Taboo The Collection Read online

  “Emy...” It was a whisper, his pet name for her, leftover from when he couldn’t quite say his L’s.

  In her sleep, she shifted, the Birkenstocks she had worn in honor of their California trip left somewhere on the floor, her long skirt riding up her thighs as she snuggled closer to him in the dark.

  “Oh, god, Emy...” His breath in her ear made her shiver, and she came out of her dream in a haze, finding herself curled around her brother, her breasts pressed against his side, her thighs over his.

  “Danny?” she whispered, realizing she was practically sitting in his lap. His hand was resting on her knee, his other arm holding her close. He didn’t answer her, and she gazed at his sleeping face, knowing he must be dreaming.

  She kissed his cheek, smiling, wondering what he was dreaming about. His expression was almost pained in the dim light, and he whispered her name again, shifting and pressing his hips up in his sleep. That’s when she knew. He couldn’t hide anything in the sweats he had worn for the long trip. When she felt his erection against her bare thigh, she gasped softly, her eyes widening.

  Emily flushed, moving slowly, trying to disentangle herself from him in the dark. He instinctively held onto her tighter, his hand sliding further up her leg, gripping her thigh. Her heart raced, and she didn’t want to admit it, but there was a slow heat growing between her legs where the edge of his hand was resting. His face was buried in her hair now, his breath hot against her ear, making that thick pulse between her thighs even more insistent.

  “You’re so beautiful, Emy,” he whispered, his lips moving over her cheek, and now the hand between her legs moved too, fingers moving lightly over the damp crotch of her panties.

  “Danny,” she whispered again, and for the second time today, words that should have been an admonishment came out as something else. It sounded like a plea. Oh my god, what’s he doing?

  She shifted, trying to get away or get closer, she wasn’t sure which, and he pulled her fully into his lap, settling her bottom against the saddle of his hips. She could feel his erection—my god, he felt huge, like steel heat against her behind. He cradled her like that, kissing her neck as his fingers edged aside the elastic edge of her panties.

  “We... Danny, we...” Her whispered words were lost as his lips found hers. This was no brotherly kiss. His mouth was hot, slanting across hers, his tongue probing gently, like his fingers between her legs.

  Trembling, Emily tried to force herself to resist, to get up and run to the bathroom, and found she couldn’t. Maybe it was the way his finger began nudging the swollen bud of her clit, or the way his tongue flicked at hers, sending shivers down her spine.

  But that wasn’t really it, and she knew it. It was the heat of his cock against her ass, how incredibly hard he was. He had been dreaming about her, she knew it, and the thought excited her. His fingers moved around her clit in lazy circles, and she spread her thighs a little, giving him more room.

  When she slid a hand down between them, pressing the head of his cock against his lower belly, Danny groaned softly, his breath hitching in his throat. It made him bolder, and his finger slipped down her smooth, shaved crevice, seeking entrance. Emily worked her fingers past the elastic edge of his sweats and under the top edge of his underwear, wanting to feel him. She had to feel how much he wanted her.

  “Oh god,” she whispered against his cheek when his fingers slipped inside of her and he settled his thumb against her clit. “Oh yes...”

  “Yes,” he murmured, making a soft noise in his throat as she wiggled in his lap, her hand finally reaching its destination and squeezing the head of him. The shock of it in her grasp sent a jolt through her whole body—she was holding her brother’s cock in her hand!

  His fingers began to move slowly in and out of her wetness, making a soft, squelching sound. Emily glanced around, worried someone would hear or see, but the man across the aisle was snoring, his head propped on a pillow resting against the window. Danny’s thumb rubbed over her clit as his fingers probed her flesh, making her rock in his lap.

  “Faster,” she whispered in his ear, trying to grasp more of his cock, but the angle was too awkward. She had to satisfy herself with rubbing the wet head with her thumb.

  Danny began pistoning his fingers in and out of his sister’s pussy, and she spread her thighs wider, her breath coming fast. Emily surprised them both when she untied the top of her peasant blouse, reaching in and unfastening her front hook bra, and presenting her brother with one pink-tipped breast.

