The storm crashed over the house like a lover scorned, tearing through the night with a fury that rattled the windows and plunged us into darkness. The power cut out mid-sentence, her words about her mundane day swallowed by the void. The only light came from her phone, casting a soft, teasing glow across her face—her full lips parted, her eyes glinting with something dangerous. She was sprawled on the bed, one leg tucked under her, her thin tank top clinging to her curves, the strap slipping down her shoulder like an invitation.
“Your brother said to wait here,” she whispered, but her voice trembled with a heat that had nothing to do with the storm outside. A flash of lightning illuminated her, catching the way she bit her lip, her chest rising and falling too fast. My pulse kicked up, a rhythm that matched the thunder rolling through the walls.
We’d always played this game—stolen glances when my brother turned away, her fingers brushing mine a little too long when she handed me a drink, her laugh low and knowing when I teased her. But tonight, with the wind screaming and the house empty except for us, the rules we’d never spoken felt like they’d burned away. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of her perfume—something sweet and sinful, like ripe cherries and musk.
I shifted closer on the bed, the mattress creaking under my weight. “Truth or dare,” I said, my voice low, rough, barely audible over the rain pounding the roof. Her eyes locked on mine, and the hesitation in them was a lie—she’d already decided.
“Dare,” she breathed, her tongue darting out to wet her lips.
I leaned in, slow enough to give her an out, but she didn’t take it. Our lips met, soft at first, testing the waters. Then she gasped, a small, desperate sound that lit a fire in my veins. Her hands found my chest, nails digging through my shirt as she pulled me closer, the kiss deepening into something hungry, reckless. She tasted like the wine we’d shared earlier, tart and heady, with an undercurrent of guilt that only made it sweeter.
“More,” she whispered against my mouth, her voice a plea and a command. In one fluid motion, she swung a leg over me, straddling my lap, her hips pressing down in a slow, deliberate grind that made my breath catch. My hands slid under her tank top, finding the soft, warm skin of her waist, then higher, tracing the curve of her ribs. Her head tipped back, exposing the line of her throat, and I couldn’t resist—my lips found her pulse, kissing, then nipping, feeling it race under my tongue.
Her fingers fumbled with my belt, clumsy with urgency, and the sound of the buckle giving way was drowned out by a crack of thunder. She laughed, low and throaty, as she tugged my shirt up and over my head, her nails raking down my chest, leaving trails of heat in their wake. I yanked her tank top off, tossing it into the shadows, and for a moment, we just stared—her skin glowing in the flickering light, her bra a delicate lace barrier I was already imagining tearing away.
“You sure?” I asked, my voice rough, giving her one last chance to stop this. But her answer was her hands in my hair, pulling me into another kiss, her hips rocking against me in a rhythm that said she’d thought about this too many times to count. “Don’t you dare stop,” she murmured, her lips brushing my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.
The storm was our alibi, its chaos masking the sounds we made—her soft moans as I kissed my way down her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her chest. My hands found the clasp of her bra, and it gave way with a snap, falling to the floor as I took her in, every curve more perfect than I’d imagined in the guilty corners of my mind. She arched into me, her nails digging into my shoulders, urging me on as I explored her with my mouth, tasting the salt of her skin, the way she trembled when I found just the right spot.
She pushed me back, her eyes dark with want, and slid off my lap just long enough to shimmy out of her shorts, leaving her in nothing but lace panties that did little to hide how much she wanted this. I pulled her back to me, my hands gripping her thighs as she straddled me again, the heat of her pressing against me through the thin fabric of my jeans. “You’re killing me,” I groaned, and she smirked, a wicked little curve of her lips that said she knew exactly what she was doing.
Her hands were everywhere—tugging at my jeans, sliding under my waistband, her touch bold and teasing. When she finally freed me, her fingers wrapped around me with a confidence that made my head spin. I flipped her onto her back, the bed creaking as I hovered over her, kissing her deeply, my hands sliding down to peel away the last of her clothes. She was bare beneath me now, her skin flushed, her eyes locked on mine as she whispered, “Now.”
The first thrust was slow, deliberate, both of us savoring the moment we’d crossed the line we could never uncross.
She gasped, her legs wrapping around my waist, pulling me deeper. The storm roared outside, but it was nothing compared to the storm between us—her nails clawing at my back, my hands gripping her hips, the bed rocking with every movement. Her moans grew louder, more desperate, and she buried her face in my shoulder, muffling her cries as she shattered beneath me, her body trembling with release. I followed her over the edge, the world narrowing to the feel of her, the sound of her, the taste of her still lingering on my lips.
When the lights flickered back on, we froze, caught in the harsh glow—her lipstick smeared across my jaw, my hand still tangled in her hair, our clothes scattered like evidence of a crime. Her eyes widened, but then she laughed, a low, sultry sound that made my blood heat all over again. Instead of pulling away, she slid off the bed, her movements slow and deliberate, and locked the door. “Your turn,” she said, climbing back into my lap, her lips brushing my neck, her hands already reaching for me again.
We didn’t stop, not even when we heard the faint sound of my brother’s voice at the front door, calling out to check if we were okay. She pressed a finger to my lips, her eyes gleaming with mischief, and we moved quieter, slower, every touch electric with the risk of being caught. Her hips rolled against me, her breath hot against my ear, and I knew I’d never forget the way she felt, the way she moved, the way she whispered my name like a secret she’d been keeping too long.
Hours later, when the storm had passed and the house was silent, she slipped out of my bed, leaving behind the scent of her perfume and a single scratch mark down my back that burned when I showered. I thought that was it—one reckless night we’d never speak of again. But then I found the note, tucked into my gym bag the next morning, her handwriting bold and unapologetic: “His practice nights are Tuesdays. Don’t be late.”
Now, every time my brother leaves us alone, she finds a way to “accidentally” brush against me, her fingers lingering, her smile promising more. Last week, she “tripped” into my arms in the hallway, her body pressed against mine just long enough to make my heart race. I’ve started checking his schedule obsessively, counting down the days to Tuesday, knowing she’s doing the same. The guilt is there, sharp and constant, but it’s no match for the heat in her eyes, the memory of her skin, the way she makes me want to risk everything for just one more taste.
And the worst part? I don’t want to stop.
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