Page 11 of Trick of the Flesh
I remember his hands on me, grinding. The weight of him. The whispering in my ear. “Mine already.”
The words echo in my head, louder than the music downstairs, louder than anything else. I bury my face in the pillow, trying to scream into it. Trying to push it all away.
But the memories come faster now. The fights, the scuffles, the teasing, the laughter. Every moment he’s been close enough to touch, every accidental brush, every stare that lingered too long.
I think about his lips that night before I left for college. Slow, urgent, demanding. Tongue sliding. That moment when the world stopped, and it was just him, just me, and theimpossible tension that had been building for years. I remember the feeling of my dick getting hard, the confusion, the frustration, and the shame.
And now, with him in the mask, grinding against me in the hallway, whispering filth, it all comes back. Stronger. Impossible to ignore.
I can’t tell anyone. I can’t say a word. Dad would never understand, never forgive, and never stop lecturing about morality, about boundaries, and about decency. My friends at college would laugh—or worse, look at me differently because he’s my stepbrother. And Miguel… I don’t even want to imagine what he would do if I admitted how much I crave him.
Though part of me thinks he wants me too. Why else would he push me the way he does?
My hands dig into my hair. I get up and pace again, like movement can burn away the ache in my chest. But it doesn’t.
It never does.
I glance at the basketball shorts on the chair and the jersey crumpled on the bed. Memories collide with the smell of the party still in the fabric, the sweat, the heat, and the scent of him.
I’m angry with myself. How can I be trembling, moaning in secret, remembering and wanting and hating all at once?
I shouldn’t want him.
I can’t want him.And yet my body doesn’t lie, just like it didn’t then, just like it didn’t tonight.
Every memory fractures me. Every touch, every word, every whispered taunt—mine already—reminds me of just how fucked I am.
I slump onto the bed, rocking slightly. I try to ground myself. Breathe. Focus. Count backward from a hundred. But the image of his face, the feel of his weight, the heat of his mouth, and the sin of wanting him interrupts every count.
And then I realize it’s not just a memory anymore. It’santicipation. He’s going to come back for me. He’s always going to come back for me. The thought should terrify me, and it does. But somewhere, in the pit of my stomach, it also makes me ache in ways I can’t admit.
I fall back onto the bed and bury my face in the pillow again. My chest heaves. My hands clutch the sheets. My legs shake. I’m a mess.
A mess that’s entirely his.
And I can’t stop thinking about what will happen when I leave this room.
Because I know he’s waiting.
FIVE
MIGUEL
The night smellslike wet leaves and smoke from the bonfire my stepdad built in the front yard, mingling with cider and pumpkin spice that drifts through open windows of the house. Music pounds from inside, but I don’t hear it.
I hear him.
Caleb.
He slips out the back door, quiet and careful, thinking he’s clever. That’s fine. He can run—but he can’t hide.
Not from me.
In a change of clothes, a black hoodie and some basketball shorts, he takes off. I lean against the shadow of the porch, mask still on. The cool night air bites at my skin, but I barely notice.All I notice is him.The slight rise and fall of his shoulders, the way his steps falter over the uneven ground. His chest is already heaving from his panic, and his scent—sage, eucalyptus, and cedar—wraps around me like a drug I can’t quit. It’s clean and crisp, and I can’t get enough of it.
He glances over his shoulder. I don’t move. I let him see the empty dark, the way the woods swallow him, and the way the night stretches long and silent.
And then I step forward.
