June, age 19
I’m awoken by an ache between my legs and empty sheets.
Both left by him.
By Brant.
Sunlight filters in through the crack in his pale blue curtains, the only color pop in an otherwise sterile, barren room. A chill whispers down my spine as I sit up straight.
I can’t help but wince.
I’m sore and bruised all over, but his absence hurts the most. Maybe it was my own idyllic fantasy that we’d wake up gloriously entangled, whispering words of love against swollen, kissed lips, and begin a beautiful new chapter together—surely, it was. But I thought, at the very least, he’d still be lying beside me when the sun breached the morning sky.
Inching my way from the bed that smells of his favorite soap, I search the dimly lit room for a spare t-shirt I can slip on until I make it to my own bedroom to change. I fell asleep naked in his arms last night, safe and satiated, not regretting a single moment of what happened between us. I fell asleep with a smile.
How many people experience their first time with someone they love so purely? So unconditionally? So entirely?
Not many, I’d reckon.
Unfortunately, by propriety’s standards, the tradeoff is that my first time should have been with anyone other than him. And I know that’s probably eating at him right now.
I shuffle from the bedroom in one of Brant’s t-shirts and crack the door. Brant is perched in front of the living room couch, scrubbing away at the cushions with a rag and cleaning supplies. He doesn’t notice me right away as I slip from the room and tiptoe closer, fidgeting with the ends of my hair. He’s too focused, too absorbed in his task. When I’m only a few feet away, I squeak out, “Good morning.”
He startles, his head popping up. Brant straightens as his arms drop to his sides, one hand fisted around a sudsy washrag. He pulls his lips between his teeth while tortured tawny eyes give me a quick sweep. “Hey.”
I stare at him, unblinking. Waiting for more.
He remains silent, then looks away.
“What are you doing?” I force out, my breaths sticking to the back of my throat like paste. I take a step closer to him. “I, um… didn’t expect to wake up alone.”
Silly girl fairytales.
“Oh…” A dolesome look crosses his face. Something penitent. “Sorry, I… I didn’t want to wake you. You looked peaceful.” When I glance down at the washrag, he gives it a light squeeze and follows my stare. “I was just cleaning up.”
Cleaning up.
My eyes trail to the soapy stain on the couch where Brant was trying to remove a blot of blood left behind. Blood, as a result of my severed virginity.
He’s cleaning up the mess we made.
Emotion swells in my chest, causing it to feel tight and smothered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin your couch,” I say softly. Meekly.
Pathetically.
Brant sucks in a sharp breath, his expression turning even more haunted. His gaze flicks over me, like he’s taking a moment to absorb my words. He’s letting them in; letting them fester.
Then he drops the rag and closes the gap between us, reaching for me. He pulls me straight to him, until our foreheads crash together and he’s holding me in a stormy grip. “Don’t,” he whispers, his hands clinging to my waist. “Don’t you dare apologize for anything.”
“I feel like I need to. You’re upset… I can tell.”
“I’m upset because of what I did—not you. Never you.”
My hands lift, settling on his denim-clad hips. “You did exactly what I wanted you to do,” I confess in a soft breath.
“Hurt you? Steal away your innocence? Make you bleed?”
“Heal me. Accept my innocence as a gift I gave you. Make me come… twice.” His eyes darken, flashing with lingering heat from the night before. “I wanted you to make love to me, and that’s what we did.”
“That wasn’t…” His eyes squeeze shut as his fingers tighten around my waist. “I lost control. Your first time is supposed to be slow and sweet, tender and kind. I took you like a fucking animal, June. I couldn’t stop, and I hate myself for it.” He blows out a breath. “Are you on the pill?”
“Yes. Mom got me on a prescription a few years ago, just to be proactive.” Tears prickle my eyes. My heart aches, seeing him so fractured. So conflicted and torn. I raise a hand, cupping his jaw as I brush my thumb over his bottom lip. “And I wish you wouldn’t feel that way. It was perfect.”
