The game began at breakfast.
Riley descended the stairs wearing Sloane's favorite silk blouse — ivory, expensive, cut to drape off one shoulder — without a bra beneath.
Her dark n*****s were visible through the fabric, hard and pressing against silk that had touched Sloane's skin countless times.
She'd paired it with cutoff denim shorts so short they barely covered her ass, the frayed edges riding high on her thighs.
Sloane sat at the dining table, immaculate in charcoal trousers and a cream shell, her posture rigid as she reviewed documents. She didn't look up when Riley entered, but her pen stopped moving. A muscle in her jaw twitched.
"Good morning, stepsister," Riley purred, sliding into the chair across from her. She reached for the orange juice, deliberately arching her back s