  “Suck it.” Her voice was barely audible, but he didn’t really need any instruction. His tongue made circles around the hardening flesh, and Emily let out a shaky breath as he sucked her nipple deep into his mouth.

  The added sensation threatened to send her careening over the edge, and she arched her back. Emily tried hard not to cry out as her brother’s fingers, driving into her wet flesh, brought her to the brink of orgasm. She succeeded, for the most part, making a small, squeaking noise in her throat as she came, her whole body shuddering against him. Danny held her tight, one hand on her hip, the other bringing her off with such force she nearly bucked off his lap.

  “Danny,” she gasped into his ear, and he kissed her, drawing her tongue deep into his mouth, his fingers still probing the sensitive flesh between her thighs.

  “Emy, I want you,” he whispered, kissing her cheek, her neck, her chin. She bit her lip when his fingers slipped from between her legs, and watched, her eyes widening, as he licked them. “God, you taste good.”

  In the wake of her orgasm, she had a moment to think clearly, and felt a flush of shame. This was her stepbrother! Danny rubbed his wet fingers on the tip of her breast, making her shiver. His cock was still pressing up hard and insistent against her behind, and when she rubbed her thumb there, he made a low noise, his eyes closing for a moment.

  “Please, Em,” he whispered, rubbing his finger over her mouth. “I want you so much.”

  She had never been able to say no to him, and she couldn’t start now. Emily kissed his palm, and then took one of his still-sticky fingers into her mouth, sucking gently. She squirmed and adjusted for a moment, reaching under her long skirt and tugging off her wet panties. Part of her couldn’t believe she was doing it, but another part of her wanted it beyond reason as she straddled him in the dark.

  “Is this what you want?” Emily whispered into his ear, glancing again at the sleeping man across the aisle. He had shifted position, but was still snoring. Danny’s fingers were fumbling with the front of her blouse, freeing both of her breasts to his gaze, and his touch.

  Danny just nodded, his thumbs flicking over her nipples, making her squirm in his lap. Emily reached down, tugging at the edges of his sweats, and he helped her, moving them down far enough to free his cock. It rose like an exclamation point against her belly, she could feel the heat of it against her mound.

  “Do you want to feel your cock inside of me?” she whispered, meeting his eyes. They were full of a dark, hot lust. He nodded again, his breath coming a little faster as she reached down to stroke him against her pussy. He groaned softly when she rubbed the head up and down her slit, finally aiming him, and slowly beginning to settle herself down.

  “Ohhhh fuck,” he whispered, his hands under her skirt, grabbing onto her bare hips. He pulled her in tight, and Emily watched the look of almost unbearable pleasure move over his face.

  Something occurred to her, and she asked, “Have you ever fucked a girl before?” She kept her mouth right near his ear, afraid someone might hear them if she raised her voice above a whisper.

  He shook his head, his breath short and his hands moving over the smooth, rounded globes of her ass, his hips already thrusting slowly against hers. The shock of his response made Emily dizzy with lust, and she squeezed her pussy around him, like a reward, making his fingers dig deep into the flesh of her behind.

  “Come on, Danny,” she murmured, rhythmically squeezing him, now. “Fuck me.”

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sp; He groaned softly at her words, rocking his hips up to meet her. She knew it wouldn’t be long, but it didn’t matter—just knowing she was the first girl her little brother had ever fucked had already sent her teetering toward that edge. His movements were awkward, and she took over, rolling her hips on him, using the wet heat of her pussy to pleasure the head of his cock now buried deep inside of her.

  “That’s it, baby,” she crooned softly, feeling the gentle tug in her lower belly beginning. “Fuck me good... fuck your sister’s tight little pussy ’til she comes all over your hard cock.”

  “Oh yeah,” he growled into her ear, thrusting up hard into her wetness, the tight heat of her pussy beginning to spasm with her climax. “Oh, Emy, I’m gonna come!”

  The sound of her pet name in his mouth, the baby name he’d always used, while her brother’s cock exploded inside of her, made Emily come even harder. She arched her back, taking all of him, feeling the thick, incredible bursts of heat in her belly as he filled her with his cum.

