“Are you asking for permission or about product safety?”
He leans back on the couch, back against my knees, and turns it on, then up. “It was a product-safety question, but if you’re revoking permission…”
“You can.”
“God, you’re eager for it,” he says, and I forget whatever I was going to say as he turns it on low and circles my clit with it, then quickly grabs my hip when I try to move. “Careful. Your couch.”
“Fuck the couch,” I say, but I hold still.
“Sucha pretty mess.” He slides it into me, still buzzing. I jerk involuntarily, and he smooths a hand over my hip. “C’mon, you can do better than that.”
I can’t, I think, but I close my eyes and I fucking try. Javier turns the vibrator all the way up and quickly finds a short, fast rhythm at exactly the right angle, and holyshitI didn’t know this vibrator could feel this good. Is this what it’s supposed to do? Is it the angle?
“I think you could come like this, maybe,” Javier’s saying. I’m biting my lip so hard that it’s probably going to bruise or bleed or something. “If I made you wait long enough for it. You think you could handle hours? I’d lie you down, eat your pussy until you were close, then tell you not to touch yourself and wander off.”
Now he’s circling my clit with his other thumb, brushing up against it, and I whimper, which I’ll probably be embarrassed about later.
“How’s this?” he murmurs and presses his thumb to my clit, then rubs it slowly. “Is this enough?”
It is. I come so hard my ears ring and my toes literally curl as I try not to move too much because, after all, it’s a nice couch. When it’s over I feel empty-headed, like my brain’s made of cotton, and I have to nudge Javier with my toes to get him to stop.
I’m still breathing through it when there’s something cold and wet on my stomach, and I jerk away before I realize what it is.
“Sorry, sorry.” He makes a face as he wipes carefully. “It used to be warm.”
“No, no, you’re fine.” I shut my legs and cross them at the ankles because I’m suddenly aware that I’m extremely naked and he is wiping semen off me. “Thanks.”
“Of course,” he says, folding over the washcloth and giving me one last wipe. “I’ll be right back, I’m just gonna—” He makes a gesture toward the bathroom that I assume encompassesperform all manner of post-sex cleanup, and I nod, then flop my head back onto the throw pillow as he walks away.
Sooner or later, I’m going to have to reckon with the fact that I’ve now had maybe-kinky sex with my future stepbrother and also with the fact that it was extremely enjoyable. There was a part of me that was low-key hoping that either he’d say no or that this time would be terrible, but that part of me also plays the lotto sometimes because she’s too optimistic.
Anyway, that was great and it can’t ever happen again, because I clearly cannot keep having casual sex with my stepbrother.
Once we’reboth cleaned up and dressed again, I realize it’s 10:15. Javier’s clearing off the kitchen table. He sees me looking at the clock, follows my gaze, and swears.
“I thought it was, like, seven. I should go. Do you have a dishwasher?”
I do, but other people aren’t allowed to load it. “Leave the plates in the sink.”
I watch him, in my kitchen, carefully putting some plates and a fork into the sink. His hair is unruly again. There’s something about him that makes him seem too big for this room, and it’s not just because he’s tall. He’s got some loose, wild energy, likehe’s hard to contain, and he doesn’t belong at all in my small, neat kitchen, but it suits him anyway.
“Sorry to…run.” I’d bet money he was going to sayfuck and runbut chickened out. “But thanks.”
I look again at the clock, but it wasn’t lying before. Now it’s 10:17, and I know it’s three hours to Charlottesville and he lives a couple hours south of that, and…shit.
“You should stay.” I don’t make eye contact. “It’s late—just leave first thing in the morning.”
“It’s only ten. I’ll be fine. I can grab coffee,” he says, still in my kitchen.
“You’re gonna get home at three in the morning.”
“That’s not that late.”
“That’s late to be driving.”
“I’m usually up then anyway. I’m a night owl, I swear.”
I hate how desperate I sound for him to stay, and I also hate how desperate he sounds to get out of here. It’s not like I want him tostay—not like that; we’ve been pretty clear about what this is—but come on. He can’t start a six-hour drive at 10:00 p.m.
