In the Nest with Christie Ch. 04

After taking leave of Mrs. Tokarski, I snuck through the back door and tip-toed into the kitchen, ears pricked for sounds of Christie's presence.

Where was she?

As the pounding of my heart in my ears receded, I heard the muted roar of running water.

Christie was in the bathroom, filling the tub.

She was taking a bath.

To wash off my cum.

Oh, sweet Jesus.

I treaded lightly down the hallway. When she shut the water off, I winced at every floor creak.

I placed her shoulder bag in front of the closed bathroom door, then skittered to my room.

I, too, yearned to clean myself, but from the brief time we'd lived together, I knew Christie could soak in the tub for hours even when not defiled by stepbrother semen. If I wanted to shower before our parents returned, I'd have to use the master bath.

Once in my room, I dug through my duffel bag and pulled out fresh underwear, a light blue button-down shirt, and olive chinos. I'd packed these clothes because Therese insisted everyone dress nicely for holiday meals. Yeah, she could be a pain, but I tried to keep her happy. She was the best thing to happen to Dad after my mom died. Grief flattened him for a long time. Then Therese entered his life and inspired him to live again. So, although I drew the line at church attendance, I usually tried to accommodate her annoying wishes.

As I turned to leave my bedroom, the bathroom door squeaked open.

I hid behind my wall and froze, listening to ruffling sounds as Christie rooted through her bag. Then she closed the door again.

From the other side of my bedroom wall, digital taps told me she was texting someone.

Oh, God. Who was she texting? What was she saying?

I moved closer to the wall, trying to decipher the taps as if they were Morse code. Was she ratting me out to Therese?

I pressed my ear to the wall.

The taps stopped, replaced by sploshes, as Christie stepped into the bathwater and lowered herself into the tub. These sounds gave rise to vivid mental images. I saw her sitting naked in the water, knees drawn up, holding her phone against her thighs. More texting. More sloshing. An almost imperceptible thump suggested she'd set her phone on the floor. Then, fumbling scrapes made it obvious she was reaching for the bar of soap in the niche on her side of the wall. I felt the vibrations of her soap-fumbling on my side, and, as my gaze slid down, I realized her unseen hand was mere inches from my crotch.

And that I was getting hard again.

God damn it.

I clutched my clothes to my chest and marched across the house to the master bedroom.

Therese had the en suite bath remodeled when she moved in. Its shower featured nozzles and dials I didn't recognize or understand, but my needs right now were simple. I thrashed out of my t-shirt, peeled off my boxers, stepped through the pebble glass door, yanked the handle labeled C, and blasted myself with a merciless ice-cold spray that mortified the fuck out of my flesh.

Minutes later, I emerged with a clean body and a clearer head.

Christie, I now reasoned, would not tell Therese what happened. She was too wholesome. I doubted she'd tell anyone she gave her stepbrother an accidental foot-job, but no way would she tell her mother. Therese would skip fainting and go directly to dropping dead.

However, I further reasoned, my continued presence would make Christie uncomfortable. I didn't want that. So, as I dried and dressed, I concocted an excuse for going home early. I'd say the head chef at the restaurant I worked at called. He begged me to help him cater a holiday event. He offered top dollar, and I couldn't refuse. In reality, our head chef never catered, but they didn't know that. Perfect.

I wanted to wash my clothes, but decided I'd best skedaddle while Christie was in the tub. Therese could finish the hens. All she had to do was stuff them and cook them.

I was heading for my room to pack when I passed the kitchen and saw the cream puff stuff I'd left on the island. Shit. I'd forgotten about that. Should I throw it away? I hated wasting food. They wouldn't take long to finish. And Christie would likely soak for at least another hour. Fuck it, I'd finish them.

While the cream puffs baked, I retreated to my room. Christie was no longer texting, but still sloshing. I stared at the wall between us as I packed, wondering if I should speak to her. It would probably be bad form to apologize from behind a wall while she was bare-ass in the bathroom. Maybe I'd text her when I got home.

No. Email. This situation called for a thoughtful, carefully worded email.

Mind made up, I slung the duffel bag over my shoulder. Christie's sloshes grew louder as I left my room. When I passed the bathroom door, I was surprised to hear the glug-glug-glug of draining water. Damn, that was fast.

It was okay, though. She'd be a while longer drying, dressing, brushing her hair, putting on make-up. I had plenty of time.

I pulled the pastries from the oven and slit holes in them. They needed to cool before I added the filling, so in the meantime, I slipped outside and threw my duffel bag in my back seat. While I was out there, I popped the hood and checked my fluids for the long drive home. My old beater was conking out a lot lately. I'd been putting off a trip to the mechanic. I was a chef, but I wasn't exactly rolling in dough, as my dad-joke-telling dad always loved to say about me.

The fluids looked fine. I closed the hood and headed inside.

When I walked into the kitchen, Christie was standing at the counter making coffee.

I screamed.

Not full volume. Just a quick ah! But high-pitched and girly enough to be embarrassing.

She graced me with a casual glance and continued scooping coffee grounds.

Her hair was wrapped in a fluffy white bath towel, her body in a white university t-shirt and pink gym shorts. She stood balanced on one leg in her habitual flamingo pose, left foot hiked up high on her right inner thigh. My noisy entrance hadn't even caused her the slightest wobble.

"Your phone dinged," she said in an off-hand tone, sliding the filter into place and giving the brew button a playful tap.

With a friendly smile, she dropped her foot to the floor, spun on its heel, and padded out of the kitchen while the coffeemaker sputtered to life.

I stared at the space she'd occupied, mentally rewinding her every movement and facial expression. Had there been strain in her voice? A note of sarcasm? Mockery? Anger?

