I Blackmailed My Stepbrother Into F*cking Me(5)

Ava’s POV I wake up to his hand between my legs. Not the careful, testing touch from last night. This time his fingers are inside me, two of them, pumping slowly, and when my eyes open he's propped on one elbow, watching my face with those green eyes and that smirk. "Morning, sweetheart," he says, curling his fingers. My back arches off the mattress before my brain is fully awake. "What time—" "Six." He pumps deeper. "Parents won't be up for hours." He finger-f***s me into a morning orgasm that rolls through my still-sore body in waves that make me grab the headboard and moan his name into the pillow. His c*m from last night is still inside me. I can feel it mixed with the fresh wetness, slick and warm, and his fingers push through all of it with a wet sound that makes my face burn. "You're still full of me," he says, pulling his fingers out dripping. He puts them in his mouth. "Still sweet. My c*m and your p***y mixed together. Best thing I've ever tasted." "You're filthy," I say, panting. "And you're wet at six in the morning before your brain is even awake. Your body knows who it belongs to before you do." He f***s me again. Morning light through the curtains. My legs over his shoulders. Slow and deep and punishing. His c**k pushes his c*m from last night deeper with every stroke, and the squelching sound of him f*****g me through his own c*m is obscene and loud in the quiet morning. "I can feel my c*m inside you," he groans, driving deep. "f*****g you through it. Pushing it deeper. You're going to sit at breakfast with my c*m leaking into your panties and smile at your mother." "You're sick," I gasp. "You came twice since I woke you up. You're sicker." I c*m twice more before he finishes. He pulls out and cums on my stomach, hot ropes across my skin, and rubs it in with his palm like he's marking territory. I lie there coated in him, inside and out, watching him smear his c*m into my skin with a possessiveness that makes my p***y clench. We shower separately. I scrub until my skin is pink. I can still feel him everywhere. The deep soreness between my thighs that aches with every step. The bruises on my inner thighs are shaped like his fingerprints. The ache in my jaw. A raw spot on my cheek. Bite marks on my shoulder I don't remember him leaving. He's dressed when I come out. Scrolling his phone. "Don't call me sweetheart at dinner," I say. "Why not?" 'Because you said my real name while you came inside me, and it sounded like something that can't be taken back.' I want to say. Instead, I say, "Just don't." The restaurant is open-air. Fairy lights. Ocean breeze. Our parents are already seated. "There they are! Sit, sit." I sit. Caleb sits beside me. His thigh presses against mine under the tablecloth. "How was last night?" Mom asks. "You two survived sharing?" "Barely," I say. My insides are a war zone. "She hogged the blanket," Caleb says. "I did not—" "You absolutely did." We bicker. It sounds normal. But his knee is warm against mine, and I'm eating bread across from my mother while her stepson's c*m is still inside me. Mom sets her wine down. "Good news! Another room opened up. You don't have to share anymore!" Caleb doesn't look up. "Nah. We're good sharing." He glances at me. "Right, sweetheart?" My face ignites. That word. At this table. After everything he did to me. "Yeah," I say. "We're fine." "See?" Mom elbows Dad. "I told you they'd get along eventually." Under the table, Caleb's hand slides up my thigh. Under my sundress. His fingers trace the edge of my underwear, and my breath catches. He pulls my panties to the side and drags a finger through my slit. I'm wet. Already. I grip my fork so hard my knuckles go white. He pushes a finger inside me under the tablecloth. At dinner. With our parents three feet away. His finger curls into my G-spot with the same precision he's used, and my thighs tense. A tiny breath escapes me. "You okay, honey?" Mom asks. "Fine," I manage to say. "Just hungry." He adds a second finger. The stretch under the table makes my eyes water, and I stare at the menu so hard the letters blur. He pumps slowly while our parents argue about the seafood platter. His thumb finds my c**t and circles with that same devastating precision he's used all night. "The scallops are excellent here," Dad says. "Mmhmm," I say, and it comes out breathy because Caleb's fingers just curled into my g-spot under the tablecloth, and my thighs are shaking as I'm gripping the edge of the table. I'm going to c*m in a restaurant in front of my family. The thought should horrify me. Instead, it makes me clench around his fingers and get wetter. He pulls out right before I tip over. The bastard. He brings his hand up to the table. Picks up bread. Puts the finger that was inside me into his mouth while reaching for the butter. Nobody notices. My p***y clenches around nothing, and I want to drag him to the bathroom and ride his c**k on the sink. I can't believe this is my life now. Five more nights. Five more nights with one bed and one stepbrother who just fingered me at dinner in front of our parents and licked my taste off his hand while reaching for the bread basket. Five more nights of his c**k and his hands and his mouth and his c*m inside me while our parents sleep through the wall, thinking their kids are finally getting along. I pick up my menu. Cross my legs. The soreness between my thighs feels like a countdown to the moment dinner ends and that hotel room door closes. I hate him. I'm almost sure of it. But I never want him to stop f*****g him.