I should be way more worried than I actually am right now, but no one will ever know about these sick thoughts. He’s my brother, and it’s wrong to get turned on by him. Blood or not, we’re still family.
It’s something that should have me running for the hills.
In a way, Iamnervous because I’m torn about how I feel. Maybe he said those things to get me to leave his room—and it worked—but no amount of reasoning can get around his erection.
Goosebumps scatter on my arms at the memory of Ryder’s cold smile when I told him he was my brother after he shoved me off his lap. His normally bright-blue eyes had darkened with arousal, and his grin promised wicked things. It was so unlike him. He’s never looked at me like that. He hardly looks at me at all.
This is what you wanted, the tiny voice in the back of my mind whispers.
I frantically shake my head and race out of my bedroom.
It’s not what I wanted. I don’t wantanyone. I want the freedom to make my own choices. I want a closer relationship with my brother, like what Nova and Olivia have with theirs. As a kid, I wanted Ryder’s attention so I wouldn’t feel alone. As a teen, I wanted to have Ryder’s back and for him to have mine. As an adult . . .
The ghost of Ryder’s rough touch stops me in the hallway. I close my eyes and take calming breaths. In through my nose and out through my mouth.
I recover from the momentary shock and descend the stairs. The house is still dark and quiet as everyone sleeps. I don’t ever wake up this early, so it’s strange being up before everyone else.
I pause at the threshold of the barely lit kitchen, my lips parting in surprise. Ryder stands at the island, a steaming mug of coffee on the counter in front of him. His bare chest is on display, showing off the large tattoo covering the left side of his body. Inky tendrils swirl over his chest and creep up his neck. There isn’t enough light to really make out the details of the piece, but I’m able to glimpse the curvy woman within the smoky swirls of demon faces.
It’s wrong to stare at him, to appreciate his lean physique and toned muscles. But I can’t stop.
He keeps his head bent, his dark hair hanging over his face like a curtain that closes him off from the outside world. His cell phone casts a blue glow on his face, and other than his thumb swiping over the screen, he doesn’t move.
Last night’s events play over in my head, and the sore skin on my ass burns hotter at the memory. This ache is a cruel reminder of how the lines blurred in the snap of a finger.
If I pretend what he did never happened, then maybe Ryder will play along. What’s the worst that can happen? He goes back to treating me like a ghost?
I creep past him so I can make tea. Every muscle in my body tenses, and I’m hyper aware of every noise—or lack thereof. I pull the box of tea bags from the cabinet, followed by my favorite pink mug. Purple ghosts hover near the text that reads Mean Ghoul.
As I make my drink, Ryder doesn’t say a word. I peek at him, but he doesn’t move, either.
I sift through my mind, trying to call back all the times he’s come into the house after waking up. From what I remember, he’s never been a morning person. He always slept late and didn’t show his face until noon.
I stir in honey to sweeten my tea, then carefully place the spoon beside the sink so it doesn’t make too much noise. I bringmy mug with me out of the kitchen. There’s no way I’m sitting in there and risking another confusing interaction with Ryder. I don’t want him asking questions about sex toys or finding another reason to spank me. It’s embarrassing enough he knows about the butt plug and saw how wet I was after he punished me.
I wince as I settle on the large sectional couch in the living room. With the lights off, I have a perfect view of the mountains stretching into the distance. The tops of the trees peek over the deck’s railing.
I shift in my seat to get more comfortable, then sip my tea and doomscroll on social media. Notifications flood my Instagram—followers liking and commenting on my pictures, and haters attacking my looks and weight.
It used to bug me when people pointed out my bigger size, but I stopped giving a crap about what people think about me. Plus-size women are just as beautiful as skinny women, and the faceless accounts on the internet won’t change my mind.
Scrolling through my feed, I come across my friends’ posts from yesterday. Nova’s picture shows her straddling her older brother’s sports motorcycle. I’m sure she had Aiden take the picture since he never seems to mind helping her out.
A smile creeps to my face at how good she looks dressed in the pink leather outfit. The caption reads:Do you think he’ll let me ride it? *smirk emoji* *kiss emoji*
I double-tap the image, liking it to show my support, then type out a comment saying,I think you’d need some lessons first, but go for it!
I scroll down, and Olivia’s most recent post pops up. She’s standing in front of a fountain, wearing a tiny black dress that accentuates her curves. She peers over her shoulder with a sultry expression, and I don’t think Hawk was the one who took this picture. They don’t have a close relationship. He’d likelyburst a blood vessel if he saw her in this tiny outfit. That thought alone brings me so much joy. I’m all for my friends doing what they love, despite their brothers’ opinions.
Olivia’s caption reads,No thoughts. Just vibes. *sparkle emoji*
I double-tap the image with a huge grin and comment,These are the vibes I live for.
I love my friends so much. They got me through school and the hell I went through with Madam Joan. When Mickey stole my first kiss, it was Olivia and Nova I ran to. They were so angry about it that they keyed Mickey’s car in the school parking lot. To this day, he doesn’t know. He shifted the blame to Dahlia and cornered her in the girl’s bathroom when her brother wasn’t paying attention. I didn’t witness Mickey doing it. Otherwise, I would have stopped him. I’ll never forget hearing about how Jaxon barged in there when he heard his sister crying.
I wince at the memory.
I miss the sleepovers and talking shit about Mickey and his friends. We always concocted plans to embarrass the jerks in front of the school, but we never followed through. What happened to Dahlia was proof enough of that, and it was all my fault. If I hadn’t gone to my best friends about what happened, they wouldn’t have keyed his car.