“Don’t say that,” he rasps out. His tongue pokes out, tasting the pad of my thumb, sending shivers down my back. “Don’t allow me to believe you wanted it like that. Especially when you’re standing in my arms, dressed only in my t-shirt, still smelling like last night’s sins.”
I arc into him, a whimper slipping out when he catches my thumb between his teeth. “Believe it,” I tell him. “It’s the truth.”
Brant groans as his hands start to move, grazing up the back of my thighs and palming my bare bottom, our foreheads still melded together, our lips a mere whisper apart. He pulls my pelvis flush against him as he says, “Then lie to me.”
Lie to him?
Lie to the man who has only ever shown me truth?
True strength… true meaning… true love.
No.
I can’t. I won’t.
Biting my lip, I shake my head.
His grip on me slackens with a defeated exhale. Brant takes a sizable step back and dips his chin, looking like he’s lost a battle he already knew he couldn’t win. When our eyes meet on a somber beat, he asks, “Why didn’t you tell me you were still a virgin?” The question sounds pained. It sounds as if my choice of chastity has physically wounded him.
My shoulders shrug with an air of flippancy, even though I feel anything but. “I wasn’t aware you didn’t know.”
“I heard you, June. I heard you tell your friends you were having sex three years ago.”
“I…” My mind reels back in time, trying to pinpoint his reference. A hazy memory of sitting in a three-way circle with Celeste and Gen on my bedroom floor on a summer afternoon comes into focus. I had lied, of course. All of my friends were having sex, so I wanted to jump on the bandwagon. I wanted to feel mature and important, just like them. “I made up a story to fit in. I didn’t know you heard me.”
He stares at me like that trivial moment has ruined his whole life.
“Brant…” I step forward, I try to close that gap between us again, but he backs away and my heart sinks. “It’s not important, okay? It’s not.”
“How can you say that?” He swallows, shaking his head. “Were you… actually saving it for me? Because a bombshell like that sounds a hell of a lot different today than it did last night, in the heat of the moment.”
I curl my fingers into fists and drop my eyes to the floor. “I don’t know, Brant,” I murmur. “Maybe. But it wasn’t something I was ever consciously aware of. All I knew was that no man ever made me feel the way you have, so it never felt right. I wanted to wait for someone special.”
“But why would you give it up to me when you know we can never be together? That’s not special, June. That’s heartbreaking.”
Now I’m the wounded one. A breath catches, and I swallow it down. “I know it’s complicated, but—”
“Complicated?” Brant exhales a deep breath, linking his hands behind his head. He spins away from me, then pivots back. “This is more than complicated. This is impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible when two people love each other.”
“You’re not supposed to love me like that,” he says, breathing hard, jaw ticking. “It’s different for me. I entered your life already knowing you weren’t my blood. I conditioned myself to believe you weren’t my sister for dark, painful reasons—for survival—but you…” Brant’s eyes glaze over with his own grief. “You were born believing I was your biological family. You had no reason to feel otherwise.”
“You don’t know how I’ve felt. You couldn’t possibly.”
“You’ve spent your entire goddamn life calling me your brother,” he argues, tone escalating.
“Because I had to.”
“No. Because it’s true.”
I shake my head. “Stop trying to pick apart my feelings like they’re yours to dissect,” I say through the lump in my throat.
“Stop trying to twist this into something acceptable when you know damn well that I’m your broth—”
“You’ve never felt like my brother!” I shout, temper flaring, cheeks burning hot. I stare at him with a heaving chest, balled fists, and swiftly falling tears. “Theo was my brother. You’ve only ever felt like… mine.”
He opens his mouth to speak, but only silence kisses the air.
It amplifies with each strangled breath we take; with every word still dangling carelessly around us.
The balcony door is cracked open, inviting in the songs of sparrows, the chatter of passersby down below, and the rumble of street traffic, but it’s all drowned out by the sound of my heart begging a boy to hear its truth.
Brant deflates before me, rubbing his hands up and down his face with a ragged sigh. He glances at the couch, then at the wall clock over my shoulder. Then back at me. “I have to leave for work,” he says simply. I’m not sure if he’s putting the conversation on hold, or eclipsing it indefinitely.
