Emma jumped on him. She pressed her bare chest against his. She grabbed his face, hard, and she kissed him, even harder. Her body writhed on top of his. Her face mashed against his.
They went on like that for a few minutes, twisting and pressing against each other. A bout of panic hit Aaron. He pushed Emma up and away.
“What are we doing?” he asked. “What is this?”
Emma didn’t answer him right away. She stared at him, the expression on her face in flux: amusement, desire, and curiosity playing over it in equal parts.
“We’re having dinner, big brother,” she said, finally.
Emma stood up and away from her brother. From his position on the floor he could see under his sister’s short skirt. He caught a glimpse of her pink panties. He felt himself growing hard.
I have to stop that, he thought. But he didn’t stop.
He stood up to resist the temptation to keep looking up her skirt, but it didn’t help much. He stood uncertainly to the side of the kitchen, his eyes on his sister, topless and long-legged in the tiny skirt. Against his will, his eyes zeroed in on her breasts, swaying from side to side as she tended to the food on the stove top.
Emma pulled two soup bowls out of a cupboard and poured the steaming hot bisque into them with a long-handled ladle. She flicked a dollop of crème fraiche from a small spoon into each bowl.
“Take a seat,” she said, gesturing with an elbow to a circular table centered in a small dining room opposite the kitchen. Aaron walked to the table and took the chair on the far side, so he could watch his half-nude sister, still cooking in the kitchen. The table was sturdy and made of dark, fine-grained wood.
For a few minutes Emma did not look the part of seductress, despite her toplessness. She was a chef, an artist, in her element, gathering the food she’d cooked with expert economy and grace. She opened a stainless-steel bread maker and pulled out a loaf. She plopped it into an oblong wicker basket. Steam rose off its crust, and its scent carried across the room to Aaron’s grateful nose. He closed his eyes and breathed in. When he opened his eyes, she was carrying the bowls of bisque and the bread loaf basket on a large platter to the table. She set the table and with a long plastic lighter lit two tall skinny candles in pewter holders. She backed up a few steps to turn the kitchen lights off. Their dinner was lit only by the flicker of light from the candles and the soft glow coming from the living room.
“Dinner is served,” Emma said. “Bon Appetit.”
She didn’t sit down immediately. Instead, her hands went to a button at the front of her skirt. The button popped out of its hole. Emma shrugged her hips. The skirt fell down her legs, to the floor. She stepped out of it. She wore only pink lace panties and high heels.
“Do you like them?” she asked Aaron.
“Like . . ..” Aaron’s head swam.
“My panties,” Emma replied. “Do you like them?”
Emma turned around, and Aaron’s gulped as he saw the way the thin band of pink lace low on her waist disappeared into the crack of her ass. Emma’s ass was perfect. Everything about her was perfect. As beautiful as she was under the bright kitchen light, she was bewitching under the uneven and flickering light of the dinner candles.