The Need Boxset

by K. I. Lynn

  She liked my present enough to not only hang it, but in her room, next to her bed, giving it a place of prominence where she’ll always see it.

  I think we both know why I picked that specific picture.

  And, in reality, it has jack-shit to do with her obsession with World War II.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  Her brow crinkles. “For what?”

  “For giving me hope that I haven’t lost you completely.”

  There she goes, pressing her lips together again, like there’s so much she wants to say but she won’t allow herself to say it.

  “I–I have to go.”

  Somehow, I knew that was coming. My first urge is to find an excuse to keep her on the call, but I bit down on it and nod at her again.

  “Okay. Do you have my new number?” I moved off my dad’s phone plan when he got married and onto my mom’s, but Kira wasn’t talking to me at the time, so I hadn’t been able to give it to her. I type it quickly into the chat. “Text me so we make sure it’s right.” She hesitates, almost glaring at the bottom of the screen where I know my number is.

  “Kira—”

  “Fine,” she grumbles, more to herself than to me. I see her pick up her phone and start typing on it. Two seconds later, my own phone pings with the incoming text, and I smile widely at her.

  She rolls her eyes at me.

  This, of course, only makes me smile wider, and once again, it’s so similar to how things used to be that I’m dizzy with relief.

  “I really gotta go.”

  I’m already saving her number on my phone. “Okay.” Still smiling like a moron.

  She stares at me for another second, then mutters a goodbye before ending the call.

  I stare down at my phone, at her cell number, knowing I’m an idiot for feeling like I just won a million bucks.

  April 27, 2012

  This class is boring the hell out of me. Don’t want to be here today. Save me from this prison.

  Now that Kira and I are “trying” to talk again, I find stupid excuses to text her all the time. I’m not lying, though. This class is absolute torture. I feel like I’m going to fall asleep in this damn chair.

  I peek down at my phone, anxious for Kira’s response.

  No way dude. Save yourself. I’m out shopping for a dress.

  Don’t like the sound of that. Not one bit. Scowling, I text her back: Dress for what?

  She makes me wait almost seven minutes for her response. Party at my friend’s house tonight.

  Knew it.

  Annoyed, I drop my phone back into my pocket. I partied at her age. Partied hard. Thanks to that, I know what goes on at those parties.

  None of your business. Let it go. The hell it isn’t my business. Imagining Kira at one of those parties, how all the horny teenagers are probably going to be drooling over her, fucks up my mood entirely. She’s sixteen now, and I clearly remember what I was up to at that age. What all my friends were up to, actually.

  The rest of my day is spent in deep aggravation, refusing to speak to anyone. Not even Ryan. I want to warn him of his sister’s plans so that he can try to step in and put a halt to them. It’s a dick move, I’m aware of that, so I keep it to myself and stew in my frustration all day.

  By the time I make it back to me and Ryan’s dorm that night, it’s eight o’clock. I stomp in and slam my backpack onto my bed. I'm right behind it, landing in a pile of anger, self-loathing, and jealousy.

  I don’t want her out there, partying, open to the advances of drunk, horny guys. She has a right to live her life, though, to enjoy being a teenager. She finally has some girl friends now, isn’t a loner anymore. Kira doesn’t deserve for me to get in the way of her fun.

  But I’m fucking dying to, and what kind of an asshole does that make me?

  The worst kind.

  Sick with curiosity, I take out my phone, knowing that what I’m about to do is a bad, bad idea. My leg bounces; the compulsion to check in on her is way too strong, even though I know that I might see something that makes me snap.

  As soon as I go to her Facebook page, I see it.

  Oh, I fucking see it.

  “Can someone please explain to me what the hell she's wearing?” I groan out loud as I stare down at her most recent post, a picture of her and three other girls with a caption that says, “Heading out with the girls to cause some trouble tonight. #nofux,” and I wonder if she knows that I check her Facebook from time to time—if she does this kind of shit on purpose because she knows that it’ll drive me absolutely fucking mad.