He finally looks away and moves around me, traipsing to the foyer area to slip on his shoes. I watch him. I watch him through bleary, puffy eyes, wondering if he heard my painful truth.
I receive my answer seconds later.
“June…” Brant hesitates with the door cracked open, glancing at me over his shoulder. He taps at his pocket, his keys jingling. He falters. And then he says, “I wish you would have lied to me.”
He walks out and shuts the door, and I collapse with tears onto the stained couch.
“Come to New York with me. Please?”
I sit across from Celeste at the ice cream parlor as we lick our respective cones at one of the outdoor patio tables. The request turns the warm summer breeze into icicles. “You know I can’t.”
This is Celeste’s final day in town before she flies back to her shiny new life in New York City. We wanted to get together one last time before we go back to texting and Facetime.
“Why not?” She swings her braid over her opposite shoulder with a frown. “I know you needed some time off last year after everything that… happened.” A sympathetic smile peeks through. “But I think it’s time, June. Dancing has an expiration date, and it would kill me to see your dreams expire.”
I look down at the small puddles of melted strawberry ice cream that dripped onto the wooden table. “I’m not that girl anymore. I don’t know what I want to do.”
“That’s bullshit,” she counters, leaning back in her plastic chair. “You were born for this. You were by far the most talented performer in our class, and everybody knew it. Camilla wrote you a shining recommendation letter.”
“Yes, well, Camilla didn’t bury her brother, then fall for…” I trail off, choosing my words wisely. “Someone she shouldn’t have.”
Celeste nibbles on her lip, her eyes squinting in my direction.
She knows about Brant.
She saw that wanton kiss at Prom with her own eyes, and so did Genevieve. We’ve hardly spoken about it since, but they both grilled me relentlessly that night.
I’d shut down, though.
I hadn’t known what to think.
And clearly, I still don’t.
“This is about Brant, huh?” Celeste deduces, licking around the edges of her cake cone. “You have feelings for him?”
My cheeks flush. “You could say that.”
“Is it mutual?”
I hesitate.
Is it?
It sure felt mutual on Thursday night when he made a woman out of me, brought me to two orgasms, then held me in his strong, loving arms as I fell blissfully to sleep.
But it’s Sunday now, and we’ve hardly spoken since our heated morning-after discussion. Brant has been working grueling hours at two separate jobs, and in the passing moments between us, there has only been casual pleasantries that border on avoidance.
I worked yesterday at the diner, schlepping around hot plates of food, along with my miserable personal baggage. I did the bare minimum for tips because smiles are hard to muster when it feels like your whole world is weighed down by melancholy.
“It’s a mess,” I opt with. “Truly a mess. I love him, Celeste… I love him so much, but I don’t know how to love someone I’m not allowed to be with.”
Empathy shines back at me as she tilts her head. “No one does, girl. They don’t write manuals, or offer college courses for that kinda thing.”
A sad chuckle slips out. “You don’t seem too horrified by this development.”
“Oh, please. I’ve spent the last year talking Gen off an emotional ledge after she hooked up with her stepbrother, Colton. Her family basically disowned her, then shipped Colton off to the military.”
My blood runs cold.
I knew about their relationship, but not about the family fallout.
When she sees my face go white, she adds, “Not that your situation is the same or anything. I’m sure your parents will be cool… assuming they don’t know yet?”
“No, they don’t know. I’m certain they’ll be anything but cool. This only started to escalate a few days ago, so I’ve hardly processed it myself.”
“Escalate?”
Her sandy blonde braid catches a sunbeam when she shifts in her chair, and I zone out for a moment, lost in the golden glints. I shake my head, blushing. “Well, um… we sort of, uh…”
She raises a perfectly shaded eyebrow.
“We slept together,” I choke. “Thursday night.”
Celeste’s lips pucker, and she mouths a silent “oh.”