  Still trembling and breathless, they snuggled close, pulling the sleeping bag fully around them as the bus rumbled on in the darkness.

  Emily kissed her stepbrother’s cheek, pushing a curl off his forehead. “Wanna tell me some more trivia? Practice for Jeopardy?”

  Danny’s eyes were closed, but he smiled. “I think I’ve found something I like practicing more.”

  In the Fold (Sibling Lust)

  Abby spent the morning with the little ones, teaching them their ABCs and 123s. I didn’t know how she could stand it, wiping snotty noses and putting on thirty pairs of shoes when it was time to go outside. She seemed good at it though, a natural. I saw them when I was coming out from gathering eggs, following her in a long line, like she was a mother duck and they were her ducklings. It made me laugh, and I waved at her, but she frowned and shooed me back to my work.

  I spent the afternoon in the kitchen, and Abby came to join us after lunch, when it was time for all the children to go into the chapel. I felt sorry for them. Daddy Zeke hadn’t instituted Children’s Chapel Time until after Abby and I were old enough to join The Hands, so we never had to sit with our fists under our chins and our feet tucked under us for two hours under Brother’s Jim’s watchful eye. I couldn’t imagine having to sit still for so long, even now.

  “Rachel, pay attention,” Abby whispered, pointing to where I was cracking eggs into a huge mixing bowl. We cooked for the whole compound, ten us of prepping everything for the Kitchen Hands, and there were a hundred and seventy-eight of The Hands of God total at last count. We were supposed to work in silence, although we often didn’t.

  “What?” I grabbed another egg. “You’re making me lose count. Eight, nine, ten…”

  “You’ve got shells in there,” Abby said, kneading the dough on the bread board. “If Daddy Zeke gets a shell in his eggs, you’re going to be sorry.”

  I sighed, fishing the little bits of shell out that I could find. “Picky, picky.”

  “Not me,” she said with a shrug. “Him.”

  I glanced over my shoulder as if he might be there, although I knew he was in seclusion, either napping or preparing for the service. It was almost time for afternoon prayer. I finished counting out the eggs, beating them and adding the onions, green pepper and tomatoes I had picked from the garden just this morning and cut up before Abby came in.

  “Hurry, Rachel,” Abby urged, taking off her apron and hanging it on a hook. She washed her hands in the sink behind me while I slid the huge tray of eggs, ready for tomorrow’s breakfast, into the double-wide refrigerator. “We don’t want to be late.”

  I sighed, stepping in beside her to wash my hands too. Around us, everyone was finishing their prep work, in a hurry to get to afternoon service. I hung my apron up too, and followed Abby out of the kitchen and down the hall. We both knelt in front of the altar at the entrance, bowing our heads and hastily whispering a rote prayer to the picture of Daddy Zeke hanging above it.

  “Our father, whose love is infinite and complete, I offer my hands and my heart to you in service for the greater good.”

  Behind us, other Hands were lining up to say their own prayer before exiting the building. There was an altar at every entrance and exit on the compound. We all whispered that prayer hundreds of times a day.

  Abby and I rushed out of the building, hurrying without running in our full black skirts. I saw her tucking her long blonde hair up under the white kerchief tied over her head. We weren’t allowed to cut our hair, but we also weren’t allowed to let it show in public. I checked my own, making sure it was tied tight behind my head.

  The Sanctuary was already half-full. We slipped our shoes off—the kitchen was the only building that allowed shoes—and knelt and prayed again at the entrance, moving toward the front to find our seats. Every seat in the sanctuary was assigned, and Abby and I sat near the front, because we were Zeke’s daughters. My mother, Mary (her real name was Sophie, but she took a Biblical name when she met Zeke) had died seven years ago, just after Abby and I turned twelve. Abby’s mother…we just didn’t know. No one would ever say who she was. They had simply said Abby was abandoned, and Daddy Zeke and Mother Mary had charitably taken her in, a newborn along with their own tiny baby daughter, and raised us like twins. We even looked so much alike people often mistook us for the same.

