Page 9 of Trick of the Flesh
Instead, he desperately shakes his head, “No.”
It’s not convincing but it makes my cock throb harder at the defiance.
I laugh again, sharp and cruel, pressing one last slow grind into him that rips a moan from his throat before I pull back.
He sags against the wall, flushed and trembling, chestheaving like he’s ran miles. His eyes are glassy, shame and hunger battling across his face.
Shaky hands fidget on my chest, helpless, fists clenching as he fights against what he can’t stop feeling.
“You are mine,” I whisper again, leaning in just close enough to let my fingers tease at the waistband of his jeans, “even if you won’t admit it. Every breath, every tremor says it for you.”
He moans, high and broken, and I finally step back.
I tilt my mask, showing just a sliver of my grin.
“Next time,” I murmur low, certain, “you won’t get away.”
I retreat down the hall, shoes echoing against the wood, savoring the ruin I leave behind. Every tremble, every shiver, every shamed gasp is mine now.
I don’t look back. I don’t need to.
He’s mine, even if he doesn’t know it yet.
I step back toward the party, letting the noise swallow me, letting him stew in what I’ve done.
This isn’t the end.
Tonight is just getting started, and when dawn breaks, my sweet little brother will as well.
FOUR
CALEB
I can still feel it.
Can still feel him.
Every pulse, every tremor from the tension between us. My chest is tight, my stomach is rolling, and my hands won’t stop shaking. I hate myself for it. For trembling like a kid. For letting him get under my skin so easily.
I pace my room, sneakers squeaking against the floor. My jersey lies crumpled on the bed, damp all down the back. Every time I close my eyes, I see his mask, the neon blue X’s, and the way he pressed against me and whispered into my ear.
I hate him.
I hate that I want him.
I slam my fist into the wall once. Pain flares in my knuckles and down into my wrist. But it’s not enough.
I need more.
I need him.
God, why does my body betray me? Why does every nerve ending remember the weight of his chest, the graze of his thigh, and the way his lips brushed my skin like he’d been waiting years for permission I didn’t even know I could give?
And I think about Dad. Just imagining what he’d do if I ever said it out loud—if I admitted to anything. Not that I would.Never.He’d explode. He’d lecture. He’d ask questions I couldn’t answer. Worse, he’d look at Miguel like he was the problem, like my brother isn’t someone I could ever want in this way.
I press my hands to my face.
Breathe.In,hold. Out,control.
