Another Vice


I don't drink. I don't smoke. I try to watch how I eat and how often I drink soda. I don't speed when I drive. But I do have one vice, and it is arguably the worst possible one.

My vice is shaggy hair and deep eyes. My vice is rippling muscles and hard abs. My vice is a dark, sultry voice in my ear.

"We really should stop doing this," I groan, my words empty as I button up my jeans and grab my shoes from under his bed.

"You say that every time, yet you always come back," he smirks, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

He blows out a ring of smoke towards the ceiling, swinging his legs over the edge of his bed, facing me.

"I mean it this time."

No I don't. I'll be back tomorrow, I know that. He is my vice, and such a vice is not easily avoidable.

"Sure you do, Princess," he laughs, putting out his cigarette in an ash tray on his bedside table.

I groan again, throwing my hair up in a bun to hide the knots he created.

"You're impossible," I sigh, turning on my heels and stalking out of his room, my sneakers still in my hand.


"And where have you been?" my roommate, Lillian, asks, arching her eyebrow high into her hairline.

I groan, throwing myself down on my bed in our shared bedroom, burying my head in my pillow.

"Is that a good groan or a bad groan?" Lillian laughs.

Lillian knows about my vice. She doesn't know who he is- if she did, she might drop dead- but she knows. She knows that I wish I could stop seeing him.

Lillian and I have been roommates for almost a year now, and she knows damn near everything about me. She's probably my best friend. But I can't bring myself to tell her about him. I almost wish I'd never even met him.

I groan again, slamming my fist down on the pillow beside me before sitting upright, dropping my head into my hands before looking up a Lillian.

"Oh, so it's a good groan?" she quirks, taking notice of my hair and general state of attire. "How was Mr. X today?"

Mr. X. That's what Lillian calls him. For a while, she was mad that I wouldn't tell her his name. But now she just calls him Mr. X, which he would find hilarious if he ever knew.

I shoot my best disapproving side eye at her and let my hair down from the bun it's been in since leaving him. I can't wait to get into the shower and wash him off of me.

Lillian lets out a long whistle, laughing to herself.

"If the knots in your hair tell me anything, I'd say X was damn good!"

I roll my eyes at her.

"I'm getting in the shower," I snap, stomping over to the bathroom door, slamming it behind me.

As if he can sense that I'm alone, my phone buzzes in my pocket, and I know it's him. It's always him.

Come back.

I won't lie. My first thought is that I want to. And I wish I didn't. I wish he didn't affect me like he does.

Why?

Even responding to him is a mistake, and I know that.

Jake isn't coming back tonight. The apartment's all mine tonight... and so are you.

I bite my lip. Should I go or not? I lean back against the bathroom door, knocking my head back.

The problem with a vice like this is when it calls, I can't say no. It's like putting a beer in front of an alcoholic and telling him not to drink it. Eventually he will. And so will I.

Fine. But I'm showering when I get there.

I turn around, opening the bathroom door and stepping back out.

"Leaving again?" Lillian says, annoyance dripping in her voice.

"Don't even say it, Lillian. I know, I know," I frown.

She's disappointed in me. And I'm disappointed in myself.

I never thought I'd be this girl. I never wanted to be the girl with no backbone because of something like sex. But here I am.

"Tell X I say hi."


The door to his apartment swings open and there he is. His jeans are slung low on his hips and he's apparently decided to go without a shirt, and his hair has clearly not been touched since I left. And he looks good. Better than good.

"You gonna let me in or do you want me to stand in the hallway all night?" I quip.

He brings out the worst in me. Sure, the sex is good and always has been, but he and I fight like cats and dogs. And I guess that's been a constant in this 'relationship' too. There are two constants: sex and fights.

To be entirely fair though, the fights came before the sex. We've never really 'gotten along'. The only thing that's kept us from killing each other is the sex. And isn't that just fucked up?

I guess I should also mention that I'm twenty-two years old and this thing between us has been going on since high school. How pathetic is that?

"Oh, no, wouldn't want to leave Princess out in the hallway," he laughs, stepping aside to let me in.

That nickname doesn't even phase me anymore. It wouldn't surprise me if he just forgot my name and continued to call me 'Princess' in its place.

I enter his apartment, but I'm only a step or two in when his strong arm wraps around my waist, pulling my back flush against this chest.

His free hand reaches up and pulls my hair off my neck, his breath ghosting across my skin.

