14. The Morning After
THE MORNING AFTER
Kayleigh
Iwake to a sheet of warm daylight and the aroma of rich espresso hitting my nostrils.
I smell pancakes too, and even the faint, earthy ghost of Trevor’s cologne.
But I’m not in his bed. Instead, after tonguing my anal cherry, Trevor pulled me into a massive shower and gently washed me.
Of course, he touched me everywhere and I came about three times, crying out while clinging to his massive chest. But the man never claimed me with his cock.
It was there of course, huge, hot, heavy and dripping, and he let me squeeze him a bit, groaning as my slim fingers closed over the veiny rod.
But he never let me make him come, and he never put it into me either.
I was so confused, and even more confused when he dried me off and led me to the guest bedroom to sleep on my own before closing the door.
Why? Why would Trevor let himself touch and stroke me all over, worshipping my breasts, belly, pussy, and more with his lips and tongue, but not take the final step?
After all, I was more than willing, panting and moaning against him while crying out his name.
But I guess I’ll find out this morning. I throw the fluffy white duvet off, and when I look down, I realize I’m wearing one of his t-shirts and a pair of boxers, both so massive on me that I could fit two Kayleighs inside.
My blonde hair is wild, a halo of knots and static; there’s a tiny little bit of mascara on the edge of one eye, but otherwise, I look more or less okay.
In the hallway, the floor is so polished I can see my own feet reflected in the surface.
I walk on my toes, so that I resemble a thief tiptoeing about this lovely apartment.
But Trevor’s already awake—already standing at the stove with his back to me, one hand steady on a skillet, the other braced on the marble counter.
Even from across the room, the geometry of his broad shoulders and the raw, tan sweep of his back hit me like a cannonball: beautiful and muscular, one hundred percent male.
There are two mugs on the counter, both sweating steam, both white and heavy.
The kitchen is nothing but straight lines: butcher-block counters, the slab of the island, the six-burner cooktop that looks like something you could use to cauterize wounds.
Outside the wall of windows, the city is bright as it just wakes up.
Every building is cut glass, every avenue a gash in the grid.
Trevor’s penthouse floats above it all, a sealed aquarium for only the rarest, most dangerous men.
I hover for a minute, clutching the hem of my shirt, then slide onto a stool at the island. I pull my knees up and tuck my feet under me so I don’t have to touch the cold. The mug is warm and smells bitter, almost burned. I wrap both hands around it and watch the condensation bead on the marble.
“Eggs?” Trevor says, his voice neutral.
I nod, then realize he isn’t looking at me. “Sure,” I say, as if we’re still playing house, as if he isn’t the reason I feel like every muscle in my body has been wrung out and left to dry.
He plates the eggs without a word, then turns to face me.
The way he does it—like a man who expects the world to rotate with him—makes the room tilt.
He’s shirtless, pajama pants low on his hips, and his hair is a tangle from sleep, tousled yet ridiculously attractive.
There’s a scar just below his left pec, pale and a little jagged, as if he lost a fight with a cat.
His eyes are bloodshot, but still that mesmerizing ice-blue, the color of lakes in postcards.
I stare at the eggs. They’re perfect, which almost makes it worse.
We eat in silence. The only sounds are forks on porcelain and the faint, ever-present hum of the city below.
At some point, I realize I’m not breathing.
Finally, I set down my fork, hear it tinkle against the plate, and say, “So…should I say it first?”
He looks at me sideways.
“Say what?”
“Good morning,” I reply with a bright smile. “Or are we not allowed to say that around here.”
He sighs and stares at his plate.
“Good morning, Kayleigh.”
“Good morning, Trevor,” I repeat. “Thank you for making breakfast. These eggs are delicious. I wish I could make eggs as well as you. I also wish we could keep going with the small talk, but I can tell you’re upset about something—”
“I’m not upset,” he says in a dark tone.
“Okaaaay,” I say, dragging the syllable. “Then what it is?”
He’s silent.
“Do you want to talk about last night?”
He still doesn’t speak.
“We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” I say, and that gets a reaction. My stepbrother lets out a sharp breath, sets his own fork down, and leans back against his chair. His arms are folded, the veins in his forearms standing up in ridges.
“You want to talk about it,” he says.
I swallow. “Yeah. Maybe. Why not? Could be fun.”
He hesitates.
I trace a circle on the rim of my mug with one fingertip, and when I finally get the words out, they sound nothing like me: “You, um. You kissed me everywhere, but you made me sleep in the guest room. You said you were going to ruin me, but then you didn’t. So what happened?”
His mouth twitches. Not a smile, not a frown, just a glitch in the matrix. “You wanted me to?”
“I don’t know,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “Maybe. It’s confusing.”
