The Worst Brat

Sara Vandella works up a sweat in her home gym when Scarlett Sage creeps in behind her, yanks the safety pins from the weight machine, and sends her stepmother crashing to the floor. Sara scrambles up, cursing, unaware Scarlett’s already slipped away. Strange accidents keep piling up around the house—an ice cube tray spilled across the kitchen floor, lights cut in the middle of a shower—until Sara finally pins it on Scarlett. She corners her husband and vents. He shrugs her off: his daughter wouldn’t hurt anyone, he says, and he’s leaving town tomorrow anyway. By the time he’s back, maybe they’ll sort it out themselves. Later that afternoon Sara finds Scarlett curled on the living-room couch, cheeks streaked with real-looking tears. The girl won’t talk. Sara softens, promises comfort and a distraction. Scarlett leans in, rests her head on Sara’s chest, then clutches the ripe flesh through her bra, fingers kneading openly. Sara freezes. The crying stops. Scarlett meets her eyes and smirks: she wanted her father gone so she could finally have Sara alone. Sara’s pulse jumps. Anger flips into hunger. She shoves Scarlett back against the cushions and kisses her hard, tongue pushing past soft lips. Scarlett’s skirt rides up; Sara’s hands slip beneath it, grabbing fistfuls of firm young ass. They’re sweaty, breath ragged, mouths slick. Sara hisses that she’ll give the girl all the alone-time she wants—just as long as Scarlett can take whatever’s coming. She pulls Scarlett’s tank top over her head, sucks one pink nipple, and smiles against the wet skin like the game’s only beginning.