I sigh, leaning my head back against his shoulder.

"I need to shower," I somehow manage to get out as my head almost unconsciously tilts to the side so his lips could find their way to my neck.

"So lets go," he chuckles against my skin, running his hands along my sides before retracting and stepping back and around so he's facing me. "I'm kidding. Go. I know you'd rather shower alone."

I nod, half smiling at him.

"Are you hungry? I'm thinking of cooking," he asks, genuinely wondering. "Nevermind. I'll just make enough for the both of us."

Like I said, we've been at this since high school. We know each other well. He knows me better than anyone. It's a complicated situation.


"What are you watching?" I ask once I've gotten out of the shower, a towel wrapped around my body.

"Hockey. What else?" he laughs, turning to face me from his spot on the sofa.

I laugh lightly, striding over and leaning my arms on the back of the sofa beside him.

I take a minute to look at him and wonder how in the hell we got here.

"I started dinner. It should be done soon. Go get dressed and we'll eat," he tells me, his eyes completely averted from mine.

This is the awkward part of our 'relationship'. Sure, we'll watch a movie together or grab something to eat together, but there's always the fact that we're going to end up having sex later on that's hanging over our heads. Always. We can (and have many times) try to just hang out without the sex and we just can't do it. It's sad, really.


It's around ten minutes later, once I've gotten dressed from the stash of my stuff I keep at his apartment for times like these, when I step out of his bedroom and my senses are all assaulted at once.

All I can smell is delicious... something. And all I can see is him standing at the stove, tending to his creation with a hand towel tossed haphazardly over his still-bare shoulder.

I take a seat at the island in his kitchen in front of an empty plate he's set out for me and just watch. In a different world, maybe we'd have a better relationship. But for now, in this world, this is where we are.

"I made Italian chicken," he says, turning around with a frying pan in hand, sliding a breast of chicken onto my plate.

"Thanks," I smile at him as he serves himself.

He nods, cutting into his own food and taking a bite.

We eat in almost silence. We used to talk more- about our days or work or friends. Now it's just silence. Maybe that would be different too.

It's just weird that I see this man every day, and we don't talk about anything of substance.

"Have you talked to them?"

His question catches me off guard. But of course, I know to whom he is referring.

"This morning. They asked about you."

"And you lied. You told them you haven't seen me, didn't you?" he smirks.

My fingers grip tighter onto the fork in my hand.

"Of course I did. What else was I supposed to say? 'Oh, hey, Mom! Hi, George! Yes, actually, I have seen Derek, we had sex just last night!' It would give them a heart attack!" I shout, immediately regretting it after I do.

I guess I should explain. My name is Casey McDonald. I am twenty-two years old and a college graduate. I dance and sing and enjoy writing in my spare time. And when I'm not dancing or singing or writing, I like to have sex with my step-brother.

That's right. My one vice, my one terrible, horrible vice is sex with a man who is legally my step-brother. The son of the man who married my mom.

"And you say I'm impossible," my step-brother scoffs, biting a piece of chicken harshly off his fork.

"You know, Derek, you could always call them yourself. Then maybe they wouldn't ask me about you anymore."

Derek hasn't talked to our parents in probably three or four years. The three of them got into a fight about Derek wanting to transfer to a university in the States (which incidentally was miraculously close to where I was studying at the time) for an opportunity to impress some NHL scouts. And boy, did he.

Derek was drafted for a team I still can't remember the name of straight out of college and has been a professional hockey player since, but my parents either don't know that or pretend to not because of that dumb fight. And yet they still ask about him... every day. And I lie every day and tell them I haven't seen him and know nothing about what he's been doing. Although, excuse my vulgarity, but I suppose what he's been doing is me.

I think they feel a little better about Derek being in the States because they know I'm close by. But they don't know how close.

"You guys need to get over this dumb feud you have going on," I tell him, finishing off my plate of chicken.

"And you need to butt out of my business," Derek snaps, dropping both of our plates into the sink before stalking around the island and looming over me.

I stand from my seat, not about to let him intimidate me.

"This is why we don't talk anymore," he starts, scrubbing his hands down his face in annoyance. "You always stick your nose in and try to give me advice and push me to do things because it's what you would do. It's actually really annoying."

"So is lying to my mother."

