1. Do I Really Need A Chaperone? #3
“You can’t be trusted, he says, voice flat as a hammer. “Not right now. You’ll humor me. Hunter’s arriving Saturday because he couldn’t get away any sooner. So you’ll have two nights to yourself. I trust you can manage.”
Something behind my ribs pinches tight. I glare at him, but his eyes—ice blue, same as mine—don’t flinch.
And then it’s over, like that. Thomas gives me an awkward hug before picking up his suitcase.
His hands are dry and huge, the kind of hands that used to catch me when I’d jump off the diving board, the kind that once could carry me in their span.
He’s not tall, but he fills a room anyway, and as he walks out I can feel the loss of him as a vacuum, the air pulled clean away.
From the front walk, I hear Andie’s voice, high and smooth, and then the click of the front door behind them, shutting with a sound that fills up the house like a bell.
I stay in the foyer for a while, unmoving, the marble ice cold under my feet, the air humming with nothing.
Hunter.
My father’s stepbrother.
The last time I saw him was last summer, at a family dinner at Chez Tomas.
He showed up late, wearing a navy suit that looked like it was tailored for a Bond villain, and a white dress shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the edge of a tattoo over his heart.
He’s handsome in the way some men are—deliberate, curated, but there’s a savageness in it that even expensive tailoring can’t touch.
His jaw is sharp, his hair blacker than black.
I remember being aware of him in the same way you’re aware of a thunderstorm coming: ozone, pressure, the sense that something is about to break.
The memory unspools whether I want it to or not.
It was at my grandparents’ house, Thanksgiving, a year ago.
The house was packed with relatives, all of us stuffed into the living room for the inevitable vacation slideshow.
My grandmother, a tiny sprig of a woman with an iron will, had just come back from a Mediterranean cruise, and insisted on narrating every single slide.
Hunter arrived last, with a girlfriend in tow—curvy, brunette, with big tits practically falling out of her top—and they took the seats at the back, slightly elevated above the rest of us on the carpeted step.
I sat in front of them, close enough to smell his cologne: pepper, cedar, something bitter underneath. The lights went out. Grandmother’s voice echoed in the dark, and the slides clicked, one by one, each scene bleeding blue and white across the wall.
Halfway through Santorini, I heard a sound: the low, metallic rasp of a zipper. At first I thought I’d imagined it, but then I felt the bench tremble, the faint rhythm of movement behind me. In the flicker of the projector, I risked a glance over my shoulder.
The girlfriend had her hand in Hunter’s lap, moving slow, and he stared straight ahead, perfectly still except for the tension in his neck.
There, under the blue glow, I saw it. His cock, pulled out, thick and enormous, glistening with her touch.
It had to be at least ten inches, with glorious veins running up the sides.
He didn’t look at her. He didn’t look at me.
He just watched the slideshow, and when his hand brushed her thigh, the motion was so calm, so controlled, it sent a pulse of heat up my legs.
I turned back, cheeks flushed. Holy fuck, was that woman giving him a handjob during our family slideshow?
With other members of my family around? While my grandma talked?
My pulse hammered, even as I heard Hunter let out a little gasp, and then the girlfriend a small giggle.
I even heard some whispered moaning, if that’s possible.
But it was over in a few minutes. The lights came back.
I snapped my head forward, cheeks burning so hot I could feel the sweat at my hairline.
After, when I saw him in the kitchen, he gave me a little smile that said, I know you saw.
I know you wanted to see my dick, sweetheart. And it was true.
Now, standing in the cavern of my father’s house, I feel my knees go weak.
Hunter.
That ten inch cock.
The bulging veins and moist, dripping tip.
He’s going to be sleeping down the hall from me for two weeks.
I can’t think. I force myself upstairs, purse forgotten, and shut the door to my room.
I kick off my shoes and drop to the bed, face first, the duvet cool and powdery under my cheek.
My body feels restless, electric, like my skin is made of raw silk and lightning.
My nipples are tight as I clench my thighs together.
I can’t stop thinking about what he looked like, what he must feel like, how easy it would be to crawl into his lap and straddle him, let his hands close around my waist and guide me until I can’t breathe.
I don’t let myself touch, not yet.
Instead, I bury my face in the pillow and scream, once, just to get the sound out. The echo bounces back at me, soft and thin. Down the hall, no one is home, not even a ghost.
He’ll be here Saturday.
I start to count down the hours.