My name is Jack, and until a few weeks ago, I thought of myself as a pretty normal guy. I’m twenty-four, fresh out of grad school, living in a cramped London flat with my best mate, Derek. We’ve been mates since sixth form – same love for football, banter, cheap beer – you know the type. It was a good set-up. Nothing dramatic. Life just cruised on: work, pub, Netflix binges, repeat.
But everything changed the afternoon I met his sister Rachel.
It was a regular, grey Saturday. Derek and I were nursing hangovers in our run-down living room, pizza boxes everywhere, when he announced, “My sister’s stopping by. She’s in town for uni interviews, needs somewhere to crash.”
I shrugged, pretending it was no big deal. He’d mentioned Rachel before, but I’d never met her. “Cool,” I said, then went to shower, hoping to wash the stink of stale beer from my skin before she showed up. It weirdly mattered, even though I didn’t know why.
About an hour later, she strolled in with a duffel bag over her shoulder—long reddish-brown hair, ripped jeans, sparkly brown eyes, confidence just oozing off her. She didn’t look like the kid sister you’d imagine. She looked like trouble.
“Hey, you must be Jack,” she said, flashing a casual grin.
“Hey, Rachel.” I tried to keep it casual, but her eyes lingered on mine, and I felt heat rushing up my neck.
Derek and Rachel took the good sofa, and I ended up in the busted armchair, trying to focus on whatever shit TV Derek was watching, but my mind was all over the place. Every time Rachel laughed, I felt it in my gut. She laughed like she meant it. The way her lips curled, the way she’d twist her hair around a finger. I stole glances at her legs, her hips the way she slouched in her seat, so sure of herself.
For the rest of the weekend, she was just… there. Around. She used my toothpaste, wore one of my hoodies when Derek wasn’t looking, beat us both at Mario Kart, called me “smartass Jack” when I tried to get cocky. Every casual touch set my head on fire, like when she brushed past me in the kitchen, hip to hip, leaning over my shoulder with her breath warm on my ear, asking for the coffee.
I’d never felt so aware of someone’s body before. Every inch of me was wound tight, but she was my best mate’s little sister. I told myself it was a fleeting thing. I ignored it, let it rattle around in my chest.
But that night, lying in my bed, hearing her laughter echo in my head, I couldn’t stop replaying her little smirks, her voice, the way she watched me when she thought I wasn’t looking. I jerked off with her name in my mouth, feeling stupid and guilty at the same time.
Rachel left the next day, but for two weeks, I couldn’t escape it—the way she made me feel. So when Derek said she was coming to stay for a couple of nights before final uni interviews, I honestly panicked. Part of me was excited, the other cringing with guilt.
She arrived late Thursday night, as loud and full of energy as before. I’d cleaned up the living room, bought her favourite biscuits (Derek told me). She flopped down next to me on the sofa, hugging a blanket to her chest, hair pulled up in a messy bun.
“You didn’t forget about me, did you, Jack?”
“I tried,” I joked. “Hard to forget someone who trounces me at video games and drinks all my coffee.”
She nudged me with her elbow, grinning. “Come on, admit it. You missed me.”
God, she could read right through me. I just laughed, letting the moment pass. But later, as the three of us watched a film, Derek started dozing off, and Rachel shifted closer to me, our thighs pressing together under the old patchwork blanket. Every now and then, her fingers would trace lazy patterns on my knee, over my jeans. I thought I might lose my mind.
When the film ended, Derek practically stumbled off to bed. Rachel and I stayed up, sipping on crappy wine and talking about everything and nothing: traveling, music, weird dreams, worst dates ever. She curled her legs up on the sofa, half-facing me, her knee touching my thigh.
“So,” she said, voice lower, “are all the guys around here as boring as my brother?”
“I might be the exception,” I joked, smiling. She smiled back, eyes holding mine a moment too long.
An awkward silence settled in. I tried to change the subject, but she just kept looking at me, like she was trying to figure me out. I felt my skin prickling.
Suddenly she asked, “You ever wonder what would happen if you broke the rules?”
I swallowed. “What kind of rules?”
She slid a little closer. “You tell me.”
My heart was thumping in my throat. I didn’t want to hurt Derek. But I wanted her, more than I could admit. I hesitated, torn between guilt and the electric rush crawling over my skin.
“It depends whose rules,” I said quietly. “And maybe who’s breaking them.”
She grinned, biting her lip. “Maybe I want you to break them,” she whispered, barely audible.
She was so close our faces almost touched. I could smell her hair, her perfume. I could see the scattered freckles on her cheeks. I wanted her so bad it hurt. But guilt gnawed at me.
“Rachel, this isn’t—” I started, but she shushed me with a finger over my lips.
“Shh. I know what you’re thinking. But I’m not a little girl, Jack. I know what I want.”
Maybe it was the wine, or maybe I was just weak, but that was all it took. Her lips brushed mine, soft, then insistent. I let go, finally, kissing her back, my hands tangling in her hair. She pressed herself into my lap, grinding her hips against me, my cock instantly hard. I cupped her ass, pulling her closer, and she moaned softly against my mouth.
She broke the kiss, panting. “Let’s take this to your room.”
Still, I hesitated. “Derek’s just down the hall…”
She grinned, daring me. “Keep quiet, then.”
We barely made it to my room before she started tugging my shirt off. I kicked the door shut, pulling her on top of me as we fell onto my narrow bed. Her hands were everywhere—pulling at my belt, fingers slipping under my jeans. My hands slid up her shirt, kneading her breasts through the thin cotton of her bra, feeling her nipples harden beneath my palms.
She straddled me, grinding down against my cock. I could feel how wet she was through her leggings. “Fuck,” she whispered, breath hot against my ear. “I’ve wanted this since the day I met you.”
That did it for me. I rolled her onto her back, tugging her leggings down, barely stopping to admire how gorgeous she looked sprawled out on my bed, hair wild, lips swollen from kissing. I slipped my fingers between her thighs, feeling slick heat, making her whimper and arch her back.
“Jack, please,” she begged, wrapping her legs around my waist.
I pushed inside her, slow at first, trying to keep from moaning too loud. She bit my shoulder, hips lifting to meet mine, nails digging into my back. I fucked her deep, slow, the tension drawing out each gasp and desperate thrust. The whole time, I knew we shouldn’t be doing this, but it only made it hotter. Every whispered “don’t stop,” every muffled moan, every frantic movement was fire.
She came first, legs trembling, mouth open in a silent scream. That pushed me right over the edge and I spilled inside her, panting hard, completely wrecked.
Afterwards, we lay tangled up together, sweaty and dizzy, neither of us speaking for a while. Eventually, she traced lazy circles on my chest.
“So now what?” she whispered.
I had no idea. I just knew I didn’t want to stop. Not now.
“Stay,” I said, pulling her closer.
And she did, curling up beside me till morning, sharing the kind of secret you could only keep with someone you wanted too much to give up.