You could kill your sister. If murder was legal you would have about fourteen different ways to maim and torture your older sibling before actually putting an end to her horrible rotten existence.

Okay so maybe you’re being a bit dramatic, and maybe it really isn’t your sister’s fault. It’s actually your mother’s fault. She just had to go and get married again, and then go on some extravagant honeymoon on your only two weeks home from university, between the summer and fall quarters. And of course you couldn’t possibly stay at home by yourself. You throw one kegger in high school and even now, at twenty-three years of age you aren’t allowed to spend long periods of time in your own house by yourself. Your only other option was to go to California with your sister, to visit friends who you all grew up with that she hadn’t seen in months and you never really liked to begin with.

So it’s not your sister’s fault but she is certainly not making this situation any easier on you. Instead of being a good sister and postponing her trip so you could see your cats, sleep in your own bed, walk around your hometown and marvel at how much it hadn’t changed, she refused to cancel her plans. So instead of going home to Millington, you are stuck in Los Angeles.

You can’t help but laugh at yourself. You get to spend two weeks in L.A., staying in a humungous Beverly Hills mansion and you are complaining. Although it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Technically you aren’t staying in the mansion, but the guest house, with your sister and her best friend, Rachel. Her friends don’t take you seriously, cracking jokes at your expense. You eat takeout every night, which you’ve done for the past nine weeks and you’re sleeping on a lumpy couch which is more uncomfortable than the bed in your dorm room which is definitely saying something. And they don’t even have the internet, which when you found out your jaw literally dropped. You are cut off from all your friends, from school and in your web communities, and your sister, who is so beyond pissed that you are tagging along with her yet again, barely speaks to you and when she does its only to remind you that you are most definitely not wanted here. The only silver lining of this entire trip is that Justin was kind enough to let you drive his Ferrari.

Pulling it safely back into the garage, you notice that the Rubicon is still gone, your sister and Rachel having gone shopping earlier but not before saying that under no circumstances were you invited. That was when Justin felt sorry for you and let you take his ride to Starbucks so you could at least check your Facebook and see that most of your friends are spending their break on Tybee Island. Thoroughly depressed you decided to head home early.

Walking through the kitchen, you lay Justin’s keys on the counter in plain view and open the enormous refrigerator which is completely devoid of food save for last night’s pizza and enough beer to keep the entire floor of your dorm partying all weekend. You grab a slice and make your way out the sliding glass doors that look out over the pool, fully preparing to head back to the guest house and contemplate ways of killing yourself.

You stop dead in your tracks when you see the sleek, wet form of Justin Timberlake emerge from the water, first just his head, then the breadth of his shoulders and the expanse of his back. You watch his biceps flex as he pulls himself from the pool, seeing his waist and – you drop your pizza and your jaw – his naked ass.

You are in shock, unable to look away. He turns toward you and – holy shit – his eyes meet yours, both of you frozen in your tracks. He moves first, grinning at you lopsidedly as he grabs a towel.

“Hey Layla,” he says and his words seem to unstick your brain, you look at your feet. “Dropped your pizza there.”

“Yeah,” you say, your voice shaking a little. “Yep I did. Sorry.”

“Nah I’m sorry. I thought you’d be gone longer.”

“Nope,” you say, a manic edge to your voice because even though you are staring at the ground you can still see the pale expanse of his skin, the curve of his hip, the curve of his… You cough. “Totally my fault.”

“Maggie and Rach still spending all my money?” he asks and you fight the image of his naked body in front of you, on top of you, inside you.

“What? Oh yeah…I guess…er…the car…not there.” You’re beginning to sweat a little, your breath coming in short gasps because your mind is having him do dirty, dirty things to you. Things that you would never normally be thinking about, much less of him doing them to you.

“You can look now, Layla,” he says chuckling and your eyes flit to him briefly, looking him up and down and he’s grinning at you, the towel not wrapped around his waist but covering his… you look away again. “Look at you,” he chuckles and you blush to the roots of your hair. “You act like you’ve never seen a nekkid man before.” Pause. “You have seen a naked man before haven’t you?”

“What!?” you exclaim, your eyes flying to his. He’s looking at you incredulously, tucking the corner of his towel in at his hip. “Of course I have!”

He runs his tongue over his teeth and regards you skeptically. “I have!” you exclaim again, feeling a little defensive.

“Okay, okay,” he says with a laugh, holding up his hands defensively. “I believe you. You are a woman about town.” He’s shaking his head, smiling amusedly as he walks toward you.

“Screw you Justin, I’m not some innocent little girl who’s never done anything,” you spat as he walks around the diving board.

He raises his eyebrows at you and crosses his arms over his chest, defining his pectoral muscles even more. You shift your feet uncomfortably as he steps closer.

“Oh really?”

“Y-yeah, really.”

“How many guys have you fucked?”

“Justin!” you gasp. You’ve heard him cuss before. You’ve heard him say much worse but for some reason you’re blushing like mad again.

“Oh yeah, you are a real vixen Layla,” he mocks as he brushes past you.

And you’ve had it. You have been mocked and ignored and hated for the past three days and you aren’t going to take it any more. You turn and grab the towel, tugging hard. It falls away from his waist and he grabs for it, but you hold it out of his grasp.

“Layla what are you doing?” Now he’s a little embarrassed, using his arm to shield himself but you just smirk at him.

“How many girls have you fucked, Justin?” you ask lowly and watch his eyebrows go from knitted low to raised high. You don’t curse often, and rarely in front of him because when you’re around him you’re with your sister and she makes fun of you.

“Layla, seriously,”

He’s avoiding your eyes, looking at his towel which you have clutched in your hand just out of his reach. He leans forward, careful not to make any form of physical contact and makes a grab for it but you pull back, pressing your free hand into his chest to stop his advance. His eyes jerk to your hand on his chest, your fingers kneading the muscles gently, almost unnoticeable.

“Seriously Justin,” you reply huskily, your eyes never leaving his face. “How many girls have you given the pleasure?”

His eyes snap to yours at the word “pleasure,” lust turning his clear blue eyes into a dark stormy indigo. You can almost see him relinquish his resolve and he straightens, putting both hands on his hips.

“I asked you first.”

Your smile fades a little. Okay so he had it right when he implied you were innocent. Well, sort of. One guy compared with the hordes of girls he’d most likely been with would seem pretty tame. You clear your throat, dropping your hand.

“Enough,” you reply cheekily and a laugh booms from his throat.

“Enough, huh? That’s a good answer.”

“I thought so,” you reply and he rubs his chin, regarding you curiously. “And you?” You ask for you are genuinely curious.

His eyes narrow, and it’s a beat before his face relaxes and he replies “Enough.”

You roll your eyes and then ask. “Have you ever done my sister?”

“What, Maggie?” he asks his voice jumping an octave, “No. Why?”

“Because I don’t want my sister’s sloppy seconds,” you whisper, giving his shoulder a little shove and he stumbles and falls back onto the lounge chair.

You take advantage of his bewildered state to straddle his legs. He looks up at you slightly astonished but there is a quiet lust building behind his eyes. You cup his cheek and he jumps a little at the contact. You can see that the realization that sex is probably (in your mind, definitely) going to happen is finally dawning on him. You can see that he’s still contemplative, unsure.

“What’s the matter?” you ask, running a thumb across his cheekbone. “I thought for sure the great Justin Timberlake wouldn’t be afraid of a little pussy.”

His eyes widen and he lets out a nervous chuckle. “What has gotten into you Layla?” he asks, his hands moving cautiously to your hips.

“Nothing…” you respond with a sigh, trailing your finger down to the stubble on his chin. “…yet.”

You lower yourself and capture his lips with yours, your hands pushing him back.

He allows you to climb on top of him, his hands sliding up your back, under your shirt. He tastes sweet and new but familiar all at the same time. You can feel him pressing, hot and heavy, against the bare skin of your thigh. His fingers pull at the elastic in your hair, letting it fall around your face, creating a shadowy haven from the afternoon sun.

“Where are we going with this Layla?” he mutters huskily, and you slide your thigh against his length, causing his eyelids to flutter.

“Anywhere you want,” you reply breathlessly.

With that his hands are in your hair, pulling your face roughly against his as he slides his body further up the lounge chair. You pull your tank top over your head and he leans back to watch as you unhook your bra. His hands replace the material immediately, his eyes watching his fingers twist and pluck at your nipples. He slides a hand around your back, guiding you forward so he can press hot kisses to the valley between your breasts and suck sweetly at your peaks. You reach to grab a handful of his hair and finding none you scratch at his scalp, before kneading the muscles on the back of his neck and then his shoulders.

His fingers find the waistband of your track shorts and you climb off him briefly to tug them off, his eyes never leaving you as you let them and your panties fall to the ground. You throw your leg over him again and his hands splay across your hips as you position yourself over him. He’s looking up at you, that uncertain look on his face again, which fades immediately when you reach between you and position the tip at your entrance. His eyes unfocus slightly and he snakes his tongue out to lick his dry lips. You hover for a moment, trying to memorize his face, the way his apprehension fades to need. The hands on your hips apply a little bit of pressure and he pierces you, a gasp of shock and pleasure escaping from your lips as he guides you all the way down. When you are sitting flush against him, you run another hand down his face and he opens his eyes, now almost black with lust.

You begin to rock gently, and your eyes slide shut, concentrating on the feel of him inside you. His hands are still guiding your hips, and you let him work you the way he likes. His near silent groan causes your eyes to snap open. His head is thrown back, eyes closed, bottom lip captured between his teeth. You press your palms flat against his chest, giving yourself more leverage to quicken your pace. His eyes open again, and he propels himself forward. You almost lose your balance but his hand is around your back, forcing your chest against his. His mouth captures yours, and you grip his shoulders as the twitch of your hips becomes frenzied.

His mouth is on your neck, sucking on your pulse point, nipping at your collar bone. Your arms wrap around his neck as you grind your clit against his hipbone, fire racing through your body causing little gasps and moans to escape your lips with every thrust.

Leaning back, he pulls you with him, your forehead pressed against his, his cock pressing against your g-spot in a way that sucks the air from your lungs. His hands are on your hips again, forcing you down harder and harder still, grunts and moans of approval punctuating each thrust.

You struggle against him, wanting him deeper. You force your hips down harder and he hisses his approval, but it’s not enough. You lean back, putting your arm behind you to brace yourself on his knee. Your head falls back, as you slam onto him, feeling him move deeper, hitting that spot inside you that could only barely be reached. You feel one of his hands leave your hip and smooth down your chest and stomach. He positions his thumb between your bodies, searching for your clit. Your moans became louder as he splays his four fingers across your stomach, wiggling his thumb against you. It is then than you let out a guttural cry, your body clenching hard around him. He follows you in a few thrusts, forcing out your name as his hips buck into you.

You collapse against his chest, your ear pressed over his pounding heart as you try to regain some semblance of composure. Your fingers are sprawled across his ribcage, holding him close to you, lying still until his heart is beating slow and steady against your cheek.

Your parting is slightly awkward but bearable and later that evening over pizza (again) you share glances and smiles that go unnoticed until he rests his hand on your shoulder when he offers to get you another beer.

“What was that all about?” Maggie asks as you watch his ass leave the patio to go into the kitchen.

“Nothing,” you sigh. “We just spent some time together today. Ya know,” you say as he hands you a bottle, giving you a wink when he falls onto the lounge chair. “Got to know each other better.”