table in a slip dress that barely qualified as clothing.
Silky. Red. The thin straps clinging to her shoulders, the hem teasing the tops of her thighs.
Fuck.
Sarah poured wine into her glass, shaking her head. "Seriously, Claire, is this your version of comfortable?"
Claire smirked, slowly crossing her legs. The movement made her dress rise just enough.
"I like to be comfortable," she murmured, lifting the glass to her lips.
Sarah scoffed. "You like attention."
Claire's gaze flicked to mine--just for a second, barely there.
I gritted my teeth, gripping my fork.
Sarah kept going, oblivious. "Mark, don't you think she dresses like she's constantly being watched?"
I nearly choked on my drink.
Claire didn't miss a beat.
"Oh, I don't know..." she said, voice syrupy-sweet. "I think some people like watching."
The wine burned down my throat.
Sarah rolled her eyes, nudging Claire's foot under the table. "God, you're impossible."
Claire hummed in amusement, running a lazy fingertip along the rim of her glass.
I didn't speak.
After dinner I sat in the living room, pretending to work, pretending that my eyes weren't drawn to every subtle movement of her body. She walked in carrying a laundry basket on her hip, wearing a short plaid skirt--the one that barely covered the tops of her thighs. The fabric clung to her waist before flaring out, shifting with every step, teasing glimpses of smooth, golden skin.
I tried to keep my eyes down, to stay focused on the glow of my laptop screen. But the sight of her was a gravitational pull I couldn't resist.
Claire set the basket on the coffee table and started folding clothes, her humming soft, almost hypnotic. The room smelled like detergent, fresh linen, but underneath it lingered something unmistakably her. Subtle, warm, laced with citrus and vanilla.
The moment she bent forward, I stopped breathing.
The hem of her skirt lifted too high, and I caught a flash of bare skin.
No lace. No fabric. Nothing.
A slow, burning heat curled in my stomach, tightening, twisting. My cock stirred to life, pressing against the zipper of my pants, growing uncomfortably hard in an instant.
She straightened, oblivious--or maybe not. Maybe she knew.
"How's work?" she asked, folding a shirt, not bothering to look at me.
I swallowed hard. "It's fine." My voice was too tight, too strained.
Claire shook out another piece of clothing, her fingers smoothing over the fabric. "You work too much," she mused, casting me a sideways glance. "All those long hours, all that tension. It must be exhausting."
She bent again, deeper this time, the movement slow, deliberate. The skirt lifted just enough to reveal the gentle curve where her thighs met. My stomach tightened painfully.
I should leave. I should stop looking.
Instead, I watched.
My breath was heavy, chest rising and falling in measured, controlled inhales, but my mind wasn't controlled at all.
I wanted her.
Wanted to grab her hips, pull her against me, drag my lips down the delicate slope of her back, sink my teeth into the bare skin she so carelessly revealed.
