I can still taste the vodka on my tongue when Sophia locks the bedroom door.

We’re both flushed from the party downstairs, our parents’ anniversary thing, all fake smiles and champagne. I’m in tiny sleep shorts and a tank top, no bra, nipples already hard from the chill and the stupid game we started. Sophia stands there in black lace panties and an oversized tee that barely covers her ass, smirking like she owns me.

“You’re such a fucking liar, Emma,” she says, voice low and cocky. “You think your tongue is better than mine? Please.”

My heart slams against my ribs. This is wrong. She’s my stepsister. We’ve hated...