  No one—and I mean, no one—can understand the depths of yearning I’m experiencing right now.

  Fuck. Yearning, such a damn girly word.

  I want to call it “just missing her” or something less pussy-sounding. I can’t even call it “pussy-whipped” because I’ve never tapped that. All I got was a few kisses, almost a year ago. I shouldn’t be this stuck on a girl, especially one I’ve never had.

  I am. And as my eyes trail the picture of her, every male instinct in my body re-engages, telling me that’s my female out there.

  My girl, in a cute white dress that was clearly made to make an utter mockery of the word innocence. It’s like a cross between a little girl’s dress and a lingerie teddy. The flaring skirt is way too damned short. The bow wrapped around her upper waist only accentuates how small it is and how plump her breasts have become.

  My girl, her auburn hair curled around her shoulders, black eyeliner accentuating her hazel eyes, in blood-red high heels, and lips painted to match.

  My girl, going out there, looking like that, open to the advances of every damn prick that’s going to think he has a chance of getting between her thighs. Of being inside her pussy.

  Of taking what’s fucking mine.

  Jesus, I’m going to lose it.

  I drop my phone on the bed and press the heels of my hands into my eyes. Not your girl. Not your girl. That’s your stepsister.

  Rage burns through my veins, as if to scream, The hell she fucking is!

  I’m never going to see her that way. My body is never going to get over the fact that it claimed her from day one, deciding she was mine and always would be, whether I have her or not.

  I feel like something straight out of hell, all the impotence and anger I have to deal with when it comes to this situation warping me into something violent. I want to track down every bastard who even thinks of looking at her like that and rip the skin right off their faces. Watch their blood coat me and know that I was the one that destroyed them for wanting her.

  It’s the most hypocritical thought I’ve ever had. Because I want her like that. I’m so horny my cock feels like it’s on fucking fire for her. I’m panting like an animal, like she’s in front of me and naked right now, waiting for me to eat her.

  “This is fucking ridiculous,” I mutter to myself, because it really is. I toe off my shoes and lie back on my bed, an arm flung over my eyes as I concentrate on breathing and steering my thoughts away from her. But the moment I manage more than a second, they snap right back, fucking hooked on her and everything about her.

  “You can’t have her, asshole. Let her go.” Hearing my own voice saying those words to me does nothing. I’ve repeated them over and over, a million times in the last year, meditated on that shit so hard it should’ve sunk in by now.

  Obviously, it hasn’t. I want her more than ever. So much that just seeing that picture of her left my cock throbbing and leaking inside my jeans.

  I fight it. Fight the urge to look at more pictures of her with all of my miserable soul. I fight the urge to give in to the fantasies, the ones where my mouth is all over her body, her tongue is all over me, and neither one of us knows anything outside each other.

  I need to get fucking laid. That’s probably part of the problem. I’m on my longest dry spell. Have been since that first Skype call with her weeks ago.

  This shit isn’t healthy. A guy my age needs sex all t
he time. Hell, I need sex all the time. Had gotten used to having it. Not getting any is only driving me crazier.

  But I can’t do it. Every time I even think about it, all I see is the look in Kira’s eyes when she’d confessed to me that I’d hurt her when she saw me with Jen that night. It’s not like Kira would know if I slept with someone, but I still can’t do it.

  Which leaves me fucked in every sense but the literal one.

  I can’t wait one more second without tasting Kira again, but what I want is something I can never, ever have. So I count. And I breathe. And I keep counting, each breath, each second, hoping that my body will eventually calm the hell down.

  Exactly two hundred and sixty-two seconds later, I lose the battle, and my phone is back in my hand.

  Dear God, this chick is so sexy. Straight-up irresistible. I stare at her most recent pic for a few, zooming in so I can really see her. Then I do the one thing I promised myself I’d never do for my sanity's sake.

