Page 3 of The Accident

The room is small—just a private lounge, probably meant for the wedding party to catch their breath or powder their noses. There’s a velvet settee the color of dried blood, a low glass table littered with discarded napkins and a bottle of something brown and expensive, and a mirror above the fireplace that glitters like an invitation. On the far wall, just past the gilded frame, is Trevor.

He’s disheveled now, his dark suit jacket tossed carelessly over a chair, his white dress shirt hanging open and askew, one cuff still fastened around his wrist. He looks even taller like this, all heavy muscle and predatory focus. Cassie is braced facing the wall, hair wild and eyes closed, her mouth open in a soundless scream. Her dress—red, criminally short—has been rucked up around her waist, exposing hips so narrow and legs so long they don’t seem real.

Her panties are a wisp of nothing, pushed down just enough to bare her ass. Trevor is behind her, his hand fisted in the platinum mass of her hair, the other on her hip. He’s fucking her, hard, relentless, driving her up onto her toes with each stroke.

My breath catches. I don’t move.

They move in perfect sync, a violence that’s almost beautiful. Cassie’s breasts—enormous, surgically perfect—bounce with each thrust, the nipples dark and stiff. Her makeup is smeared. Trevor’s eyes are fixed on her reflection in the mirror, and for a moment, I see what he sees: Cassie’s mouth parted, her tongue flicking the corner of her lips, the flush crawling up her chest as he pounds into her from behind.

“Fuck, Nate, yes, just like that,” she gasps. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t⁠—”

Nate? I blink. Who’s Nate? For one insane moment I imagine I’ve walked into the wrong scene, that this is just some lookalike, some dark twin of Trevor’s, but then he leans down and bites her shoulder—gentle, almost teasing—and I see the exact same mischievous glint in his eye that I saw in the ballroom, a minute or a lifetime ago.

He’s still Trevor. Only more so. Raw, concentrated, all the polish and pretense boiled away.

Even more, he heard her say the wrong name, and doesn’t give a fuck. What the hell is wrong with my stepbrother? Most dudes would be offended, but evidently my stepbrother is so confident and asshole-ish that he doesn’t even care. He just wants to bury his dick in a piece of wet pussy, and right now, he’s getting it to the max, so why stress?

Plus, his date must be a porn star because she’s screaming loud and unashamed. She calls him Nate again, then moans it like a prayer, louder and louder. Trevor doesn’t slow down. His fingers flex on her hip, leaving white marks that will purple by morning. His pace is brutal, almost mechanical. The sounds are obscene—wet, slapping, a sharp counterpoint to the music still drifting from the main hall. I can’t stop staring.

“Ooooh,” she squeals, big breasts shaking. “Fuck me, fuck me!”

“Will do, sweetheart,” my stepbrother rasps. “Fuck fuck fuck!”

At first I watch Cassie because she’s impossible not to watch with those big bouncy breasts and succulently wet pussy. But then, I watch Trevor instead, every inch of him. The way his jaw tenses, the lines of his back, the raw power in his legs as he drives up into her, over and over. I look at his hand, so big and possessive, splayed over the sharp point of Cassie’s hip. I look at his mouth, open in a snarl or a moan, I can’t tell which.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Shit shit shit, you’re such a perfect cockholster, Cass.”

Then, I look lower, and I see it—his cock, impossibly thick, so much larger than I’d ever let myself imagine, glistening as it pistons in and out of the girl’s body. It is a monstrous thing, slick and veined, and for one horrified second I want to measure myself against Cassie, to see how my pussy would look wrapped around him, impaled by him.

God, Kayleigh! What is wrong with you!?!?!

I clamp my hand over my mouth and squeeze my thighs together, pulse galloping as my insides moisten.

He fucks her faster, now, his grip turning savage. Cassie’s red nails scratch at the wallpaper. She whimpers, and the sound—so high, so uncontrolled—sends a jolt of electricity down my spine. My nipples pebble inside my bra, hot and aching. I’m suddenly aware of every inch of skin beneath my dress, every secret fold, every damp place.

Trevor groans—low, guttural, not a sound I’ve ever heard from him before. He’s close. Cassie is close. They move together, like dancers who’ve rehearsed the finale a thousand times.

“You’re such a fucking slut,” he pants. “Flashing those tits and pussy at a family wedding. Fuck!”

“I am a slut!” she gasps. “Oooh, yes, I’m your slut, Nate! Oooh Daddy, I’m gonna—” Cassie cries, and then she breaks, body arching, every muscle tight. She shakes, and her face contorts into something wild and obscene, almost like she’s having an epileptic fit. I visibly see her pussy clench on Trevor’s cock, and then my brother shoves into her one last time, hard enough to jar her into the wall as he comes like a beast.

“Shit!” he roars. “Goddamn, your fucking pussy is so tight! Shit shit shit!”

“Ooooh!” Cassie wails, her eyes rolling up so far they show the whites. “Mmmmm!”

They scream and yell, hot jizz spilling out from between where they’re joined, Trevor continuing to pound into her wet cunt with brutal thrusts. Then, after a few moments, he stills, breathing ragged, his fingers locked so tight in her hair she continues to scream.

“Ooooh!” is her cry. “Mmmm, use my pussy, fuck it, Daddy, fuck it! I want it so bad!”

He stays like that for a moment, every muscle carved from stone, then lets go. Cassie pitches forward against the wall, so hard that she hits her head a bit, her dress a crumpled mess. Trevor steadies her, takes a shaky breath, and runs a hand through his hair. He looks younger, softer, in this light. Almost human.

“Fuck,” he bites out, pulling his dick out of her twat with a sucking sound and then palming it. “Damn, that was hot. The wedding is so fucking boring and this is exactly what I needed. Thanks, sweetheart.”

He leans forward to kiss her shoulder as she pants and heaves a bit more. I’m still watching. I haven’t moved because I can’t. My entire body is a live wire, charged and trembling, as I take in the scene before me.

Then, Trevor turns toward the mirror, and for one heart-stopping instant, our eyes meet. Oh shit, oh shit, I’m screwed! But then I realize that he probably can’t see me, seeing that I’m standing in the shadows. Sure enough, his gaze lingers, sharp and intent, and then sweeps away.

That’s my sign. I duck away, silent, breathless, my heart a wild animal. I almost trip over my own feet as I retreat down the hallway. The noises from the room fade into nothing, replaced by the frantic rush of blood in my ears.