He nods once, like this is what he expected, and then sits there for a long moment, motionless except for the pulse in his jaw.
“I fucked up,” he says, voice so low I have to lean forward to catch it. “I never should have touched you, Kayleigh.”
I grip the mug until my fingers go white. “You already did. Multiple times, I might point out.”
“Yeah.” He says it like an admission. “That was wrong. I’m your stepbrother. We’re related. Plus, I’m way too old for you. I shouldn’t have let any of that happen.”
I stare at him. My heart is thumping so loud I can feel it in my eyelids.
“Well, I think it’s too late for that,” I say in a chipper voice. “I mean, we’ve crossed that bridge already, if you know what I mean.”
He doesn’t agree. If anything, his face goes even more closed-off, every feature settling into a line. “It’s not going to happen again.”
Something breaks in my chest, but I don’t let it show. “Why?” I say, and it comes out almost a demand. “It’s not like we’re actually related, as you pointed out. Our parents got married, what, two years ago? We were strangers before that.”
Trevor finally looks at me—really looks—and the weight of it is a punch in the sternum.
“That’s not the point,” he says. “The point is that I know better. I’ve been an asshole my whole life, and it’s been fucking amazing, to be honest. But even I have boundaries, and I’m not going to do this to you. Your life is just starting, Kayleigh. You have no idea what you’re even doing.”
I flinch, like he slapped me. “Wow. Okay. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
He runs a hand through his hair, lets it drop, looks tired suddenly. “It’s not an insult. I mean, look at you. You’re still wearing my clothes, like you can’t even figure out how to dress yourself.”
“You gave me these clothes to wear,” I say, staring at him. “I don’t have anything else with me. What am I supposed to put on? My dress from last night?”
He looks down and is silent.
“You don’t understand,” he says, and the words are flat, final, a slab of stone between us. “You’re just a little girl.”
I feel my face go red, not with embarrassment, but with something hot and wild and a little bit desperate.
“That’s bullshit,” I say. “I do understand, and I’m not a little girl. I wanted it, Trevor. I wanted you.”
He shakes his head, one hand shielding his eyes like he’s exhausted.
“You’re young. To you, this is about rainbows and unicorns, with a prince who’ll ride in on a white horse and sweep you into his arms. But life isn’t like that, Kayleigh.
Trust me, you’ll get over this. You’ll find someone else.
Someone better. Someone who’s not a fucking creep with a fucked up personality and massive issues. ”
I push back from the island, the stool scraping hard against the floor. “Wow. You’re really going to walk away after what’s already happened between us.”
He looks me straight in the eye. “I am.”
I throw my hands up.
“So what now?”
He quirks an eyebrow. “So you finish breakfast and then leave.”
I stare at him.
“But like I said, I have no clothes with me. So what am I supposed to do at 7:54 in the morning?” I ask, glancing quickly at the clock.
He almost smiles, then doesn’t. “That’s what you wanted, right? The walk of shame?”
My vision goes blurry for a second. I stand up, fists clenched.
“Fine. I’ll get dressed and go,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
He doesn’t stop me. He doesn’t even move.
I stalk down the hallway, every step louder than the last, the cold marble burning my feet.
The guest room looks exactly like I left it—bed unmade, a tangle of sheets and pillows, my dress from last night in a heap on the chair.
I pull it on over my head, not bothering to smooth it.
My hands are shaking so bad I drop my phone twice trying to shove it into my purse.
When I come back through the living room, Trevor is still in the kitchen. He’s cleaned up, the dishes stacked neatly, the counter wiped to a shine. The eggs are gone, like they never existed.
I stop for a moment, and then move on to the front door. My heels are in my hand, and I realize I’m barefoot, but I can’t bring myself to put them on.
I wait, just for a second, to see if he’ll come say goodbye. Maybe he’ll crack a joke, or apologize, or even just look at me.
He doesn’t. The kitchen is silent.
So I open the door, step into the bright, silent hallway, and close it behind me.
The latch clicks, louder than a gunshot.
Fortunately, the elevator comes right away, doors yawning open like a trap.
I step inside and catch my reflection in the mirror: blonde hair wild, party dress wrinkled, heels dangling from my fingers.
Red-rimmed eyes that suspiciously look like I’ve been crying.
This is the true walk of shame, I think.
Not leaving some random guy’s apartment at seven a.m., but leaving your own stepbrother’s, after he’s made it perfectly clear that you don’t mean a thing.
I press my fist hard against my chest and let out one short, ragged breath.
Then I pull myself together, square my shoulders, and watch the numbers light up in the glass.
Ground floor. Lobby. Sunlight blinding, cars whipping by on the street, everyone with somewhere to go.
I step out into the world, and I promise myself: I won’t let him be the thing that ruins me.
Not for anything.
Not even for this.