“I-It was completely unplanned. Shocking, really. He feels awful, and I feel… well, awful that he feels awful, and I suppose—”
“Was it good?”
Her words cut me short. I stare at her for a quiet moment, blinking, and I lick my lips, dipping my chin to my chest. “It was incredible.”
A smile spreads on her pretty face. “That’s my girl.”
I can’t help but laugh, while also dying inside of embarrassment.
“Listen, June… I’ve been a big part of your life for a while now, and trust me when I say that Brant is one-in-a-million. He’s protective, he’s loyal, he’s kind. He would literally do anything for you. Plus, he’s smokin’ hot.” She pops the final bite of cone into her mouth, taking a moment to chew. Then she finishes, “Honestly? The smartest thing I ever did was dare you to kiss him.”
“I’ll never forgive you for that,” I glare.
“Not only do you forgive me, but you thank me daily.” She winks, sitting up and leaning forward on her elbows. “Tread carefully. Delicately. Gen said her parents walked in on them having sex, so that sort of set the stage for an ugly breakdown. Don’t recommend that route.”
I cringe. “I assure you that’s not in the plan.”
My phone buzzes beside me on the table, and it’s almost as if my mother knew I was thinking about her.
Witchcraft.
Mom: Let me know which days you’re working this week. I’d love to schedule a shopping and lunch day! Xoxo, Mom
My stomach rolls with dread as I swipe away the message.
“Brant?” Celeste inquires.
“My mother.”
Her nose scrunches up. “Well, I wish I had better advice for you. All I can say is follow your heart—knowing that there might be a few casualties along the way. You have to weigh the good and the bad,” she tells me. “No relationship comes without a fight, but it has to be worth fighting for. It has to be worth all the sacrifices you’ll inevitably have to make.”
Ice cream drips onto my hand, and I realize the whole thing has turned into a melty mess. I toss it into the trash can beside me and lick away the sticky remnants, stewing in Celeste’s words.
She interrupts my thought process a final time. “Tell me, June… do you actually want to give up on dancing, or does pursuing your dream make you feel like you’re giving up on him?”
My chest squeezes. “I miss dancing,” I admit, swallowing down the sting in my throat. “But… I know I’ll miss him so much more.”
“Maybe you need to fly free for a little while. You’ve spent your entire life tethered to him; too afraid to spread your wings. Maybe distance would be good for both of you.”
Anxiety pools in my gut at the mere thought of moving nearly one-thousand miles away from Brant. “I can’t, Celeste. Brant and my parents are all I have left… I can’t just leave them.”
“They’re not all you have left.” Her hand reaches across the table, landing atop mine. She sends me a tender smile. “You still have you. And you matter, too. You matter a whole hell of a lot, okay?” Giving the back of my hand a gentle squeeze, she concludes, “Don’t forget about that girl I’ve grown to love like a sister. She has big dreams, and those dreams deserve the same consideration.”
I wipe my sticky hands along my denim shorts, sending her a small smile.
I do have big dreams.
I’m just not sure which one is bigger.
After spending the afternoon with Celeste, I made a pitstop over to my parents’ house for dinner, still too on edge to face Brant. It was a nice visit, despite the fact that I literally had to practice every sentence that came out of my mouth in fear of accidently spewing out, “Brant and I had sex!”
I came close to overstaying my welcome, lollygagging until nearly ten P.M. when my father did his dramatic yawn and slapped his knee—a gesture we’ve come to decipher as, ‘I love you but please leave now.’
As I shuffle into the apartment after ten, I notice Brant’s shoes in the entryway, alerting me he’s home from work. My stomach pitches. He’s not in the main living area, so he must be hiding in his bedroom, knowing I’ve gone directly to my own room the last two nights.
But tonight will be different.
Tonight we’re going to talk.
When I’m finished sucking down a water bottle, I trek the short distance to his closed bedroom door and tap lightly on the frame. I hear him moving around on the other side until his footfalls approach and the door pulls open.
