Meryl's POV
As a young woman, I never expected to discover my stepbrother in the bathroom in the early morning hours, pleasuring himself while moaning my name with desperate hunger.
Sleep had abandoned me that night. I'd only intended to fetch water from the kitchen when the sound reached my ears.
Crystal clear and unmistakable.
My name on his lips.
"Meryl... oh God..."
My body went rigid, pulse hammering against my ribs like a caged bird.
The house sat in complete silence during those early morning hours. Andre had returned for one of his rare visits after spending months away on mysterious business that nobody ever discussed.
He maintained his own residence downtown and seldom graced us with his presence. Only holidays or his mother's persistent requests brought him through our door.
Since Dad exchanged vows with his mother, I could count our encounters on one hand.
The memory of our first meeting remained vivid years later. My composure had crumbled instantly. He embodied masculine perfection, radiating authority and self-assurance that couldn't be manufactured or imitated.
Yet I remained invisible to him. He acknowledged my existence with the same enthusiasm one might show a piece of furniture. The rejection stung deeper than logic suggested it should, though I convinced myself it stemmed from our age difference. I'd heard his mother was practically a child herself when she bore him. Perhaps that distance explained his emotional walls. Or maybe indifference came naturally to him.
During family dinners, his gaze never found mine. Smiles never graced his features. Conversation occurred only when directly addressed, and family discussions proceeded as though an empty chair occupied his space.
His mother, however, radiated nothing but warmth.
She'd stepped into the maternal void left by my own mother's death when I was very young. I'd never experienced a mother's embrace, endearing nicknames, or bedtime kisses until she arrived. Without hesitation, she'd filled that emptiness with genuine affection that made me feel treasured and protected.
Only her son remained frozen in perpetual winter.
Andre never offered me warmth. Never acknowledged my presence beyond the occasional glacial glance. Still, some foolish part of my heart wondered what recognition from him might feel like. What hearing my name from his mouth could mean.
Whether I mattered to him at all.
So discovering him speaking my name during such an intimate moment caught me completely off guard. It felt forbidden. Shameful. Twisted. But it also marked the first time I'd ever heard those syllables cross his lips.
As disturbing as it sounds, my feet carried me toward that sound despite every rational thought screaming retreat. Common sense demanded I flee. But curiosity proved stronger. I needed confirmation that this was real. That I truly occupied his fantasies while he touched himself with such raw need.
The bathroom door hung slightly ajar. Light leaked through the gap like forbidden knowledge waiting to be discovered. I pushed it wider.
There he stood.
Andre.
Completely naked. Positioned before the mirror. His fist worked his impressive length with desperate rhythm while his free hand gripped the sink's edge. Back muscles rippled with tension as his jaw clenched against what sounded like suppressed growls.
He appeared like some untamed deity, primitive and wild, completely lost in thoughts of me.
My name continued spilling from his lips. He spoke it like prayer and curse combined. Like I held the power to heal whatever flames consumed him from within.
Breathing stopped. Blinking ceased. I simply stood transfixed, thighs pressing together as heat bloomed through my chest and lower. Shame mixed with arousal at how thoroughly soaked I became just watching him stroke himself while imagining I already belonged to him.
Then I released the smallest sound. A breathless gasp.
His head snapped toward me. Our eyes collided.
Everything suspended.
I witnessed it all: the flush staining his cheeks, perspiration beading his chest, how his hand stilled but maintained its grip.
How his gaze turned predatory. Ravenous.
Then reality crashed back.
"Get out!" he roared.
The door slammed with such violence the floorboards trembled beneath me. I stumbled backward, lungs burning, legs unsteady as I fled down the hallway like someone who'd glimpsed something that would haunt her forever.
My bedroom door closed behind me as I collapsed onto the mattress. My heart threatened to burst from my chest.
But not from embarrassment.
From pure want.
He'd fantasized about me. Desired me. And now liquid heat pooled between my legs with desperate need for him. My hands trembled as I touched my lips, attempting to regain composure, but nothing could erase those images. All I could see was his grip on himself. All I could hear was my name escaping his mouth in ecstasy.
I wanted to taste him, feel that heat against my skin, make him speak my name again while I knelt before him with his fingers tangled in my hair.
Self-hatred bloomed for wanting something so wrong.
But not enough to kill the desire.
Morning brought failed attempts at avoidance. I remained locked in my room, holding my breath whenever footsteps echoed in the hallway. Only after our parents departed did I risk venturing to the kitchen.
He was already there.
Waiting.
No words were necessary.
He wouldn't allow pretense or denial.
He approached like he already knew what had filled my dreams all night. As though he could detect the need radiating from my skin. As though he sensed the heat between my legs without needing to touch.
His hands seized my waist, slamming me against the refrigerator with such force I gasped. My palms hit his chest but he remained immovable. His entire body pressed against mine.
His breath warmed my face. His voice emerged as a low rumble.
"Did you come looking for me last night because you wanted to watch me pleasure myself while thinking of you?"
"Andre—"
"Answer me!" he demanded. One hand pinned my hip to the cold surface. The other traced up my thigh. Speech became impossible. Air trapped in my throat.
My knees betrayed me with trembling.
He noticed immediately.
"Already pressing those beautiful thighs together?" he said with dark amusement. His attention dropped to my mouth, then lower to my chest.
My muscles went taut. My lips parted involuntarily.
"You stood there watching me stroke myself while imagining you. And you enjoyed every second. Didn't you?"
A whimper escaped me. "I wasn't trying to—"
"Trying to what?" he whispered against my mouth. "Trying to get discovered? Trying to see if your depraved stepbrother touches himself while fantasizing about your perfect little body?"
I shuddered. My legs shifted. My underwear was drenched.
His hand moved between my thighs, pressing firmly through the thin fabric. He didn't need confirmation. He knew. I was soaking wet. Absolutely drenched.
"You're dripping," he growled, increasing pressure. I gasped sharply. "Just from words. Just from hearing me say your name while I climaxed."
"Andre please—" I had no idea what I was pleading for.
He pressed harder. His fingers ground against my heat through the barrier.
My spine arched. My skull hit the refrigerator.
"I should make you come right here," he growled. "Touch this needy center until it weeps. Until it flows down your legs. Until it begs for me. Until it only remembers how to want me."
I gasped desperately. I moaned. My thighs clenched. My nails dug into his shoulders.
"I want to destroy you," he whispered in my ear. "So desperately. So completely. But I cannot."
He withdrew his hand with agonizing slowness while his body remained rigid. Still trembling.
He met my eyes, dark and burning.
"You want this?" he asked.
I blinked rapidly, breathing harshly. "I-I don't—"
"Perfect. Because if you possessed any dignity, you'd pretend this never happened."