The Pull of Forbidden Steps

The house didn’t feel like mine anymore. Same street, same squeaky mailbox, same cracked stepping stones up to the front porch—but everything inside had shifted. Mom’s wedding photo glared at me from the hallway table: her in ivory lace, a man I’d never met in a navy suit, and a younger guy standing behind them with arms crossed and a crooked half-smile that made my stomach flip the moment I saw it.

Two semesters at State, and I came back to strangers.

“Mackenzie, you’re here!” Mom’s voice floated from the kitchen, too bright, like she’d practiced the line. She appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel, eyes shining with newlywed glow. “Come meet everyone.”

Everyone. Translation: the family you didn’t know you had until now.

I dragged my duffel over the hardwood, sneakers scuffing. The scent of garlic and lemon told me she’d made her famous scampi—comfort food as apology for dropping a bomb over FaceTime: “I got married, sweetie. Surprised?”

Understatement.

She ushered me into the kitchen. The man from the photo stood at the stove, stirring something that hissed. Tall, salt-and-pepper hair, warm eyes—Eric. He turned off the burner and extended a hand that still smelled of butter and parsley. “Finally,” he said, engulfing my fingers. “Your mom talks about you nonstop.” His voice was gentle, but his gaze was steady, assessing. I got the immediate sense he was a man who noticed things, who paid attention. It put me on edge.

I forced a polite smile, but my gaze snagged on the figure leaning against the far counter. Hoodie sleeves pushed up, bronze forearms, dark hair messy like he’d just rolled out of someone’s bed. My new stepbrother.

Up close, the photo hadn’t done him justice. Storm-gray eyes tracked me head to toe, lingering on my bare legs beneath denim cutoffs. A flicker of amusement lit his face—he knew I was staring and he liked it.

“Mack, this is Dylan,” Mom chirped. “He’s a year older, goes to Westbridge University. Pre-law.”

“Mackenzie,” I corrected out of habit. Only Mom called me Mack.

Dylan’s lips curved. “Kenzie, then.” The nickname rolled off his tongue like he owned it already.

Electric heat skittered across my skin. I hated that I liked the sound of my name in his voice.

Dinner was a blur of polite chatter about majors, dorms, Dad’s move to Oregon. Dylan sat across from me, one ankle hooked over a knee, occasionally topping off my iced tea. Every time the pitcher tilted, his eyes flicked to mine—challenge, curiosity, something darker. I found myself squeezing my thighs together under the table, pulse drumming for no decent reason.

Eric told a long, detailed story about a contract dispute at his architecture firm, his hands moving precisely as he described load-bearing walls and client indecision. Mom listened with rapt attention, interjecting with supportive sounds. She reached over and squeezed his hand midway through. The gesture was so easy, so comfortable. It was strange to see her so seamlessly partnered with someone who wasn’t Dad. Eric caught me looking and gave me a small, kind smile that didn’t quite reach his observant eyes.

After dessert, Mom and Eric escaped to the porch with wine, leaving us to clear dishes. I stacked plates, hyperaware of him behind me at the sink.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked, voice low.

I glanced over my shoulder. Sudden proximity; cedar and soap scent. “Should I?”

“Seventh-grade science fair. You borrowed my volcano poster board.”

Memory slammed into me: a gangly boy with braces, offering supplies while I nearly cried over spilled glitter. He’d been quiet, methodically organizing his own project on tectonic plates while chaos reigned around him. “That was you?”

He nodded, dimples flashing. “Grew a few inches since.”

More than a few. The boy had weaponized puberty.

Water gushed as he rinsed a pan. I reached to place a glass in the rack; our fingers brushed. Static sparked. I jerked back. He stayed still, watching water bead on his skin like he could read my thoughts in the droplets.

“Careful,” he murmured. “Static electricity. Charges build when people rub each other the wrong way.”

The innuendo hung thick. I rolled my eyes to mask the flutter between my legs. “Or the right way.”

The side of his mouth tipped up. He flicked off the faucet and flicked water at me. I squealed—actually squealed like a child—and retaliated with a sudsy spatula. Soap suds dotted his cheek; he swiped them slowly, eyes never leaving me.