  I go straight into her photos and start scrolling through each one, taking in her life over the last year, how much it and she have changed.

  That’s when I find an album from roughly two weeks ago. It has nothing but pictures of her and her friends at the beach on spring break.

  Christ. Kira. A two piece? Too much skin.

  Fuck. Why? Why did I let myself cave? Each photo of her is excruciating for my cock. My mind turns her innocent—and some not so innocent—poses into soft-core porn. I imagine being there with her, tugging on the string holding her little bikini top up and letting her tits free.

  I palm my cock before popping the button and pulling the zipper down. Once again, not what I should be doing, not how I should be looking at her, but I can’t stop. I’m degrading her photos with my overly perverse mind.

  I’m so far gone, all the blood in my dick and none in my brain. Only enough brain cells to conjure up memories of her lips on mine, her body pressed against me, and the fantasy of not stopping.

  How far would I have taken it in the bathroom if she hadn’t stomped on my foot? Up against the wall, or set her on the counter? Clothes off or just pull her tits out and her panties aside?

  I fist my dick, running my thumb up and down the length of it, remembering her moans. They’re still so vivid. It’s like I heard her moaning for me yesterday, the sounds embedded in my mind. “Shit, baby,” I hiss, thrusting up into my fist, eyes eating up what she looks like in that tiny, dark blue bikini.

  I let out a shaking breath, my body so fucking tight, ready to pay tribute to the goddess in front of me. My cock wants to be buried deep within her, wants to find her wet for me. So damned wet that I’ll hear it when I glide it through her folds. Nothing but the sounds of my cock and her pussy coming together filling the air, bouncing off the walls.

  Her moans come back to mind, and I amplify them in my head, imagine them growing louder with each thrust. I want to hear her screaming my name, calling out, begging to come.

  Pleasure pulses through my cock. I tighten my fist and stop moving, breathing through it, refusing to come yet. My other hand is shaking as I scroll through some more of her pictures, trying to find another.

  I land on one where she's rising from the water like some goddamned Goddess of Sex, her hands in her hair as she swipes it back from her face. Whoever took this picture caught her at just the right moment, her playful smile wide and highlighting perfect, little white teeth.

  I don't allow myself to wonder who took this picture. I'll slip into a rage if I even suspect it was another guy. Every drop of water streaming down her body makes my tongue fucking ache to lick it up, to taste both her skin and the salt water on her.

  Zooming in, I stare at her wet, barely covered tits like the pervert I am, my blood burning in my veins. I can see her hard, small nipples pressing into the material. My balls fucking hurt so bad. I have so much come to give her, and the fact that I can't fuck her wrecks me.

  Because she's my stepsister.

  Not because I'm eighteen and she's only fifteen.

  That's how far gone I fucking am. How bad my dick is pulsing for her, jumping in my fist. I don't even care about her age anymore. My body only recognizes that it's a sexy-as-hell female I'm staring at, one that’s supposed to be mine.

  One with thighs so gorgeous I just want to part them and bury my head between them for days. I want her fingers pulling my hair as she comes in my mouth.

  Another stroke up, fingers brushing against the underside of my head, lightning jolting through my dick. I need her, need to feel her, hear her.

  I’m brain drained, and I know it’s true when I close Facebook and bring up my contact list. Sweat drips down the side of my face, my body shaking with the need to come. Not yet, I beg myself, forcing my hips to stay on the bed, my fist to not move up and down my cock.

  I need it. God, I’ve never come hearing her voice before, and I need it so damn bad.

  My first two fingers move a little bit, keeping me right at the edge, as I close my eyes and listen to the ring. Time slows down in the silence and I breathe out.

  I want to fight this. Be ashamed of it.

  Instead, I wait with baited breath for my girl to pick up her phone.

  Lungs seizing. Fist tight. Hips jerking off the bed. Drops of precome leaking out with each throb.

  “Hello?”

  I say nothing.

  “Brayden?”

