Clint stood on the front porch, his hands in his coat pockets. Though he couldn't have known I'd arrive at that exact moment, I wanted to believe he'd somehow sensed my approach and was waiting for me.

Pulling into the gravel driveway, I tore my gaze from him long enough to study the house we'd inherited from our grandmother. It was a little more weathered and worn, with a dark shutter hanging askew, but mostly the same as I remembered.

Clint bounded down the porch steps, heading toward me. I rushed to cut the engine and throw open the car door. 

"Sylvia!" he said when I stood before him. "How was the drive?"

We embraced with the awkwardness of almost-strangers instead of half-siblings. "It was good," I replied. "I got an early start, so traffic was pretty light."

He withdrew from the hug in order to meet my eyes. While mine were light brown, his were hazel. Standing a couple of inches shy of six feet, he wasn't all that much taller than me, yet the pedestal upon which I'd placed my half-brother made him loom large in my mind. His hair, a darker blond than mine, was cut short, and he was clean-shaven.

I'd gotten up before dawn that morning to apply makeup and style my hair. As I rolled the strands around a curling brush, I asked myself why I was going to the trouble. I never did settle on a good reason.

At least not one I was willing to admit.  

"You look beautiful," Clint said, his smile warm.

I tried not to beam at the compliment. "Mother says I've gotten fat."

His smile instantly vanished. "That's ridiculous. And we both know how vindictive Mother can be."

Of course, I knew even better than he did. At that point in the mid-eighties, I was twenty-three, and Clint was seven years older. We'd been raised in separate households, for our mother and Clint's father divorced when my half-brother was four years old. Mother quickly remarried, and by the time I was born, she'd given full custody of Clint to his father. 

Growing up, I saw Clint mostly during holidays. After my parents divorced and Mother found herself single again, she made more of an effort to be involved in her son's life, but by then, the distance between them was pretty much unbridgeable. 

Our maternal grandmother, on the other hand, tried to maintain a close bond with Clint. She invited him to this very house during summer vacations, and I was sometimes able to spend a week or two here with them. I'd adored my older brother, following him around like a loyal puppy.

Even after he turned eighteen and left home, moving across the state to attend college, I wrote him weekly letters in my large, girlish script. He did his best to be a good brother, answering my letters with brief notes. He sent me records for my birthdays, and when I turned sixteen, I received a silver locket from him as a gift. It was still one of my most cherished possessions.

Yet our lives followed different orbits, and we could be only so close when our communication was limited to occasional phone calls and scribbled missives. At the time of our grandmother's death last fall, I hadn't seen him in almost a year. 

We attended the funeral with our mother. As was her habit, she practically sucked all the oxygen from the room with her histrionics. I could tell Clint was uncomfortable in her presence. 

And then Mother discovered that Gran hadn't left her a thing. All of Gran's property, including the house, was willed to me and Clint. In an instant, Mother's dramatic sobs quieted. She accused me and Clint of turning her own mother against her, when nothing could have been further from the truth. 

Mother and I hadn't spoken since that day. I was almost certain Clint hadn't been in contact with her, either. 

Now, months later in early spring, Clint and I had managed to coordinate our schedules so we could spend a couple of weeks at this house we owned. We'd sort through Gran's belongings, deciding what should be kept and what could be given away or discarded. 

We'd also have to make a decision about what to do with the place. Keep it? Sell it? Clint worked as an insurance salesman in a city several hours away, while I had a waitressing job in a little town a hundred miles east. Our grandmother's property didn't exactly have a convenient location for either of us.

Still holding onto me as we stood in the driveway, Clint said, "You must be cold!" 

I'd worn a ridiculous dress, suitable for a warm spring afternoon and not a Saturday morning that still had one foot planted firmly in the winter season. Meanwhile, my brother was sensibly dressed in jeans and a sweater.

Clint's hands moved from my shoulders to my upper arms, and he stroked me through the lightweight fabric of my sleeves. "Let's get you inside," he went on. "Where's your suitcase?"

"In the trunk."

As we headed toward the house, I kept sneaking glances at him. Often, I found myself comparing our features, searching for similarities. We didn't look all that much alike, I knew. He'd taken after his dad, while I resembled Mother.

Once we reached the porch steps, Clint gestured forward. "After you."

Keeping a hand on the metal railing, I started the short climb. All the while, I was keenly aware of my brother close behind me. His nearness made me conscious of my perceived physical flaws. Did my ass look too large in front of his face? Was he even looking at my ass?

Did I want him to?

Despite the morning's chill, my face flushed. Helplessly, I tried to bury forbidden thoughts in the deepest recesses of my mind. 

Entering the small living room, I found it plenty warm. As I looked around, a flood of memories washed over me. It wasn't as if I'd spent a large part of my childhood here, yet even the mundane details of my past visits remained vivid and easy to recall. Breathing in, I discerned a hint of must and damp. The house, having suffered mild neglect as my grandmother aged, needed tending to.