I fled before the moment combusted.

That night I lay in my childhood bed, ceiling fan clicking, summer air sticky. The house felt smaller with Dylan one wall away. My phone buzzed.

Unknown number: Nice aim. Soap stings the eyes, FYI.

I bit my lip, thumbs hovering.

Me: You started it.

Dylan: Always. G’night, Kenzie.

I silenced the phone, heart hammering. Sick, I told myself. You’re sick. He’s basically family now.

Between my legs, my body disagreed.

---

The next morning, Mom was buzzing. “Surprise! The attic renovation is finished—it’s your new room. Bigger, more privacy for a college woman.” Her smile was bright, but her eyes darted to Eric, who was meticulously folding the newspaper at the table. I understood the subtext: I could bunk above the garage so the newlyweds had the main house to themselves. Eric gave a small, approving nod. He was a man who valued order, private space. I wondered if this had been his idea.

“I’ll help you move your things,” Dylan said from the doorway, already holding a box of my old books from the living room. His tone was neutral, helpful stepbrother.

Upstairs, the drywall smelled fresh. Sunlight poured through a new skylight onto boxes of my childhood memories. Dylan appeared hauling my duffel.

“Delivery,” he said, muscles flexing as he dropped it. His shirt rode up—a sharp V leading into gray sweats. Heat pooled low in my belly.

“Thanks.” I knelt to unzip, bending farther than necessary. From the corner of my eye I saw him shift, his throat working.

He prowled the room, tapping rafters. “Dad says you paint?”

“Sometimes.”

“Could help decorate. If you want.” His tone suggested ulterior motives.

I rose, wiping dust on my shorts. “You volunteering, big brother?” The words tasted wicked; I wanted to see him flinch.

He stepped closer, voice dropping to a rough whisper. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? It’s what you are.”

His gaze dipped to my mouth. “Because every time you say it, I imagine ways to make you moan something else.”

The air punched out of my lungs. Wetness rushed between my thighs. Fight or flight battled; neither won. I stood frozen while he studied my parted lips like a map to buried treasure.

Footsteps on the stairs broke the spell—Eric’s measured tread. Dylan retreated instantly, hood pulled up, leaving me vibrating and alone.

---

I avoided him strategically for the next two days. Beach trips with old friends, late-night bonfires, anything to be out of the house. Yet he infiltrated: texts about leftover pasta in the fridge, a Spotify playlist titled ‘Rainy Day’ shared randomly, a photo of my forgotten high school hoodie draped over his desk chair. Each ping was a twist in my gut, a pull low in my stomach.

On Wednesday, I came home to find Mom and Eric in the living room, heads bent over blueprints spread on the coffee table. “Eric’s designing a sunroom addition,” Mom said, her face alight. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

Eric pointed to a section. “The light will be perfect for your orchids, Sarah.” He said her name softly. I saw then how he looked at her—not just with new love, but with a protective, settled kind of devotion. He’d lost his first wife to illness, Mom had told me. This was his second chance. The weight of that, of their fragile, hopeful happiness, settled on my chest like a stone.

“It’s great,” I mumbled, escaping to the kitchen.

Dylan was there, making a sandwich. We were alone. The air felt charged, thick.

“Hiding out?” he asked without turning around.

“Something like that.” I grabbed a water from the fridge.

He finished assembling his food, then leaned against the counter, taking a bite. He chewed, watching me. “They’re really going for it, huh? The whole fresh start.”

“Yeah.” I twisted the cap off my bottle. “They seem happy.”

“He’s good for her,” Dylan said, and it sounded resigned, genuine. “My dad… he hasn’t been this light in years. Since before my mom died.” The admission was stark, unadorned. It was the first real thing he’d said to me that wasn’t layered with double meaning.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and meant it. “About your mom.”

He shrugged, but his jaw was tight. “Thanks.” He took another bite, then nodded toward the living room. “Makes what we’re feeling pretty fucking inconvenient, doesn’t it?”

The bluntness startled me. “We’re not feeling anything,” I lied, my voice weak.

