The air crackled, thick with steam and the musky-sweet scent of Sarah's arousal. The risk simmered beneath every sensation—this was our kitchen, where Mom cooked breakfast.
Now Sarah trembled on the counter, bare skin gleaming, eyes wide and feral—a silent plea that made my blood roar.
I sank to my knees on the cool tile, the movement deliberate, an act of worship before the altar of my sister's desire and her pussy. My hands slid upwards, gripping the smooth, firm flesh of her thighs just below the curve of her ass. I pushed them gently apart, widening her stance, opening her completely to my gaze.
The damp lace of her panties stretched obscenely tight across her swollen mound, the dark fabric saturated, clinging to plump lips beneath. The sight stole my breath—her glistening folds visible through the sheer wetness, the hard bud of her clit a straining peak demanding attention.
My sister. Exposed. For me.
