CHASE
I woke up hard.
Not the lazy morning wood that fades after the first piss.
This was full, throbbing, relentless—the kind that replays last night in high-definition slow motion. Her thighs locked around my waist in the pool. The way she’d sobbed my name when I hit that spot. The hot, slick gush when she came so hard she soaked us both. The broken little “no more” that turned into “don’t stop” five seconds later.
I rolled onto my back, sheet tented over my hips, and grinned at the ceiling like an i***t.
She’d *squirted*.
My sharp-tongued, wall-building stepsister—virgin until roughly seven hours ago—had f*****g *squirted* on my c**k like she’d been saving it up for years.
And then she’d tried to quit.
Tried.
I laughed—low, rough, still half-asleep—and palmed myself through