He just looked at me, seeing right through it. He didn’t push. He just finished his sandwich, rinsed his plate, and walked out. The tension he left behind wasn’t purely sexual; it was fraught, complicated, and twice as potent.

---

Friday night, rain lashed the windows. Mom and Eric had driven to the city for a gala, gone till Sunday. I had the house to myself, or so I thought. I poured a generous glass of wine, queued a true-crime podcast, and settled into the den with a bowl of popcorn.

Halfway through a theory about a missing hiker, the power cut. Darkness swallowed everything. Thunder cracked directly overhead. I yelped, and the popcorn bowl tumbled from my lap.

“I’ve got candles!” Dylan’s voice called from the kitchen, followed by the bobbing beam of a flashlight. Moments later, flickering light revealed him shirtless—track pants slung low on his hips, torso carved from shadow and flame, raindrops still gleaming on his shoulders like he’d stepped from a storm-washed poster. My mouth went dry.

He knelt, gathering spilled kernels. “Thought you were out.”

“Change of plans,” I managed, my voice foreign and husky.

A flash of lightning illuminated us—two half-naked almost-strangers frozen on the rug.

“Power company says it’ll be morning,” he said, setting the flashlight upright to create a makeshift lantern. “Generator’s busted. Dad’s been meaning to fix it.”

“Great.” I wrapped my cardigan tighter, but nothing could mask my peaked nipples under the thin camisole. His gaze scraped over them, hot and tangible.

“Cold?” he asked, his own voice rough.

I swallowed. “Terrified of storms.” It was an honest admission, and I didn’t know why I gave it to him. A weapon, perhaps. A vulnerability.

He skimmed a candle closer, his eyes softening minutely. “Come on. One flashlight between us.”

We migrated to the larger living room sectional. Rain hammered the roof shingles. Candle flames painted gold on the sharp planes of his cheekbones. I curled under a fleece throw, knees to my chest. He sat at the opposite end, scrolling his phone for updates. Another thunderous boom rattled the windows; I flinched violently.

“Hey.” He reached out, his hand closing around my ankle through the blanket. The touch was electric, grounding. “You okay?”

I nodded, but my breath hitched as another roll of thunder echoed.

Without a word, he shifted. He lifted the edge of the blanket and slid in behind me—big spoon, his chest solid against my back, his breath warm at the nape of my neck. “Better?” he murmured.

My brain screamed a dozen warnings, even as my body melted into the solid heat of him. His arm draped over my waist, his palm open and resting just under the curve of my breasts. Every inhale pressed them closer to his forbidden fingers.

“You smell like coconut,” he said, his lips brushing my hair.

“It’s my shampoo.” I needed to sound normal, but my hips betrayed me, tilting back infinitesimally toward him. He hissed in a sharp breath.

Another crack of thunder made me jerk; his arm tightened around me. Warmth turned to searing heat, our bodies aligning perfectly. Something hard and insistent nudged against the small of my back. He didn’t apologize, didn’t move away.

I should move. I should speak. Instead, I whispered, “Dylan.”

“Right here.” His hand slid up, his thumb ghosting the underside of my breast. A shockwave of need rolled through me. “Tell me no, Kenzie.”

I couldn’t. The word was ash in my mouth. My nipple ached for contact; he grazed it through the fabric, circled it—agonizingly light. I arched into his touch, a gasp escaping me.

That single sound snapped his leash.

He flipped me onto my back, his mouth crashing onto mine. It was urgent, wet, tasting of rain and rebellion. Our tongues tangled, battling for a dominance he already owned. His hands roamed—one sliding down my spine to cup my ass, hauling me against him. My hands mapped the ridges of his abs, the sharp V that disappeared beneath his fleece waistband.

He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against mine, both of us panting. “Tell me,” he demanded, his voice shredded.

“Yes.” The word tore free from some deep, desperate place.

He hauled me astride him. The blanket fell away; my camisole rode up. His palms swept up my ribs, taking the thin fabric with them. Cool air pebbled my bare breasts. He stared, his expression reverent and hungry, then latched onto one nipple, sucking hard. Lightning flashed white behind my eyelids. I ground down against him, finding the hard, thick line of his erection. He groaned, his teeth closing gently around the peak. I cried out.

