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Chapter 1
Alex's Point of View:
The first time it happened, I was watching my old babysitter, Emma Smith, sunbathe. She was home for summer break from college, slipping into a black string bikini each day to lounge by the pool. I lived next door on the second floor, my desk perfectly angled to see the Smiths' kitchen, living room, backyard, and Emma's room with its half-open blinds. The afternoon heat had my shirt clinging to my back, and I tried to play it cool, messing with my laptop, but my eyes kept darting to her. *Don't get caught,* I thought, my pulse kicking up as her patio door slid open and she stepped out. Looking back, she could have seen me hovering at the window, and that made my stomach twist with nerves.
Emma went to a state school on a volleyball scholarship. She was tall, lean, tan, and blond with a friendly, easy smile. Her black bikini was a size too small, so she had to keep re-adjusting the black triangles of her top. I watched the struggle intensely and tried not to remember that I was just the neighborhood kid to her. I fantasized about texting her and that she would text me back to join her by the pool. But I knew the most likely outcome would be an uncomfortable conversation with my parents. Even more upsetting, the afternoon sunbathing might stop.
It was late afternoon, a few days before the Fourth of July. The neighborhood smelled of fresh-cut grass mixed with a faint whiff of chlorine from the Smiths' pool. In the yard, Emma's flat golden-brown stomach stood out against glaring white of the deck chair under her. I sat at my desk, pretending to focus on my computer, my hand holding my dick through my shorts. She streatched to reach for her Coke, and I shut my eyes, imagining her pulling off her bikini top instead. In my fantasies, tan lines sliced across her bare chest, her breasts curving gently in the warm sunlight. My breath hitched--*What if someone catches me peeping at her?*
When I opened my eyes, Emma held the black bikini top, staring at it like it had come from nowhere. She glanced down at her bare chest, skin gleaming with sweat, then up at my window where I stared, mouth open. Our eyes met for a split second, my face burning as hers flushed red. She crossed her arms over her breasts, bare legs shifting as she started to stand, toes curling against the concrete. I felt her panic--*Topless outside; someone might film this*--and my nerves screamed to look away, that she knows I'm watching. But my horny brain pictured her feeling a thrill, liking the attention. She paused with one foot on the ground, and I imagined her fear fading, her body easing back for me. Slowly, like she was in a haze, she swung her legs onto the chair, reclined back, and let her arm drop a bit, breasts resting in the crook of her elbow. She looked up again, her lips twitching into a faint, shaky smile. *Did I make her do that?* The thought felt crazy, but her actions matched my fantasy too well, guilt spiking my pulse.
It was too much for eighteen-year-old me, and I came hard in my shorts, soaking my boxers. Chelsea, her mom, leaned out the back door, yelling, "Emma! Are you serious? The whole neighborhood can see you--come inside now!" Her glare caught my window as she slammed the door, jarring me back to reality. Emma's bikini-clad bottom vanished into the house, leaving me with a sticky mess. My hands shook, the weight of her shaky smile and slow compliance sinking in. The idea I'd controlled her sparked a rush that tingled down my spine, but a knot of shame twisted in my gut, like I'd crossed a line I couldn't uncross.
I came again in the shower, picturing the smooth curve of Emma's body, my mind nagging at me--did thinking I caused that mean I'd lost it? Mom yelled for dinner after, and by the time I'd eaten and got back to my desk, the sun had dropped behind my house, stretching shadows across the Smiths'. I flicked off the light to stay hidden. Their living room shone out bay windows looking to me above like a scene from a dollhouse.
Emma's stepdad, Ted, sprawled in his recliner with a beer, feet propped up, while Chelsea laid out popcorn and snacks for a family movie night. Ted's first marriage left him with twin daughters, Tracey and Stacey, a bit older than me, and a son, Sam, a touch younger. The twins were sharp-dressed, stuck-up, and had been high school royalty back in the day--I stayed clear of them. Sam was athletic and popular but chill, though he caught hell at school once for passing around a photo of Emma streaking back to her room from the shower. He was a lousy student, stuck repeating senior year. From Chelsea's first marriage, Emma had grown up with her stepsiblings for years, and they just called each other brother and sisters.
The twins sat close on one end of the couch, legs crossed, while Sam slouched alone in the loveseat. Chelsea curled up on Ted's lap in the recliner, a blanket draped over them. Emma showed up last, her sleep clothes--terry cloth shorts and tank top--clinging to her curves. Sam couldn't help looking, but he played it off, staring at the floor. She brushed past him, heading for the couch. I leaned closer to the window, pulse racing--time to try this power thing again. No way what I had in mind would happen naturally.
Sam's Point of View:
I tried not to stare at my sister. Another lecture from Mom and Dad would suck, but she wasn't helping--white tank top and shorts a size too small. Every step tugged the fabric tight over her toned frame. She was about to pass me to sit with the twins, so I slid a throw pillow over my lap to hide my half-chub, eyes glued to the TV screen.
But she didn't pass. The loveseat dipped as she sat next to me, her thigh warm against mine. I froze, my pulse picking up.
"Hey, dork," she said, her nickname for me. "Couch looked cold. I'm squeezing in here."
My voice came out squeaky, "Sure, loser." What the hell was going on? Emma and I got along fine; we even hung with some of the same people. But after the "shower incident," brother-sister affection didn't happen. I glanced around to check if anyone noticed. Nobody did. Stacy flipped off the lights, and the TV kicked on with the Netflix dun-dun. Over on the recliner, Mom nestled against Dad, and for a few minutes, I tried to watch Josh Brolin dodge explosions, but my brain wouldn't focus. Emma's soft breathing right next to me was too much, her warmth creeping through my shorts.
I knew I shouldn't have. My head screamed it was wrong, but I gave in, gut twisting with guilt. I set my palm at the edge of my lap, right where Emma's leg pressed against mine. Her bare thigh felt smooth, electifying through my skin. If she noticed, she didn't let on. My boner was so hard it hurt.
Knowing I was screwing up big time in the middle of family night, but too hooked to stop, I slid my hand all the way onto her thigh. Her skin felt soft, stretched tight over her toned muscles. My gut clenched, braced for her to call me out.
She turned her knees away from me and lifted my hand off her lap with hers. I tensed, but nothing happend, instead, she pressed her back against my side, draping my arm over her shoulders and resting her head on my chest. "Sam, no," she whispered firmly, "Brother and sister, remember? You can keep me warm, but stop being a perv."
