I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling in the dark. The quiet in the house is practically deafening. My father and Anja went to bed right after dinner. Or rather, Anja was inebriated and my father escorted her to bed. I don't remember Anja being a lush a few years ago, but maybe my memory of things is just that clouded. What I remember about Gaige seems to be clouding my judgment now, making me think about our past.
Gaige slides his finger underneath my chin, tilts my head up toward his. “Tell me you want me,” he says, his voice low in his throat.
“I can’t.” My voice catches, and I look away from him. “We can’t, Gaige.”
“Because of our parents?” With his other hand, he reaches for a tendril of my hair and tucks it behind my ear. His touch sends a shiver up my spine. It’s all I can do to stand there, unmoving, when what I want to do is to tell him yes. I want to tell him to bring his mouth crashing down on mine. I want to tell him to yank my skirt up around my waist, to thrust himself between my legs and inside me. I want to tell him to throw me down on the ground and fuck me, right here.
But I'm nervous. It's not going to be my first time- that honor goes to my tenth grade boyfriend. But he's the only one I've been with, not like Gaige who's been with lots of girls. What if I don't measure up?
“Of course not,” I say. “We’re not even related.” But I’m lying about the fact that we’re stepsiblings not being a big deal. Maybe it wouldn't be a big deal here in Dallas, but I can’t even imagine the kind of drama it would cause in Manhattan. My mother would be horrified. I can already picture her face going white, the hand that clutches her cocktail glass shaking as she realizes her only daughter is hooking up with the bad boy stepson of her ex-husband. She’d blame it all on my father. I should have known that sending you to Dallas for the summer would be a mistake, she’d say.
I’m beginning to think it was a mistake, too. Do I really think that all of the running around, the late night talks about life outside in the garden and stolen kisses in the hallway, is a good idea?
At least, I feel that way until Gaige slides his finger away from my chin and grips a handful of hair at the nape of my neck, pulling me toward him before I can even register a response. A pang of pain surges through me, but he brings his mouth down hard on mine, muting my yelp, and the pain turns into pleasure as his tongue finds mine.
He’s touched me before, of course. There has been lots of touching – tentative at first, that first kiss outside after we'd stayed up until 2 a.m., drinking beer Gaige stole from the kitchen and talking about life. Half-drunk and delirious from fatigue, I leaned in close to him, touching my lips to his. That was all me, the first kiss. I initiated it. I kissed him. That first kiss was teasing, tentative, joking almost, the kind of kiss that happens when you're unsure what the hell is going on between you.
That kiss was nothing like this one. This kiss is lust and passion and the pent up frustration that comes with all of the kissing and touching that's led to nothing except more kissing and touching. This kiss holds the promise of much more.
I give in to him, my body melting against his, desire flooding every inch of me, flowing through my veins. I’ve wanted this all summer long. I wanted this since the moment Gaige looked at me. No matter how much I’ve tried to deny it, I haven’t been able to stop fantasizing about him. I tried to hate him, I really did. It seemed like it would be easy. But then we became friends. And I found myself liking him.
I’m terrified of wanting him.
And the thought of being with him, completely with him, makes my body stiffen. Gaige feels it immediately and pulls back, holding me at arm’s length. My lips throb from his bruising kiss.
“What?” he asks. “Still think we can’t?”
“I – I’m not sure,” I say, my fingers touching my lips where he kissed me. I’m not sure of anything anymore.
“Gaige!” Anja calls from down the hallway, and I start to step away, but he catches me, his hand gripping my arm with such ferocity that I think he’s going to leave a mark.
“Meet me tonight,” he says.
I shake my head. “No. We can’t.” But I can’t help but ask. “Where?”
“The guest house,” he whispers. “No one is out there. We’ll be alone.”
Even now, four years later, when I think about that night, I can still taste that last kiss on my lips. How fucked up is that?
The phone buzzes again, the screen glowing in the dark. It's a notification from one of my social media sites, and I feel a pang of disappointment that it's not Gaige. Opening my text messages, I re-read the last one from Gaige: Friends with benefits?
Gaige has some nerve asking about my dating life, when he's in Las Vegas right now. He's probably texting me while some girl has her mouth wrapped around his cock.
His cock…
I glance over at the closed closet door, knowing what's behind it. Only Gaige would gift-wrap his fucking dick. I'm sure his idea of a present is to gift-wrap the real thing. The image of Gaige O'Neal, naked, a big red bow tied around his cock, flashes in my head, and it makes me laugh for a second. Except that it's hotter than it is funny.
Heat rushes through my body at the thought of Gaige's touch, and I try to put him out of my head. Thoughts of Gaige don't need to occupy my head. I might have known Gaige years ago but a long time has passed since I saw him last, and he's changed. Hell, I've changed. Neither of us are the same people anymore.
I've matured.
When an idea pops into my head a minute later, I can't help but giggle. What I'm about to do is definitely not mature.