  The front row was filled with Zeke’s wives, and those of his children who were twelve and up—old enough to be baptized into the Way of the Hands of the God. The little ones were still in the chapel, I knew. Abby sat, hissing at me to sit next to her.

  I sank into my seat, still staring across the aisle at a man who I’d never seen before. His black robe and his thick, dark curly hair made it clear that he was a preacher—all the male Hands shaved their heads at puberty and wore white button-down shirts and black trousers and only while working in the sun did they wear their wide-brimmed black hats.

  He smiled and inclined his head toward me, and I smiled back without thinking.

  “Ow,” I whined when Abby pinched my thigh, rubbing it and staring around her anyway at the man, who now held a Bible open in his lap. Definitely a preacher. None of the Hands were allowed to have Bibles. Our Word came from the pulpit. We were simply the Hands of God.

  I heard the big doors close behind us, signaling the beginning of the service. We bowed our heads and folded our hands. We were supposed to close our eyes in five minutes of silent prayer, but I kept sneaking glances at the preacher man.

  He was young. Not as young as we were, but young, still. It was strange to see a man with hair. I had never seen a full grown man with hair, except Daddy Zeke. Looking at the way it curled at his neck made me want to touch it. I just knew it would feel silky and soft.

  “We are the Hands of God.”

  The chant began, and I joined with them, taking Abby’s hand and Dinah’s next to me. I was wishing I had sat on the end, because Abby got to reach across the aisle and touch the hand of the preacher man as we chanted, louder and louder, the sound of our voices filling the sanctuary.

  Just when our voices reached their pinnacle, raised in fervent supplication, the door behind the pulpit opened and Daddy Zeke strode in. There was an immediate silence as Daddy grabbed the pulpit on either side with his big, wide hands, closing his eyes and bowing his head. I was always so amazed that Abby didn’t look anything like him—all dark curly hair and eyes and wide, broad features.

  Of course, neither did I. He said we were china dolls with our fine blonde hair and wide blue eyes, pale and delicate features. Abby had one picture of her mother (cameras weren’t allowed on the compound) from their wedding day, and Abby and I look just like her, as if she were our twin too.

  “He has set you upon the path to righteous freedom.” When Daddy Zeke began to speak, it was like a small earthquake tremor starting. I knew, because we got a lot of those out here in California. “You are the Hands of God.”

  “We are the Hands of God.” The sanctuary spoke with o
ne voice.

  “He has given you two hands to serve him, and with just those hands and your open heart, you can have your salvation right here in this moment. Do you believe me, brothers and sisters?”

  “Amen!” the congregation murmured. On the other side of me, Eli, who had just been baptized and accepted as a Hand last week, was whispering something to little Sara. Zeke’s eyes fell on him and Eli felt them, turning back up to the pulpit, red-faced. There was very little that Daddy ever missed. I had learned long ago never to do things I shouldn’t in his presence.

  “He holds the world in his hands!” Daddy Zeke held up his hands to us, his palms facing out. “And I say, you hold the world in yours! Every time you fold your hands in prayer, every time you offer your hand to your brethren, every time your hands work in service for Him, you follow your path toward deliverance!”

  I leaned a little forward and slid my eyes past Abby, looking at the preacher man. He was holding his Bible and nodding his head, along with the rest of the congregation. I couldn’t, for the life of me, figure out who he could be. Daddy Zeke was the only preacher we had ever had, that we had ever known. He was the reason The Hands of God existed in the first place.

  I must have gotten lost in my daydreams, because the next thing I knew, Daddy was saying, “I want you to extend your hands to my son, Malachi. He is to be our new preacher-in-training.”

  The congregation was humming and swaying, holding their hands above their heads in approval. I did too, but I looked at Abby with wide eyes.

  “He’s the son of my first wife, Ruth, bless her and keep her. He’s my bloodline, and he’s the sole lineage to the Hands of God. Please welcome Father Malachi.”

  The dark-haired man stood, moving toward the pulpit. Abby’s thigh was tight against mine, nudging me, and I nudged her back. He was older than we were, maybe by five years. How was this possible? Daddy Zeke was married before? If it was so, no one had ever spoken of it.