“Fuck, you’re sensitive.” He switched sides, his hand sliding between us, under my sleep shorts, past my cotton panties—soaked. One finger parted my folds, coating itself in my desire.

“Already wet,” he growled against my skin. “Dreamed of this.”

He circled my clit, slow then fast, owning my rhythm. I gripped his shoulders, rocking, chasing the feeling. Two fingers plunged inside me, curling, stroking that electric spot until my thighs began to shake.

“Come for me,” he commanded, his mouth on my breast. The wicked authority in his voice pushed me over the edge. My orgasm detonated, pulsing around his fingers, my cries swallowed by the roar of the storm.

Before the shudders fully ended, he laid me back onto the cushions, yanking my shorts and panties off. Candlelight danced over my glistening skin. He spread my knees, his gaze devouring me.

“Christ, Kenzie.” He knelt between my legs, dragging his tongue up my slit in one long, slow lick. I bucked. He pinned my hips with strong hands, feasting—lapping, sucking, fucking me with his tongue until another climax coiled tight in my core. I fisted his hair, unintelligible pleas spilling from my lips. When he sucked my clit between his teeth and thrust two fingers deep inside me, I exploded again, louder, my heels digging into the rug.

He rose, wiping his mouth, his eyes feral. His track pants dropped; his cock sprang free—thick, veined, a pearl of pre-cum beaded at the tip. I salivated, want overriding every shred of propriety.

“Condom?” he rasped.

“On the pill. Clean.” I reached for him, traced the slick slit, spread his moisture. “You?”

“Tested last month.” He hissed as I stroked him. “Need inside you. Now.”

I nodded. He hooked my knees over his forearms, positioned himself, and paused. “Look at me.”

Our eyes locked as he entered me—a slow, burning stretch of perfect fullness. He bottomed out, a guttural groan tearing from his chest. “So goddamn tight.”

He withdrew and slammed back in. The sectional scooted on the floor. Again, harder. I met each thrust, my nails scoring his chest. He varied his angle until he hit the spot that made stars burst behind my eyes.

“Right there—” I choked out.

He drilled into that spot, his feral grunts mixing with my moans. Pleasure coiled tighter, impossibly deep. He shifted one hand to my clit, rubbing ruthless circles.

“Come with me,” he demanded.

My inner walls clamped around him; he swelled even thicker inside me. We broke together—me screaming his name, him growling mine, his hot release filling me in long, pulsing waves. A final crack of lightning split the sky simultaneously, as if nature itself had sanctioned the sin.

He collapsed beside me, careful not to crush me, his face buried in the curve of my neck. Our hearts hammered against each other, a frantic, synchronized rhythm.

Eventually, he pulled out and disappeared toward the downstairs bath. I lay wrecked, thighs trembling, slick cooling on my skin. In the quiet aftermath, reality crept in on cat’s feet: What have we done? What now?

He returned with a warm, damp washcloth. He cleaned me with a gentleness that contrasted violently with the roughness of before, then draped a fresh blanket over me. He tugged me against him on the couch, tucking my head under his chin.

“Sleep,” he murmured into my hair. I listened to the rain fade to a drizzle and his heartbeat steady into a slow rhythm, and I did.

---

I woke before dawn, draped across his chest. The gray morning light painted new definitions: the red curve of scratches on his shoulder, the faint purple bruises he’d sucked at the swell of my breast. He stirred, his fingers tracing idle patterns on my spine.

“Morning.” His voice was sleep-gravelly.

Panic surged, cold and immediate. “Mom and Eric—”

“Won’t be back till tonight,” he said, his arm tightening around me. He rolled us so he hovered above me, his morning erection nudging my belly. “We’ll talk later. Figure this out.” He reached to the floor, producing a foil packet from his discarded wallet—last night’s courtesy, extended. “Right now… I want to see you in the daylight.”

He tore it open, rolled the condom on, then lifted me to straddle him again. We moved languidly—kissing deeply, hands learning in the soft glow. He palmed my breasts, thumbs teasing my nipples. I rode him slow, savoring the drag and fill. He thumbed my clit, coaxing another orgasm that rippled through me in gentle, endless waves. He followed, his jaw going slack, praise falling from his lips like a prayer: “Beautiful… so fucking beautiful.”