Dazed, I pulled the cream filling from the refrigerator. My mind was elsewhere as I transferred it to a piping bag. Was it possible she didn't remember the incident? Could she have been so traumatized, she blocked it out entirely?

Ding!

I jerked at the sound of a text alert, then scanned the counter, looking for my phone.

Ding!

My eyes fell on the dishtowel I'd wrapped it in after dropping it in the dough.

Ding!

I lifted the phone slowly, sick with certainty Christie ratted me out after all, and the messages were from Therese.

As I wiped dough from the screen, a series of rapid-fire dings came through, reverberating with righteous condemnation in my guilt-ridden head.

Ding! GET OUT!

Ding! GET AWAY FROM MY DAUGHTER!

Ding! I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE, I KNOW WHAT YOU DID, AND --

Ding!

I think she wants you, dude.

Ding!

I think she wants you baaaaad.

Huh?

I squinted at the screen, scraping off the remaining mush with my fingernail.

The messages weren't from Therese. They were from Luke Mathis, one of the high school friends I'd texted in desperation earlier this morning.

I scrolled up.

He was throwing a party tonight. Paula Kearschner would be there. She'd asked him if I was coming. Luke thought Paula wanted me. Baaaaad.

I blinked in disbelief. Paula Kearschner, the prettiest girl in my class, had never shown the slightest interest in me. She was a cheerleader who only dated popular jocks. But now, according to Luke, she had a thing for chefs.

Holy shit.

As I stared at my phone, Christie strolled back into the kitchen. She'd lost the bath towel, and her damp blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders. The fruity scent of her shampoo wafted toward me as she approached the counter.

"The rolls smell good." She opened a cabinet, rising on tip-toe to pull down a mug.

I picked up the baking sheet and stepped out of her way as she sauntered to the coffeemaker. "They aren't rolls," I said, setting the pastries on the island. "They're..."

She spotted the piping bag. "Oh! Cream puffs!"

She lifted the bag and gave it a squeeze. A dollop of cream poked through the tip.

She dipped her finger in the cream, brought the finger to her lips, and sucked.

"Mmmmm."

She handed me the bag and turned to the coffeemaker.

The sexual innuendo was obvious, but surely not intentional. I had a dirty mind. She didn't. I'd learned this lesson many times since becoming her stepbrother.

While she poured her coffee, I turned to the pastries and raised the piping bag to shoot cream in the holes.

My dirty mind kicked into overdrive.

I set the bag down, electing to wait until Christie left the room.

But she didn't. After stirring milk and sugar into her coffee, she set her mug on the island and pulled out a stool. "Can I help?"

"Uh... well... I'm just..."

I looked at the piping bag. She followed my gaze and snatched it from me.

"Can I do it?" she asked in a comically whiny voice. "Can I, can I, can I? Pleeeease?" She folded her legs on the stool, sitting on her feet and bouncing her butt on her heels.

It was cute--but her bare feet were now perilously close to my crotch. I side-stepped them with a shaky laugh. "Sure, go ahead."

"Yeah?" She lifted a pastry and tilted an eyebrow at me. "You're sure you can trust me?" She touched the bag's tip to the pastry's hole. "I've never done it before," she said in a teasing sing-song, sliding the tip in and out of the hole.

Now I was rock hard.

Our eyes locked. She dropped her cutesy-little-girl routine. I was sure she knew the effect she was having on me.

I didn't see innocence in her face anymore. Only lust.

For a dizzying moment, I envisioned myself taking her right there in the kitchen.

The flash in her eyes told me she envisioned it, too.

I leaned toward her.

My God, this is happening.

My lips closed in on hers... and she tensed.

Her eyes widened. Her face went pale.

I froze.

Oh, shit. Had I misread her intentions?

I stepped back, turning away. After the incident on the lawn, I couldn't afford to make another mistake.

When I looked at her again, her expression was unreadable. She flicked her eyes to the unfilled pastries, her lips pursed in thought. Finally, she picked up the piping bag and waved it in the air. "You know, I really haven't used one of these before," she said. Her tone was nonchalant--a casual dismissal of our awkward moment.

With an elaborate shrug, I dismissed the moment too. "So go for it."

She grinned and slipped the bag's tip into a pastry hole. But she squeezed too hard, and cream exploded from the back. She yelped. "Oh, no! I ruined it!"

I laughed and took the piping bag away to show her the proper technique, my voice sliding into the friendly, authoritative cadence I used with line cooks at work.

"Ease the tip to the back of the hole. Squeeze gently. Now carefully move the tip from side to side, spreading the filling as you slowly pull out..."

Christie folded her hands in her lap, legs tucked neatly beneath her on the stool, and followed my demonstration with earnest attention.

God, she was such a sweetheart--so innocent and pure. I must have imagined her lustful look. Thank God I came to my senses before making a move on her. And thank God she was pretending that shameful incident outside never happened.

As I guided her hand to fill another pastry, I savored the familiar ache of forbidden desire. The sounds of her chaste and guileless pleasure--her giggles, her coos, her silly self-deprecating jokes--were all mine, even if her body never could be.

Lost in longing, I didn't hear footsteps crunching on the gravel driveway until Christie said, "Crap, they're home."

She swiveled on her stool and faced the back door, I straightened behind her, and we watched the door window as high heels clattered up the porch steps.

A helmet of frosted brown hair rose into view.

Christie squirmed, her toes reaching out from under her ass. I gasped as her bare feet fluttered like fleshy wings against the bulge in my chinos. "Better hide that thing," she said, and our parents walked in.