I wouldn't say Derek has a temper, because really, he doesn't. He usually tends to be slow to anger, and what anger he does have, he works off through sex or hockey practice. But he does have little ticks. And I'm nearly positive that I'm one of his ticks. Especially when I bring up our parents or try to tell him what to do. Derek likes to make his own mistakes, which I suppose is a good trait to have.

Derek's hand grips onto my arm as he uses his other arm to wrap around my waist and pull me to him.

"I'm done arguing with you now," Derek hisses, leaning down and catching me in a kiss.

And just like that, the passion we'd both been putting into the fighting shifts.

My arms reach up and wrap around his neck as we crush ourselves closer together.

Derek grunts against my mouth, pulling back before sucking what will probably be a dark, purpley-red bruise into my neck, his hands already fighting with the button and zipper on my jeans.

I kick my jeans off, leaving them in a pool on the floor of the kitchen as my step-brother lifts me up almost effortlessly and wraps my legs around his waist.

Knowing what Derek's next move is likely to be, I tear my own shirt up over my head and toss it aside, giving him access to the rest of my body.

He starts to head toward his bedroom, which at this point, he could do blindfolded, and continues sucking and biting his way down my neck and chest as he does.

My head falls backward and my teeth grit together, attempting to keep myself from making too much noise, not because Derek wouldn't like it, but because he would. I actually want this to last as long as possible to work off the steam from arguing earlier. He'll be much less of a pain in the ass that way.

We make our way to Derek's bedroom and he unceremoniously drops me onto his bed, shedding his own pants before joining me, pressing his lips back to mine.

Derek makes quick work of removing both my bra and underwear, before resuming his earlier work of leaving his marks down my body.

He bites into my thigh, not enough to hurt, but enough to feel it and I can't help but whimper.

After so many years, we know how to make each other squirm and shake.

So, he bites and sucks at the skin on my thighs before shifting his attention elsewhere.

His head dips down between my legs as he tosses them over his shoulders, wasting no time as he licks into me, swirling his tongue around my sensitive center.

My back arches and I think I say something along the lines of, "Oh, holy fuck."

I can feel my step-brother smirk against me, and it almost annoys me how good he is at this.

It's not until my legs are shaking and my hips are canting that he stops- almost abruptly- and laughs at the involuntary whimper I let out at the loss.

He licks his lips as he kneels back up, his eyes glinting with pride and mischief.

He reaches down and strokes his cock a few times before positioning himself at my entrance and pushing inside.

I suck in a breath, adjusting to the stretch. I'll never give him the satisfaction of hearing me say it, but he's big. And even after all this time, it still takes a minute to accommodate him.

I nod when I'm ready for him to move, allowing him to start up a steady rhythm.

He thrusts into me at a quick but steady pace as he leans down, biting and kissing at my neck before moving to my lips.

I can taste myself on his lips, which is admittedly kind of gross, but I can't bring myself to care with the way my toes are curling and my body is tingling.

Before long, we're both panting and moaning and I know we're both getting close.

I tangle my fingers into the long hair at the back of his neck and yank him down, crushing his lips to mine.

By this point, it's mostly just teeth and tongues crashing together between moans and groans.

"I'm gonna-," I start to say before my body is wracked with ecstasy, washing over me in waves.

"Me too," Derek grunts, his head dropping down onto my shoulder as he thrusts himself through his own orgasm inside me.

Once he's come down from his high, he pulls himself out of me and stands from his bed.

And like always, the mood shifts.

We clean ourselves up and redress in silence. He walks along side me to the living room, where I grab my cell phone and car keys off of his entryway table, and he opens the front door for me and closes it behind me as I leave.

And as screwy as it is, he is my vice. Like an alcoholic will eventually drink that beer, I know I'll be back tomorrow night for another shot.


Okay, so some housekeeping here. If you're getting a notification for the upload of this story, that's probably because you've followed my other LWD story, Jersey. And for those of you who do, I promise there will be more! I haven't uploaded anything to that story in about six months, which is total bs, I know. And I apologize for that. But there will be more. I just got totally uninspired... And then THIS happened.

So, that being said, this is Another Vice, and the majority of this story was written in less than 24 hours. So I'd say there's inspiration there. This story was inspired in part by 'Vice' by Miranda Lambert, so credit where credit is due there, although there are no actual references to the song within the story.

ALSO. This could be made into a multi-chapter story if y'all are interested. So just let me know and I'll continue it. I do have some ideas, so it definitely could happen. Let me know.

That's all I've got to say now. So I hope you enjoyed this and will review. (: