"How wet are you?"
"Embarrassingly."
"Be specific, Angel. Medical professional like you should know about being specific."
I slip a finger inside, then two, biting my lip to stay silent. "Soaking. Dripping. My body's having a whole physiological response here—vasocongestion, myotonia, increased lubrication—while trying to be completely silent because apparently stealth orgasms are my new specialty."
"Why so quiet, Angel?"
"Thin walls. Nosy neighbors. The usual." The lie slides out easier than my fingers slide in, which should probably concern me more than it does.
"Keep going," he says, and I can hear him stroking himself, the rhythm in his breathing. "Tell me how you're touching yourself."
"Two fingers inside," I whisper, barely audible. "Thumb on my clit. Thinking about your hands, those tattoos, what SINS and RAGE would feel like pressed against my thighs."
"Jesus, Angel—"
"Are you—?"
"Stroking my cock thinking about you? Yes. Thinking about how tight you'd be, how wet, how you'd taste—fuck—"
My fingers speed up, chasing the orgasm that's building like a storm front. "I'm close—"
"No. Not yet. Slow down."
"That's not fair—"
"Slow down, angel. Be good for me."
Those words again. "Good" like I'm something worth praising instead of the disaster human betraying her only family for astranger's voice. I slow my fingers, whimpering quietly into my pillow.
"Good girl," he rumbles. "So good for me. Now tell me—what do you need?"
"You," falls out before I can stop it. "Need you here. Need your hands, your mouth, your—"
"You want this?" His voice is strained now, control slipping. "Want me to make you come?"
"Yes, please, yes—"
"Then come for me, angel. Now. Quiet."
My orgasm hits like a medical emergency—full-body, systems-failing, someone-check-her-vitals intense. I bite my pillow hard enough to taste fabric softener, my body convulsing while I fight to stay silent, knowing Miguel's tactical hearing could pick up a mouse fart from three rooms away.
"Fuck, fuck, angel—" His voice breaks into a groan, and I know he's coming too, can hear it in the way his breathing goes ragged.
"Again," he demands when he can speak. "Give me another."
"I can't—too loud—Miguel's—"
"You can. Quietly. You're so good, so perfect. Come again for me. Silent."
My fingers are already moving, oversensitive clit protesting and begging simultaneously. It takes less than a minute before I'm falling apart again, silent scream trapped behind clenched teeth, my body shaking while I pray to every deity that my brother's focused on his Glock and not the suspicious silence from my bedroom.
"Such a good girl, coming for me," he murmurs, and I'm gone, a third orgasm rolling through me like an aftershock, my body trembling while tears leak from my eyes—from pleasure, from guilt, from the knowledge that I'm destroying everything Miguel built to keep me safe.
We breathe together for a moment, two strangers in the dark, connected by nothing but bad decisions and electronic signals.
A knock on my bedroom door. My blood turns to ice.
