His Naughty Girls

004

Liv

He hadn’t said a word, but I dang knew he was in there.

I don’t want love. I just want to be the reason he can’t sleep.

The reason she can’t eat.

The reason this house never stays quiet again.

It’s wrong. I know it’s wrong. Yes I know.

She’s my half-sister, even if we haven't met until now.

And he—

Fuck.

He took me in after mom died. No questions, no conditions either.

I should be grateful. I should be decent.

I should stop thinking about how big his hands are.

Or how good his c**k would feel stretching me open.

Or how dang wet I get every time he says my name like it tastes bad in his mouth.

But I can’t. I want it. I want him.

His voice, his body, his weight on top of me.

I want him to stop pretending I’m just some poor, f****d-up girl he’s helping.

I want him to snap. And f**k me like he’s been holding it in for years.

Is that too much to ask?

*******

Caleb barely glanced up from his phone. He’s on his second coffee and third excuse to stay in the other room.

He won’t sit across from me. Won’t ask what I want. Won’t mention the tank top I’ve worn three days in a row or the fact that I haven’t bothered with a bra since I moved in.

But he doesn’t have to, his hands shake every time I walk in.

And Sabrina?

She’s losing it quietly. I know.

She keeps setting her mug down harder than she needs to. Keeps slamming drawers, tightening ponytails, changing outfits twice before noon like she’s the one trying to get noticed.

Except she’s not.

She’s trying to be….. remembered.

It started with the mirror.

I came out of the shower still damp, towel barely wrapped. Her door was open. She was sitting at her vanity in nothing but underwear, back arched, staring at her reflection like she wasn’t sure it was still hers.

I didn’t say anything, just stood there for a second.

She looked up and our eyes met.

Then hers dropped — slowly — to my chest.

I tightened the towel and turned away.

But I knew what I’d seen. And so did she.

Later that same day, I found her in the kitchen wearing a skirt she hadn’t touched in two years.

I remembered the skirt.

I’d seen it once — in a photo in Eden, my moms old shoebox, the one with all the people she’d hated or f****d or both.

Sabrina, age seventeen. Standing next to Caleb. Smiling with a hand on his chest like she didn’t realize what it looked like.

Maybe she did.

Maybe she’d been trying even back then.

Now she was wearing that same skirt again. No tights, legs smooth, no single shame.

I didn’t say anything. I just walked in behind her and reached for the coffee.

I made sure to press in close, chest against her back, bare thigh brushing hers.

She froze but stepped away.

He saw it.

Caleb walked in seconds later and caught the whole f*****g scene — her stiff, her eyes forward, my hand still outstretched, n*****s hard against her shoulder blade.

He didn’t say a word, he just looked at us.

Then at the empty mug in his hand, and left.

It’s like he thinks silence will fix it, like restraint makes him innocent.

But his silence is soaked in guilt.

I hear it in the way he exhales when I pass.

I see it in the way he lingers when he thinks I’m asleep.

And sometimes — when the air is too still — I swear I feel his eyes on my door from across the hallway.

Watching. Wondering what I’m doing inside.

Eden would’ve called it winning.

That’s what she always said.

Men don’t love. They want. You either make them want you or you get forgotten.

She said it with a bottle in her hand and c*m still on her thigh.

She said it when I was twelve and pretending not to listen.

And I listened anyway.

She taught me how to walk into a room like my body was currency.

She taught me to leave the door open.

She didn’t raise me to be soft, she raised me to survive.

I’m not stupid. I know this house isn’t safe.

I know these people weren’t meant to want me.

But I’m not trying to be wanted, I’m trying to be…unforgettable.

*****

Dinner came, and no one spoke. I wore the dress I found in Sabrina’s closet — the one with the low back and the neckline I didn’t bother pinning.

She didn’t say a word when I walked in wearing it. She just stared, face blank, hands shaking.

Caleb didn’t sit.

He leaned against the wall like that made him less visible. Like the angle of his stance could make him less aroused.

I saw the way he looked at my collarbone.

