Page 36 of Little Stranger

Yes, I would love to cum with my brother. Maybe he’ll take me somewhere on his motorbike and eat me out on it. Or better, bend me over it?

No—sick. Sick, sick, sick.

Dammit.

“Sure,” I reply. “I’ll make sure I don’t have practice.”

“Great, angel. You’ve always been a good girl. Hurry along before your mother gets bored and burns the house down while trying to bake another cake.”

As much as she loves to cook, she can’t bake to save herself.

I run down the stairs, swearing to myself since I left the shoes I was going to wear behind. I settle for the ones I have on and grab my purse, about to leave just as Malachi walks into the main lobby, his eyes on me as he licks his bottom lip.

“Did you clean out your tarantula’s bed?” I ask as a cover.

He nods, and I shiver. I still hate spiders—I run out of his room whenever he decides to play with the fluffy monster.

Who even plays with a damn spider and finds it fun?

He’s insane.

Mom leaves first, and Malachi’s chest is still rising and falling harshly, his hungry eyes raking down my cheer uniform as he grabs my wrist before I can go after our mother.Come to my room when you get home later.

My smile is blinding, and I bite my lip like my high-school crush is flirting with me. I glance around to make sure no one can see and lift to my tiptoes, giving him a chaste kiss. “We’ll move on to our next lesson,” I whisper. “And I want to hear your voice while I’m bouncing all over your cock, big brother.”

His nostrils flare, and I step back, certain his dick is already getting hard as I skip out of the manor, giggling when I hear my phone vibrate with a text I know is from him.

Malachi: Since you’re teaching me everything else, will you teach me how to say your name? I might fuck the pronunciation up a few times, but I want to know how to say it.

I expected something dirty from him, but my brows furrow as I reread the message, my heart racing in my chest. The warmth it sends through me has me fighting a grin, a blush all over my face. He hasn’t spoken a word once since coming to live with us—but hewantsto say my name. What does that mean?

I reply with a “Sure,” and close off my screen as Mom turns on the radio of her SUV and heads to the mall.

After Mom drags me through far too many stores and has me carrying all her bags, she drops me at Abigail’s house. We cheer together—we have since we were thirteen. She’s the funny one between us. The one who sees the light in every bad situation. She’s also quite short compared to me, and has purple, bobbed hair to match her personality. We’re kind of opposites, but maybe that’s why we’re best friends?

She’s forever complaining that her hair never grows to the length of my brown curls but then she goes and bleaches it every other week, so what does she expect?

She walks out of her front door, huffing and giving her father the middle finger when the door slams shut. “Asshole,” she mutters. “Are you still staying over tonight?”

“Sure,” I reply, even though I want to say no. That I changed my mind. I want Malachi to sneak in through my window, to wake me up, or maybe not wake me up, while he buries his face between my legs.

Thoughts of waking up in the middle of that scene has created the perfect vision in my head—something I’m going to bring up with Malachi. Maybe he’ll be into it, maybe not, but I want him to be the one to live the fantasy with me.

I’m not sure if it means anything, but I’ve always liked it rough. Abbi thinks I’m a BDSM whore, but I’m not. I don’t like gags and whips, but the idea of being chased? Degraded? Taken against my will?

I like the thought of being fucked savagely. To run from them—him. To be terrified while orgasming. I want to be choked until my vision blurs while Malachi fucks me with his fingers—while he forces his cock in either hole and makes me bleed and cry and scream for God.

Is there something wrong with me?

Maybe it’s the family I came from—exposing me to a vile life at such a young age before I was rescued. But surely something like that couldn’t cause me to have such fantasies, right?

Should I ask my brother if he feels the same, since we have similar backgrounds?

No. I think Malachi would been mortified if I ever told him the things going on in my head—it felt bad enough putting his hand to my throat, even if the way he robbed me of air made me even wetter. But then again, he aims to please, and having him destroy me sexually would more than please me.

The hour of practice drags. I want to go home and lie in bed—watch a movie and eat junk food—not get drunk around loads of college kids. We try numerous pyramid stances with me as the flyer, where I’m thrown forward to flip onto my back. Anna nearly drops me, and she apologizes over and over—but I pat her shoulder. “It’s fine. Just be more focused.”

Her cheeks heat.

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