 Still, it already seemed brighter due to my brother's presence. "When did you get here?" I asked him.

"Last night."

"You didn't tell me you were coming early!" Whirling around, I practically bumped into him. With his free hand, he reached to steady me. "I would have made the trip yesterday evening if I'd known."

Clint shrugged, looking a little sheepish. "It was a last-minute decision."

He'd saved the largest bedroom for me. "The bed has clean sheets," he said while setting my suitcase on the floor. 

"Thank you, Clint, but I can take the smaller room."

My brother waved a dismissive hand. "I also brought some groceries so we can fix meals."

"You've thought of everything." Drifting to the window, I parted the gauzy, translucent curtains to gaze out at the backyard. The wooden posts of an old clothesline listed sideways, ready to topple over. "We had fun here, didn't we?"

Behind me, Clint drew nearer. My body responded, anticipating his touch. I expected him to rest his hands on my shoulders in a comforting, brotherly gesture.

Instead, he slipped his arms around my waist and eased me back against him. "We did," he murmured. "When I was here with you and Gran, I felt like I actually had a family."

Tentatively, I placed my hands over his. My fingers explored the contours of his knuckles. The room was so quiet that I imagined I could hear the ceaseless ticking of his wristwatch. 

"You're the only family I have now," I told him in a voice just as soft.

"I feel the same way about you."

Frowning, I turned my head a little to look up at him. "What about your dad?"

Clint kept his stare fixed on the window. "He's remarried—again. The new wife's younger, closer to my age than my father's. I don't much care to be around her."

"I'm sorry," I said. And I was. Though Clint had been spared years of living with our mother and her toxic personality, he'd struggled in his own way. 

He shrugged, then forced a smile. "Are you hungry? I bought some eggs."

I'd been too nervous to eat before leaving my apartment, and I realized I was famished now. "Sounds good."

In the kitchen, I offered to cook. Clint had found an old radio, and it now sat on the counter, playing top-forty hits. I hummed along to "Careless Whisper" while preparing Clint's eggs over easy, just as he requested. He toasted some fresh bread, having already located an unopened jar of raspberry jam in the cabinet. 

"We could get quite a storm in a couple days," he said. "Winter's not done with us yet, I'm afraid. But I bought enough food to tide us over if we get snowed in for a little while."

"I need to pay for my share of the groceries."

"Absolutely not," Clint told me firmly. Though neither of us mentioned it, we both knew his income was far greater than mine. "I'm happy to cover it."

Again, I thanked him, my quiet voice no competition for the radio. Yet he heard, and I felt him stroke my hair as he passed by me on the way to the table.

Once we'd sat down to eat, our conversation turned to everyday matters. "So, are you still waitressing?" he asked.

"Yeah. I mostly hate it, but I make enough to pay my half of the rent."

Clint nodded toward the eggs on his plate. "Damn, these are delicious. I think you missed your calling as a short-order cook."

Laughing, I held up my hands to ward off further praise. "I'm not good at making much else!"

Between bites of toast, he asked, "Are you, uh, seeing anyone?"

"No," I replied, a little too quickly.

He briefly met my gaze. "The only reason I ask is because a guy answered the phone at your apartment the last time I called."

"That's my roommate." I didn't add that my roommate and I fucked on an occasional basis. "What about you?" I kept my tone casual. "Do you have a girlfriend?"

"Nothing serious. I've been seeing a woman named Millicent on and off."

As if to torment me, my mind offered up more forbidden thoughts. I pictured my brother kissing some leggy brunette, and cupping her breasts. Of course, I imagined her tits as being much larger than mine.

I didn't want to talk about Millicent, so I leaned to cover Clint's hand with my own. "You know, I'm really glad we're able to spend this time together." My smile widened as I added, "I'd like us to be involved in each other's lives. All these years, I've admired you from afar. I've imagined you having a successful career, and enjoying your freedom away from our mother."

Clint gave me an amused look. "Sweetheart, I sell insurance. My life isn't all that exciting."

"Still." I shrugged, no longer aware of the point I was even trying to make. "I hope we can be closer."

His expression softened a little at whatever he saw in mine. "Me, too."

After breakfast, we got started on sorting through Gran's belongings. All the while, Clint and I lobbed questions back and forth in an effort to learn more about each other. We kept to safe topics, refusing to linger too much on past family trauma. Often, we shared memories of the time we'd spent here in Gran's house, and I was surprised to find that he could recall so many of those happy visits.

It was late afternoon when my brother came across an old record of Big Band music. "Look at this!" He held up the jacket for me to see. 

I lifted an eyebrow. "I had no idea you were a fan."

"Just you wait." Clint strolled over to the record player. Moments later, the living room was filled with the sound of trumpets. Before I could issue any kind of opinion, he closed the distance between us and reached for my hand. "Come on, Sylvia. You can't help but dance to this!"