After, we showered—separately, though his eyes tracked me through the fogged glass. I dressed in cutoffs and his borrowed T-shirt, the scent of him wrapping me in a confusing mix of fresh guilt and undeniable thrill.

He was in the kitchen, whisking eggs, when I came down. Coffee brewed, filling the space with a normal, domestic aroma. The scene was so peaceful, so dangerously ordinary.

He set a plate of scrambled eggs and toast before me. “We can’t fake normal, Kenzie,” he said, sitting opposite me. “Not with this between us.”

“I know.” Steam curled from our mugs between us. “What do you want?”

“You,” he said simply. “Not just the sex. I’ve… felt this pull since you walked in. Maybe before.” He avoided referencing the science fair, leaving it as a vague, shared history.

My heart somersaulted. “It’s messy. It could hurt them.”

“I know.” He ran a hand through his damp hair. “Then we’re careful. No public shit. After summer, you go back to campus. We figure out the distance.”

I stirred my coffee, processing. The forbidden element wasn’t just a bedroom kink; it was a real-life trapdoor under our parents’ happy new life. But the idea of stopping, of pretending last night never happened, felt like a worse betrayal of myself. “Okay,” I breathed.

Relief softened the tension in his shoulders. He reached across the table, interlacing our fingers—the first PDA not cloaked by darkness or urgency. His thumb stroked my knuckles. “We good?”

I squeezed his hand. “We’re good… stepbrother.”

He laughed, a low, genuine sound. “Brat.”

---

We were almost discovered a week later. It was a Tuesday. Mom had said she’d be at a late planning meeting for the school year—she was a guidance counselor—and Eric was supposedly at a site visit. The house was ours.

We were in the living room again, on the same sectional. I was on my knees, taking him deep into my mouth, his hands fisted in my hair. We were lost in it, the wet sounds, his choked curses. The garage door hummed to life.

We froze. Panic, cold and sheer, drenched me. He pulled out, shoving himself into his jeans with frantic haste. I scrambled for my tank top, my fingers clumsy.

“Upstairs, now,” he hissed, pushing me toward the hall.

We made it to the top step as the interior door from the garage opened. Mom’s voice floated up. “Mack? Dylan? Anyone home?”

“Yeah!” Dylan called, his voice impressively steady. He was pulling a clean shirt over his head. “Just grabbing a book from my room!”

I slipped into the attic room, closing the door softly. I leaned against it, my heart trying to batter its way out of my chest. I could hear Mom downstairs, humming. A close call. A stupid, reckless close call that would have shattered her. The guilt was a physical weight, sour in my stomach. It wasn’t just about getting caught; it was the specific, vibrant image of her humming, oblivious, while I had her new husband’s son in my mouth. The two realities couldn’t coexist. One would annihilate the other.

Dylan texted an hour later: Too close.

Me: I know. I feel sick.

Dylan: Me too. Doesn’t change how much I want you.

And that was the horrible, beautiful truth. The guilt didn’t erase the want; it just made the wanting more desperate, more fraught.

We became more careful, more strategic. Hidden trips to his mostly-empty townhouse near campus. Risky, fleeting touches at family barbecues—his pinky brushing mine as we passed the potato salad, a foot sliding up my calf under the dinner table, promises made of skin and pressure. Midnight swims where he took me against the cool pool wall, water sloshing as proof of our sin. We filmed ourselves once—me riding him, breasts bouncing, his thumb rubbing me to a silent, screaming climax—then deleted it immediately, the adrenaline a blaze in our veins. He coaxed darker desires from me: light hair pulls, his belt looped loosely around my wrists as he thrust into me from behind, the dirty praises he whispered that made me blush crimson even as I begged for more. Every secret encounter bound us tighter, a double helix of lust and guilt.

We talked, too, in the stolen moments after. He told me about the silent, stoic year after his mother’s death, how Eric had buried himself in work. I told him about the slow unraveling of my parents’ marriage, the quiet dinners that felt like wakes. We were both refugees from different kinds of loss, washed up on this strange, shared shore.

