THE MORNING AFTER, PART ONE #2
The words send a shock through my core. I swallow, hard, and feel the ghost of last night at the back of my throat. The memory of his cock—huge, brutal, impossible—lingers like an aftertaste, sweet and savage at once. I want to look away, but I can’t. I want to be brave, but I’m not.
I force myself to meet his gaze. “Are you going to ruin me?”
He grins, slow and hungry. “I already have.”
The words hang in the air, thick and electric. The cleaning crew finishes, the house drops into a hush, and all that’s left is the two of us, staring each other down across the breakfast table, the light high and pitiless above us.
If I breathe in, I swear I can still taste him on my tongue.
I drain the coffee in one long gulp, ignoring the burn.
Hunter returns to his seat, unfolds the newspaper, and pretends to read. But every now and then, I catch him glancing up, the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
He’s right. There’s no going back.
And for the first time since I can remember, I’m not sure I want to.
It’s weird how fast a vibe can shift in the aftermath. One minute we’re sparring, and the next my stomach is folding in on itself, as if every cell in my body has just gotten a memo that it’s time to freak out.
I wrap both hands around my mug, letting the heat soak in, and watch the cream swirl around the rim. My voice, when it comes, is thinner than I want. “We need to talk about last night.”
Hunter’s eyes don’t move from the newspaper, but I see the tic at the corner of his mouth. “We’re talking, aren’t we?”
I press my lips together, trying to work out how to sound sane and also not like a total prude. “I mean, what happened. It was—” I search for a word, but nothing feels big enough or small enough. “It was a lot.”
He turns a page, slow and deliberate, then folds the paper and sets it aside. “Did I do something you didn’t want?” His tone is so even that for a second, I actually think he’s worried, and the absurdity of it almost makes me laugh.
“No,” I say. “You did exactly what I wanted. That’s the problem.”
He considers this, then leans back in the chair, the sleeves of his sweater bunching at the elbows. “I’m sensing you didn’t invite me here for relationship counseling.”
I draw a shaky breath. “We probably do need counseling. Because, in case you forgot, you’re my dad’s stepbrother.”
He cocks his head. “Exactly. We’re not related by blood. It’s not illegal.”
“That’s not the point!” I snap, louder than I meant. My voice echoes a little in the empty kitchen. “It’s—” I lower my voice, glancing at the hallway to make sure none of the cleaning crew is in earshot. “It’s weird.”
He shrugs, as if I’ve just told him it might rain. “That’s your hang-up, not mine.”
“I’m serious, Hunter.”
His gaze sharpens, just for a second, and I see a flash of something—annoyance? amusement?—before it smooths over. “You want to see a shrink about it?” he says. “Go ahead. I’ll even drive you.”
I set the mug down, barely keeping it from slopping over the rim. “You’d go too?”
He holds my gaze, unblinking. “No. I’m not the shrink type. But you go ahead. Isn’t that what girls do? They go to Pilates, drink matcha, and work on their mental health.”
I stare at him, waiting for the punchline, but he just waits, radiating boredom.
“That’s condescending, and I’m being serious,” I say. “We can’t just fuck and act like nothing’s wrong when we’re family. It’s taboo. People go to prison for less.”
Hunter laughs, a real one this time, but the sound is less friendly than before. “I can afford better lawyers than your father, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
I hate that he’s right. I hate how quickly he flips the script. I press my palms to my thighs, grounding myself.
“My dad and Andie did pre-wedding counseling at their church,” I say, careful to keep my tone casual. “It’s less formal. Less, I don’t know, psychoanalytical. Maybe we should try that instead. Would you go to that?”
He raises an eyebrow, as if I’ve just proposed a vegan cleanse. “You want me to talk to a priest about how you sucked my cock last night?”
“It’s not a priest, it’s a pastor. And I never said anything about the—” My words hit a wall and I have to force myself to breathe through the flush creeping up my neck. “It’s just talking, okay? No judgments. Just… I don’t know, context.”
Hunter looks at me for a long moment, the silence stretching until it threatens to snap. Then he says, “Who’s their pastor?”
I blink. “I don’t remember exactly. Some woman.
Pamela, maybe? I’d have to check, but rest assured that it’s all confidential.
The pastor would never breathe a word to Thomas or Andie.
” The memory is faint, but I can picture Andie’s face, bright with that cultish faith-in-humanity glow, gushing about how “Pastor Pam” helped her and my dad work through their issues, which was hilarious because they were fucking non-stop.
It’s a miracle they even had time to talk.
Hunter snorts. “Of course it’s a woman. Only a woman would see this as a problem.”
“That’s sexist,” I say, but there’s no real heat behind it.
He pushes the newspaper aside and steeples his fingers, studying me over the tips. “If you want to play therapy, fine. I’ll do a session. Maybe two. But don’t expect me to sob about my childhood or pretend that what we did was anything but inevitable.”
The words hit me, and for a moment, I want to argue. But instead I nod. “That’s all I’m asking.”
He waits, silent, and I realize he’s waiting for a thank you. I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
Instead, I pull out my phone and open Safari, searching for “Trinity Hope Church Edina.” The site loads with a nauseating burst of pastel and smiling faces. I click the “Contact Us” link and scan for a direct email.
Hunter watches me, that same faint smile ghosting his mouth. “You’re really going to do this?”
I don’t look up. “If it keeps us from burning down the house, yeah. I am.”
He stands, picks up his mug, and moves behind me, stopping just close enough for his hand to brush my hair. He lets it linger there, fingers sifting through the mess, then bends so his mouth is right at my ear.
“I’m proud of you, star girl,” he whispers, the warmth of his breath hitting my neck. “You’re going to make an excellent study in cock worship. Even if you do need a little divine intervention.”
A shiver rolls down my spine, but I ignore it. I keep scrolling, keep clicking, refusing to let him see how much power he still has over me.
He leaves the room, footsteps silent on the tile, and I listen as he disappears down the hall. Only when I’m sure he’s gone do I let my hands shake, just a little, above the screen.
There’s a number for the church office. I copy it into my contacts, then set the phone face-down on the table, as if that can stop the inevitable.
The house is quiet, the mess from last night already erased. The only proof that anything happened at all is the faint, bruised ache at the back of my throat, and the ghost of his voice inside my head.
I take a deep breath and reach for the coffee. It’s cold now, but I drink it anyway.
Tomorrow, I’ll make the call.