"Oh, no. I'm a horrible dancer."

"So am I, but it's just us here." Though I squealed in protest, he effortlessly drew me up from the chair. With his arm circling my waist and his hand holding mine, Clint danced me around the room. Beneath my feet, the worn, faded carpet provided little cushioning, but it didn't matter, as my brother spun me around so fast, I felt like I was almost flying.

Soon, I erupted into delighted giggles. His grin was playful, and when he dipped me without warning, my shriek made him laugh as well. 

"You're full of shit, saying you can't dance!" I told him.

By the time the song was through, we were both breathing hard. Unable to resist, I threw my arms around Clint. The force of my embrace caused him to stagger backward a step, but he quickly recovered. While he held me close, I whispered, "Do you think Gran ever danced like that?"

"Probably," Clint replied. "We must have inherited our fancy footwork from someone, right?"

Planting a kiss on his cheek, I caught his scent, not yet familiar. It made me want to bury my face in his neck and breathe deep.

Instead, I suggested that we eat an early dinner. Clint helped me prepare a casserole that would make good leftovers. As we worked in the kitchen, the radio continued playing softly. I wasn't used to the constant stream of music and chatter. It made me wonder if Clint was one of those people who always had a TV or radio on to fill the silence that comprised a large part of living alone.

During the meal, the radio DJ gave a summary of the news and weather. The storm Clint had mentioned would be arriving sooner than expected, sometime tomorrow evening. 

My brother looked at me. "Do you need anything in town? We have plenty of groceries, but anything else might have to wait until the weather clears."

I'm fine," I assured him. Instead of concerning me, the idea of getting snowed in with my brother was strangely appealing.

Once we'd finished eating and tidied up the kitchen, Clint and I settled in front of the television. I usually didn't bother watching the news, local or national, but he liked staying informed. By eight that evening, I was stretched out on the couch, with my feet resting in Clint's lap. The sitcom on the television was one I sometimes watched if I was home on Saturday nights, but it didn't hold my interest now.

Keeping his gaze fixed on the screen, Clint absentmindedly rubbed my feet. I couldn't suppress a pleasured moan when he massaged my arches. The sound drew his attention toward me.

"You like that?" he asked with a smile.

Not trusting myself to speak, I simply nodded. As his stare held mine, I stretched lazily, lifting my arms above my head. My dress inched farther up my legs. 

Clint's smile faded, just a little. I sensed his confusion, for I wasn't exactly acting sisterly. Refusing to avert my eyes, I offered a silent challenge: Keep touching me.

He lowered his gaze to my bare calves. While I waited, my breathing quickened. My brother grazed my skin with his fingertips, eliciting a trail of goosebumps. His hand moved higher, brushing my knee.

And then he gently pulled down the hem of my dress.

Disappointment churned within me, and I tried not to think about the heat of arousal between my thighs. I knew my feelings were wrong, yet I told myself they couldn't be all that abnormal. Not when my brother was so amazing, and he treated me with far more tenderness than any other man in my life.

Instead of abating, my need only grew as the evening went on. Though Clint didn't keep rubbing my feet, he didn't move them out of his lap, either. It was difficult for me to stay still, and I sometimes nuzzled his inner thigh with my toes. If he found it distracting, he didn't say so.

Feigning a yawn, I slowly sat up. "I think I'm going to turn in."

"Good night, Sylvia," he told me, offering a sweet smile. "I'm going to stay up for the eleven o'clock news and see if there's an update on the weather."

Slipping my arms around his neck, I planted a kiss on his cheek, a little too close to his mouth. Even as I showered him with affection, I chastised myself: Don't make him uncomfortable! He's going to think you're a clingy freak.

But it was as though I couldn't help myself; I craved this physical intimacy with him. 

"See you in the morning," I whispered.

Lifting a hand, he stroked my hair. "Sleep well."

Reluctantly, I withdrew and headed down the short hallway toward Gran's old room. I'd planned to retrieve my toothbrush from my suitcase, along with a sleep shirt, but before I could, I closed the bedroom door, shutting myself inside. Frantically, I lifted my dress. When it was bunched around my waist, I worked my hand into the front of my panties. Just as I'd expected, my pubic hair was saturated. 

I didn't even bother to lie down. No, I stood right there, my reflection displayed to me in the full-length mirror across the room. My breath hitched in my chest as I used a single fingertip to rub my clitoris. 

I told myself my need to masturbate had nothing to do with my brother. Everyone got horny, and I just happened to get turned on tonight. But all I had to do was remember his bright eyes while we danced, and the way his fingers caressed my calf, and I was right on edge. My self-pleasuring grew more fervent, my touch sounding wet as I stimulated my clit.

I hovered on that forbidden line, desperate to orgasm. Shame heated my face, yet my knees weakened from the force of my desire. Yielding to temptation, I imagined it was Clint touching me so...