  Oh . . . fuck! So Good. Right. Fucking. There . . .

  “Brayden?”

  Pleasure detonates like a bomb inside me. My thoughts go black as come shoots out of my cock in painful waves. I bite through my lip to try and keep my moans and cries to myself, the ones that would beg her to be mine. That would tell her just how fucking good she’s making me feel.

  How much I need it to be her tight, wet cunt taking my come from me right now.

  “Brayden, are you there?”

  Oh, God, I’m still coming, holding my breath because I’m afraid that if I breathe, I won’t be able to remain silent.

  The last shock goes through me.

  “Brayden, if you’re there, something must be wrong with your phone. My friend is looking for me. Gotta go.”

  She hangs up the phone.

  But not before I register the sounds of the party in the background—music, laughter . . .

  What sounded like a male voice calling out her name.

  The kind of orgasm I just had should leave me dead and limp on the bed.

  It doesn't.

  No force on Earth is strong enough to calm me down right now.

  That definitely was a guy calling for her on the other end of the line.

  Growling softly, I jack up into a seated position on the bed and send my phone flying out of my hand a split second later, not caring where it lands or if it fucking breaks.

  I just came, the hardest I've ever come in my life, from hearing her voice on the other end of the phone. My hand is covered in my come. My jeans and shirt, too. I might have just destroyed my phone because I'm so damn ready to kill a motherfucker.

  And she's at a party, looking edible as hell, while some worthless little piece of shit called out to her.

  Who is he?

  Is he her date?

  Is he fucking ready to die for it? To face the consequences of going after my girl?

  I jump to my feet, so ready to drive the almost four hours back there. Shit, I'll run it if it'll get me there faster.

  Not. Yours.

  Not. Yours.

  Not. Fucking. Yours.

  What sounds like a snarl leaves me and I grab a pillow off my bed, sending it flying into the wall.

  What the hell do I have to do to get it through my thick skull? Who the fuck do I have to screw to get her out of my system?

  And then it hits me.

  I haven't been screwing anyone lately. I stopped. Did it work before? Did coming in every available chick help me forget Kira?

  No. But I wasn't calling her, desperate to get off on her
voice alone.

  I don't know what she's doing tonight with that fucker she's with. I don't. Want to. Fucking. Know.

  I'm not going to sit here at home driving myself crazy over it, either. Because I'll drive down there, and I'll drive a hundred miles an hour to make it in two hours flat, so help me God.

  There's a smart way to deal with this. The only logical way. I'm going to go out there and do what I do best. Distract myself with a nice pair of tits and a willing pussy.

  Jaw pulsing, I go to wash my hands in the bathroom. Then I'm going to change. I'm going to leave, pretend tonight never happened.

  Ignore the fact that some other guy's lips and hands might be on Kira tonight.

  I catch my reflection in the mirror as that thought goes through my mind—

  I'm also going to find a way to erase the murderous expression off my face. No sane chick is going to want to fuck me while I look like a monster about to explode with rage.

  My chest feels hollow while I change into some new clothes and go over to see if my phone survived.

  Only two things matter right now.

  I'm getting laid tonight.

  And I'm determined not to see Kira again until I have some control over how I feel about her. Even if it takes me years to get to that point.

  I need to stop lusting after my goddamned stepsister.

  May 10, 2013

  “Ryan,” I wheeze, slamming my hand against his back. “I can’t . . . air.”

  He hugs me tighter, rocking me side-to-side, and it feels like his huge arms are seconds from snapping my poor back in half. “You can take it, Wonder Woman.”

  I claw at his back. “Nuh-uh. You’ve become a mutant!” It’s true. I’d barely recognized him when he’d stepped into my room. He’d been bigger when I last saw him during spring break back in February, but now he’s freaking huge.

  “But I missed you, sister.”

  “Oh, ew!” I laugh. “Muscles aside, college is turning you into a pussy!”

  “Hey. You aren’t allowed to talk to me like that, runt!”