Rain pounded the windshield as our car sputtered to death on some backroad. Just great. Just us. Me and him—my step-cousin, the guy who’d gone from childhood nuisance to "Oh God, when did you get biceps?" in the last few years.
"Well. We’re screwed," he sighed, rolling up his sleeves like this was just another adventure.
The motel had one room left.
One bed.
We joked about it—"Don’t snore," "You hog the blankets!" —but when I came out of the shower in just a t-shirt, his gaze turned molten.
"You’re killing me," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.
The air between us crackled.
Then the power went out.
In the pitch black, his voice came rough beside me: "Scared of the dark?"
"No," I lied, heart hammering.
"Liar." His fingers found my wrist. Then my waist. Then—
The storm raged outside. We raged louder.
Fumbling hands. Desperate kisses. The way he growled "You feel too good" as I climbed into his lap. No condom. No regrets. Just heat and hunger and him whispering "Again" before I could catch my breath.
Morning came too soon.
We fixed the car. Drove home. Never spoke of it.
Except—
The way he always volunteers to drive me now.
The way his hand "accidentally" brushes my thigh when shifting gears.
The way he texts "Remember the rain?" when he’s been drinking.
Some mistakes are worth repeating.
And next time?
I won’t pretend to resist.
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