At my thighs when I crossed them. At my mouth when I licked a drip of water from my wrist.

I made it worse.

I leaned forward, elbows on the table. The dress gaped. My t**s hung heavy and bare under the fabric.

His grip on the chair tightened.

I didn’t speak, neither did he.

But his breathing changed.

And I knew the next move had to be mine.

So?

Later that night, I waited until Sabrina’s door shut.

I didn’t sleep. I didn’t knock.

I just walked, straight down the hallway.

His door wasn’t locked.

It never was.

I stepped in and let it click shut behind me.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, shirt off, pants half undone like he’d just finished deciding not to finish anything at all.

His eyes lifted. Slowly.

“Liv.”

He said it like a warning. Like a prayer. Like he was already failing to control himself.

I stepped closer.

“You didn’t stop me,” I said.

He didn’t answer.

“You didn’t leave.”

His jaw clenched.

“Say it.”

“Say what?” He finally shot at me.

“That you want to touch me.”

He stood up too fast.

“You need to go, Liv.”

I didn’t move.

“You’re not some little girl,” he said. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Then—stop me.”

He didn’t.

But I saw it — the flicker.

The twitch in his hand, the bulge in his pants.

He was hard, because of me.

He turned away, one hand gripping the dresser like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“This isn’t a joke,” he muttered.

“I’m not laughing.”

I took one more step.

“You don’t even have to touch me,” I whispered. “I’ll touch myself. Right here. Right now. You can watch. Or not. But I’ll do it anyway.”

“Get out.”

I smiled.

“I bet she listens too.”

He turned then at that moment, face dark. Guilt flooding his chest like he couldn’t breathe through it.

“Sabrina,” I said.

He flinched.

“I bet she listens to the wall,” I whispered. “Just like she used to listen to your footsteps.”

“Liv—”

“I bet she gets wet.”

“Stop.”

He moved — fast — stepping close, too close. Not touching me. But I felt the heat. His breath. His hard c**k pressed against the front of his pants.

We were nose to nose but he said nothing afterwards.

Outside the room, I heard it.

A creak. Bare feet on hardwood, light and careful.

Sabrina.

She was out there, listening.

Maybe not from the start, maybe not every word.

But enough.

Enough to hear the way I said his name.

Enough to know what he wasn’t stopping.

I didn’t move, I wanted her to hear the next part.

“I’m not going to stop, Caleb,” I said, voice low, steady, but soaked. My throat ached. My cunt pulsed.

His chest rose, slow and heavy.

His throat bobbed like he couldn’t swallow what I’d just said.

I stepped closer, my bare legs brushed his knees.

He didn’t move, he couldn’t even breathe out.

“I’ll walk around this house soaked and braless until you forget why you ever tried to be good.”

His breath hitched, not loud. But enough for me to notice.

And for a second — just one, charged and terrifying — I thought he was going to snap.

His hand lifted.

Fingers twitching in the air like he didn’t know if they were about to grip my waist or push me away.

They hovered, then dropped.

“You’re dangerous,” he said, voice sharp, thick with something he hadn’t meant to admit.

I smiled — wide and slow, like it turned me on to hear him say it.

Because it did.

“I learned from the best.”

He didn’t ask who, but I said it anyway.

“My mother.”

That landed.

His face cracked — just enough to see it. Just enough to make me wonder what he remembered. What he regretted.

He sat back down on his bed like his legs gave up.

Hands on his knees, eyes low.

“Go to bed, Liv.”

“Alright then.”

I didn’t argue.

I just turned around. Slowly. Let him see the way my hips moved in that thin cotton.

And I opened the door like I knew exactly who was still watching.

Sabrina’s door was ajar.

The light was off, but the glow from mine spilled into her room.

She was sitting on the bed, legs curled to her chest, chin tucked down like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to cry or kill someone.

She didn’t speak, but her eyes locked onto mine.

I walked past her slowly, not saying a word.

She didn’t look away.

And just as I reached my door, hand brushing the knob, I heard it.

“Do you think he wants you?”