My eyes flare with authentic joy when I see him; from his tired hazel gaze, to his mop of dark curls, to his plain white shirt and navy athletic shorts. Regardless of our predicament, regardless of the messy web we’ve gotten ourselves stuck in, he’s still Brant.
And I’m still June.
“Hi,” I murmur softly, wringing my hands together. I monitor his expression, studying him for a reaction—hoping I don’t see disappointment or irritation shining back at me. But all I see is that same troubled look I saw on Friday morning, and I have no idea what’s worse. “Are you busy?”
He shakes his head after a long beat. “No. I was about to text you to see where you were… I was getting worried.”
A smile crests. “I had dinner with Mom and Dad. I figured you were working late.”
“I just got home a little while ago.” He leans against the edge of the door, giving me a onceover. “Everything okay?”
“Yes. Mostly.” I’m fidgety and restless as I shift my weight from one leg to the other. “Can I come in?”
He swallows. “Sure.”
Stepping aside, he allows me room to enter, and I send him a grateful nod as I pass through. “I hope I’m not inconveniencing you. I don’t mean to intrude.”
“You never inconvenience me, June.”
I dally nervously near the edge of the bed, sparing it a quick glance that reminds me of the last time I was in it.
Naked. Entangled.
With him.
My smile is strained when I pop my head back up, finding his eyes from a few feet away. He’s searching me for clues. He’s drinking me in as the muted lamplight illuminates my jitters. “I don’t like the way we left things on Friday.”
Brant’s eyes flicker across my face for a moment before he dips his head. “I don’t either.”
“So, let’s pick up where we left off.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Sure it is. I’ll go first.” I clear my throat with a flair of dramatics. “Hi, Brant. I love you. I think we should be together,” I say, lifting my chin with as much resolve as I can muster. “Your turn.”
He blinks.
His fingers splay at his sides, then ball into fists. Tension ripples off of him as he takes a step toward me. “Hi, June,” he says back. “I love you, too. I want nothing more than to be with you, but that’s not possible because we were raised by the same parents and everyone we’ve ever met sees us as siblings. And that kills me. It absolutely guts me. So, I’m trying to figure out where to go from here, after succumbing to a weak moment we can’t take back, and it seems like every single scenario I come up with ends with me hurting you. And that kills me, too. I’m trying to figure out which scenario hurts less than all the others, and I haven’t been able to do that yet.”
His eyes are latched on mine as he stops to take a breath, his feet still moving forward. “On top of all that, I can’t stop thinking about that weak moment. I can’t stop replaying every shameful, delicious second of it—the sounds you made, the way you tasted on my tongue, and how it felt being inside you for the very first time.” I remain frozen to the mottled carpeting, my whole body trembling as he inches closer. He’s toe to toe with me when he finishes, “It felt like I’d give my dying breath just to have one more weak moment with you.”
Everything goes still as his words collect in the back of my throat, and I’m afraid that if I breathe, I’ll choke. The way he’s looking at me sends goosebumps down my spine and butterflies to my belly. The hazel of his irises gleam bright in the tungsten glow of the room, a conflicting mix of love, anguish, and immeasurable heat. They remind me of warm apple cider with a shot of bourbon.
We don’t speak.
We let the tension swirling around us fuel the flame.
But when I gather the courage to reach for his hand and sweep my thumb along his knuckles, I might as well have tossed a bucket of ice water over us.
Brant looks away.
He takes a step backward, and I drop my hand.
Rubbing a palm to the nape of his neck, a sigh of defeat falls from his lips as he closes his eyes. “That’s not what I meant to say,” he murmurs under his breath.
“Maybe it was what you wanted to say.”
Brant slowly lifts his eyes to mine, his hands fisted at his sides, like he’s trying so hard not to touch me. His nostrils flare. “We have to stop, June. I can’t do this to you,” he says. “I think it’s for the best if you move out.”
No.
No, no, no.
“You won’t break me, Brant,” I insist. My feet inch forward, desperate to shatter his walls. Desperate to change his mind. “I’m not as fragile as you think I am.”
“That’s not what I’m afraid of.”
“What are you afraid of? Hurting me?”
