I’d been home from college exactly four days and my p***y was already a traitor.
Mom married David last summer, some loaded real-estate guy with a jawline carved from marble and a twenty-four-year-old son, Ryan, who looked like he bench-pressed cars for fun.
The house was ridiculous: heated marble floors, a kitchen bigger than my dorm, and a wine fridge that hummed like it was flirting.
It was 1:17 a.m.
I couldn’t sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes I saw David’s thick forearms when he reached across the dinner table, or the way Ryan’s sweatpants clung to his d**k when he sprawled on the couch watching football.
Wrong. So f*****g wrong.
But my c**t didn’t care about vows or bloodlines.
I padded downstairs in the tiniest sleep shorts I owned, soft pink cotton that barely co