One afternoon at his townhouse, tangled in his sheets, the reality of the calendar pressed in. “Move-in is in three weeks,” I said, my head on his chest.

His hand, which had been stroking my back, stilled. “I know.”

“What happens then?” I asked, voicing the dread that had been pooling for days.

“I drive up to see you. You come home some weekends. We text, we call.” He said it like a plan, but it sounded thin, stretched over the vast distance of secrecy.

“And we keep lying,” I said softly.

He turned onto his side to face me. His storm-gray eyes were serious. “You want to stop?”

The question hung in the air. I searched myself, past the fear, past the guilt. The thought of his hands not on me, his mouth not on mine, of going back to being just ‘step-siblings’ across a holiday table… it felt like a amputation. “No,” I whispered. “I don’t.”

“Then we lie,” he said, his voice firm. “We lie to protect them. And we make damn sure the lie is worth it.” He kissed me, and it felt like a seal, a dark pact.

---

August bled away. Move-in emails piled up. The dread was a constant companion.

The final weekend, the parents were gone to a weekend concert festival. We abandoned pretense entirely—it was my bed, my sheets, my vanilla-scented candle flickering on the nightstand. I wore the ivory lace lingerie set he’d picked out online and had delivered to a PO box. He peeled it off with his teeth, mapping every inch of newly exposed skin until I trembled.

He laid back, guiding me to reverse cowgirl so I controlled the depth and angle. His finger, slick with my arousal, pressed against my back entrance—hesitation melting into dark, shocking pleasure as he circled.

“Trust me?” he asked, his voice thick.

I nodded, breathless. He added lube from the nightstand, easing in a finger while I sank slowly onto his cock. The double fullness stole words—left only gasps and whimpers. He stretched me gently until I was rocking, chasing the impossible friction. When his other hand found my clit, I shattered, my inner walls milking him as he followed with a guttural groan that seemed pulled from his soul.

After, we lay tangled, unspeaking, listening to the soft summer rain start against the skylight—a gentler echo of our first night.

“I don’t want this to be goodbye,” I whispered into the hollow of his throat.

He kissed my forehead. “So don’t let it be.”

He reached over to the floor, producing a tiny wrapped box. Inside, on a bed of velvet, lay a delicate silver compass charm on a fine chain. “So you can find your way back to me,” he said, his voice rough with emotion.

Tears stung my eyes. He fastened it around my neck, his fingers fumbling slightly with the tiny clasp. I closed my fist around the cool metal. “And you?” I asked. “How do I know you’ll find your way?”

He took my hand and guided it to his left side, just below his rib cage. Under my fingertips, I felt the raised lines of new ink—a tiny, intricate compass rose. “Permanent direction,” he said simply.

I laughed through the tears, a wet, choked sound. We held each other as the rain drummed a steady rhythm on the roof, making promises we had no right to make, to a future we had no map to navigate.

---

The next morning, my car was packed. Mom hugged me tight, her eyes a little watery. “I’m so proud of you, Mack. This is going to be a great year!”

Eric lifted my last box into the trunk with ease. “Drive safe, Mackenzie. Call your mom.” His tone was kind, paternal. The weight of his trust was a yoke on my shoulders.

Dylan leaned against the driver’s side door of his own car, sunglasses hiding his eyes. I walked over.

“Well,” I said, shifting my weight.

“Yeah.” He pushed off the car.

We embraced—a quick, familial squeeze allowed by watching parents. But as he pulled away, his lips brushed my ear, his whisper a secret just for me: “Drive safe, college girl. Text me at every red light.”

I squeezed him once, tight, then climbed into my car. The silver compass glinted at my throat in the rearview mirror.

Halfway to campus, the sprawl of suburbs giving way to open highway, my phone pinged on the passenger seat.

Dylan: First star I see tonight. Yours?

I smiled, a painful, hopeful twist of my lips. My thumbs hovered over the screen as the tires ate the miles—carrying me toward a future of dorm rooms and exams, and a forbidden compass spinning a true, relentless north in my heart.

Me: Always.