“Worse.”
I frown, trying to read between the lines. “What’s worse than hurting me?”
He swallows, shaking his head a little, inhaling a troubled breath. Our eyes lock as he replies, “Ruining you.”
A gasp leaves me.
“I’m terrified of ruining you for the poor bastard who has the unfortunate burden of loving you after me; that when you finally let him kiss you, all he’ll taste is my ashes. When he brings you to his bed, it’s my name you’ll scream. And that’s not fair. You deserve so much more than to live your life in the shadow of this… curse.”
My eyes water as my legs start to shake. Every word slices through my skin, detonating just beneath the surface until I’m burned-out and broken down. A little cry spills out as I say in a strangled voice, “Brant… it’s too late.” I watch as his forehead wrinkles, his brows pulling into a frown. He waits for my next words, eager and anxious. “You’ve already ruined me.”
“Don’t…” His own eyes glisten with painful tears as he whips his head back and forth. “Don’t tell me that.”
“It’s the truth,” I confess. “I’ve always belonged to you. Always. I was still a virgin because I was waiting for a man who had the ability to even come close to the way you make me feel. Someone who could chase away my fears with a forehead kiss. Who could sing away my nightmares with a lullaby. Who was both my comfort and my courage, who held my heart in steadfast hands, and who looked at me like I was the most precious thing in this world.” I watch his tears fall as freely as my words. My heart pounds and aches as I step right up to him, clasping his hands in mine. He doesn’t pull away this time. He just stares at me with a tight jaw and wet cheeks. “But you see… he doesn’t exist. There is only you,” I say, squeezing his palms. Pulling him closer. “You ruined me the day you met me, Brant Elliott. I was born yours.”
His hands lash out, gripping me around the waist and yanking me to him before I can take my next breath. “Jesus, June,” he grits out. “You have no idea what you’re asking of me.” Bruising fingers dig into my hips as his face lowers to mine, our lips a centimeter apart. “Once I get a taste of what this could be, I won’t be able to stop.”
I arch into him, my palms raising to clasp his jaw. The heat from his body burns into me, turning my skin flush. Turning any remaining sensible logic into kindling. “Good.”
“You’re going to regret this one day.” Brant drags his fingers up my spine, fisting them in my hair as he tugs my head back, towering over me, eyes blazing. “And that’s going to be such a damn tragedy.”
I cry out when his hot mouth steals mine, and his tongue plunges past my teeth. He walks me backward until my calves meet the bed frame, our tongues twisting as we moan together. His t-shirt crinkles between my hands as I cling to him, one of my legs lifting to curl around his thigh.
He grabs it, holding me flush against him as he kisses me with fevered urgency. Then he lets me go, giving me a light shove until I collapse backward onto the mattress. Reaching behind his back, Brant gathers his shirt in one hand and pulls it up over his head, tossing it to the floor.
My eyes round at the sight of him; sleek and rigid, muscled and defined.
Strong arms that have kept me safe my whole life.
Broad shoulders that have carried my added weights.
A chest that holds a warrior’s heart.
Our eyes remain tethered as he crawls over me, and my hands slink around his back, grazing his shoulder blades. When he dips his head, his mouth finding the tender curve of my neck, I arch into him, my fingers crawling up to his hair. His erection grinds against me while his tongue laves up my neck, teeth nicking my skin until I whimper.
“June,” he whispers on a ragged breath, his mouth moving up to my ear and nibbling the lobe.
I wrap my legs around his hips and buck upward, seeking more friction. “Junebug,” I correct. “Call me Junebug.”
Something in the air shifts, and he stills. An angsty sigh hits my ear, sending a shiver through me.
“Brant…” I keep writhing, my body pleading. “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t move right away. He just hovers over me, his warm breaths tickling my ear as his chest rises and falls against mine. Then he slowly lifts up on his elbows, his eyes hooded as he stares down at me.
I blink. “What is it?”
“I can’t call you that anymore.”
My grip on him tightens. His words slice into me, one by one, piercing my skin and bruising my heart. “It’s what you’ve always called me.”
