Six
Kristmas
I ‘ve missed this.
Being with Mad like this. Hanging out. Laughing and joking. I know it won’t last. I know that when I wake up tomorrow morning he’ll be back to his usual self, alternating between glaring at me and ignoring me. Acting like the fact that he’s been forced to breathe the same air as me for the past three years should be classified as cruel and unusual punishment.
But maybe now that I understand why, I can do what I can to minimize the damage. Maybe if I make an effort to be less annoying, Mad won’t be so bothered by me.
I look up at him, from where I am, beside him, head resting on his shoulder, his arm stretched out behind my shoulders. It’s dark, the only light in the room flickering from the television mounted on the wall above his dresser. “Mad?”
“Hmm?” He doesn’t look at me when he says it, too engrossed in the movie to give me more than his cursory attention.
“Do you want me to switch bedrooms?” Saying it out loud, I know that I should. That if having his privacy constantly invaded by his dorky step-sister is the problem, then the obvious solution is for me to give him more privacy.
“What?” He looks down at me, brow furrowed, movie forgotten. “Why?”
“Well, I mean…” What seemed completely logical ten seconds ago seems stupid now. “That way you can have your own bathroom again and—I mean I never even asked you if minded sharing it. I just assumed—”
“No.” He flicks his gaze away from mine, pinning it to the screen in front of us.
I lift my head from his shoulder and study his profile. When he doesn’t elaborate, I push forward. “It’s not a big deal. I can just—”
“I said no.” I watch the muscle that runs the length of his jawline pulse and clench. “Just drop it, okay?”
His terse dismissal tightens the back of my neck. “I’m just trying to figure out a way to make this whole thing easier for you.”
This whole thing.
Having me constantly underfoot.
Having me in his space.
Having me as a step-sister.
Even as I say it, I know it’s a lie. I’m trying to make it easier for me. Trying to find a way to get him back. To make it the way it used to be, when Mad would smile at me and I knew that he belonged to me, as sure as I know my own name.
I watch him force his face to relax while his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat a few times like he’s trying to clear it. Finally he looks at me, his dark eyes hooking themselves into mine. “I know.” He frowns, the muscle in his jaw ticking again for a few seconds before going still again. “But it won’t help.” He looks away from me. “It won’t make a difference.”
“Oh…” He pretty much confirmed my worst fear. That things between us are irreparably damaged. That they’ll never be the same again.
I should get up.
Go to my own room. My own bed.
Let him go.
But I don’t want to.
I can’t.
Not yet.
So I turn my head and lower it to rest my cheek on his shoulder but it’s not enough. I know I shouldn’t but I want more. I need to get closer to him and stay there for as long as he’ll let me.
When I wake up it’s dark. The house is quiet and I’m still in Mad’s room.
In his bed.
I’m turned into him completely. Molded against his side, my arm around his waist. Cheek pressed against his chest.
He’s awake, the arm he had stretched behind my shoulder is angled across my back, holding me against him, its hand resting on my hip, the blunt tips of his fingers tracing a line against the place where the waistband of my sleep pants meet bare skin, soft, lazy sweeps that make it hard to breathe.
As soon as Mad realizes I’m awake, the fingers playing across my hip fall still and his heart takes off at a gallop, thumping in his chest, so hard and fast I can feel the frantic pulse of it against my cheek. Lifting my head to look at him, I see the firm angle of his jawline. His chin. The slope of his throat. The bob and scrape of his Adam’s apple against it. Lips parted slightly, breath pushing between them, fast and shallow.
When I feel his hand close over my wrist I don’t fight it. When he looks at me, his eyes finding mine in the dark, I don’t look away.
Moving slowly, Mad guides my hand to the elastic waistband of his shorts. Pushing my fingers past it, he watches my face intently, his gaze dropping to my mouth when my lips part as he wraps my hand around the base of his shaft.
He uses the loose grip he has on my fingers to guide them up the thick, hard length of his cock, from root to tip. Uses his thumb to push mine across his head to gather the steady stream of pre-cum that oozes from its tip. Groans, deep in his throat, when I do it again, giving the head of his cock a gentle squeeze before stroking my fist down the length of his shaft, coating it in his arousal.
My brain tells my hand to let go. Stop touching him. That his bedroom door is open. That our parents are right down the hall. That this is wrong. Every single thing about it, but my hand isn’t listening. It doesn’t want to stop. It keeps moving. Stroking and pumping, mesmerized by the feel of smooth, soft skin stretched over the rock-hard length of him. By the way he’s looking at me. By the fact that this is Mad.
My Mad.
He groans again, the sound of rumbling, low and tight in his chest. His head kicks back against the pillow, chest pumping as he flexes his hips, thrusting himself into my grip, silently urging me to keep touching him. To stroke him faster. Harder. The snap and pump of my hand up and down the length of his cock is deafening in the quiet, but I still can’t stop. Still don’t want to.
Shutting down the part of me that knows this is wrong, that I shouldn’t want this—want him—I finally let myself feel the truth.
I don’t want things to go back to the way they were between us. I don’t want my best friend back.
I want this.
I want him.
I always have.
Mad’s entire body goes stiff and his jaw clamps around itself so tight I can hear his teeth grinding together in an effort to keep his mouth shut while his cock jerks and spasms in my grip, hot spurts of semen lashing against his bare stomach while I stroke his through his orgasm until he finally closes a hand over my wrist, signaling me to stop.
I feel my face go up in flames and I jerk my hand back. I sit up, move away from him while he crunches upward, just far enough to snag the neck of his T-shirt from behind, dragging it off over his head to reveal wide, powerful shoulders that flow into a thick, muscular chest. Tightly packed abs that taper down into narrow hips. The thick cock jutting out from between them. Like it knows I’m looking at it, it gives another hard jerk and I avert my gaze while he uses his shirt to wipe up the mess on his stomach. Readjusting the waistband of his shorts, he puts himself away before reaching for me again.
I’ve seen half-naked Mad before. Stripped to the waist, doing yard work or coming in from the garage where he works out on the weekend, so I know what he looks like. That he has the most drool-worthy body I’ve ever seen but this is different. I’m not stealing quick glances when he’s not paying attention. Peeking at him through the curtains of my bedroom window. This time he knows I’m looking.
Wants me to.
I watch silently while he cleans off my hand, taking more time and care than necessary before he finally lets me go.
He still hasn’t said anything.
Neither one of us have.
Moving to the side of the bed, Mad stands and crosses the room, tossing his shirt in his dirty clothes hamper on his way to the bathroom. As soon as the door snaps closed, I bolt.