“I know,” he swallows, his gaze agonized. “That’s why I can’t.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do.” He rolls off of me, landing on his back beside me on the bed. His shorts are still tented with the evidence of his arousal. “You don’t understand what this is doing to me. It’s tearing me apart.”
A lump rolls across my throat, and I lean over, tentatively running a featherlight touch over his erection. “Brant, please…”
Brant snatches my wrist, and in a quick flash, is on top of me again. The agony in his eyes shifts to something almost volatile. “I called you Junebug beneath our childhood treehouse as we played with ladybugs and read storybooks,” he growls out, his voice low. Laced with warning and a tinge of self-loathing. “I called you Junebug at your first dance recital, when you could hardly pronounce my name, and kissed my cheek, leaving your mother’s lipstick behind. I called you Junebug when I cradled you in my arms after a nightmare, and when I gave you piggy-back rides through the backyard, and when I sang you sweet lullabies as you bounced innocently in my lap, your pigtails tickling my chin.” His teeth clench and bare as he stares down at me, my wrists clasped above my head, tucked inside his unyielding grip. “And you want me to call you that now? When I’m about to fuck you?”
I suck in a shallow breath, my fingers curling as he presses me into the mattress. My chin lifts. “All of those things share one thing in common,” I murmur as tears gather at the corner of my eyes. “And it’s not what you think.”
He shakes his head, rejecting the very notion.
I sigh. I’m not sure what else to say because I see it in an entirely different light.
All I do is raise my hips, rubbing against his erection until his eyelids flutter with the prelude to surrender. And when my head pulls up from the bed to steal a kiss, catching his bottom lip between my teeth, his lust-laced groan is the sound of defeat.
Brant dives into me, ripping my shirt over my head and fumbling for the button on my jean shorts. I squirm beneath him, wriggling free of the denim when he yanks the zipper down, and then I curl my fingers into the hemline of his shorts and tug them over his hips. His boxers follow, then my underwear, and we’re just a heap of desperate, shaky limbs, exposed skin and bare bones, clinging and stumbling as we tangle further into this web.
He fists my hair again, my neck and breasts arcing into him as his mouth finds both. I gasp and mewl beneath his hot tongue, my hand reaching between us to grip his cock and guide him into me. I can’t wait. I need him to fill me.
“God, June,” he moans, his teeth nipping my jaw as he slips an inch inside. Then with one hand in my hair, and the other dragging downward to clutch my hip, he slams into me all the way.
I cry out, biting my lip.
He starts thrusting.
Hard, fast, punishing.
He fucks me like he’s trying to wash away everything sweet and good between us, until we slip into the darkness, where our sins are overlooked.
Where permission lies in wait.
Where we fit in.
Our bodies are half draped over the bedside, my feet scraping against the carpet for leverage until Brant slides me up the bed and climbs to his knees. My hips pop up from the mattress as he spreads my thighs wider and pounds into me, his fingertips bruising as they dig into my skin. The box spring squeaks in time with my shameless whimpers. His own moans fill the room as our skin slaps together, his cock ramming into me over and over.
“Fuck,” he grits out, one hand slinking up to rub my clit, the other still wrapped around my thigh. “I want you to come. I want you to come so fucking hard.”
“Brant… God…” I cry, my body angled so he’s hitting me just right. So deliciously deep.
“You’re so wet. You’re soaking me.”
My hands clutch at the bedsheets, fisting them in my palms. “Ohhh…” I’ve been reduced to unintelligible sounds and whines as my body shakes and tremors with need, the swell of an orgasm building. I can hear how wet I am as he ruts into me with reckless abandon.
I glance down to where our bodies are pounding furiously together, watching him slide in and out of me, his muscles flexing, a look of savage possession glowing in his eyes.
My orgasm unravels in an instant.
I arc and bend and break, scratching at the bedsheets, then at his arms as I moan his name with my release.
Brant collapses over me, his hips still pumping hard and fast, hands grasping my cheeks. He buries his face into the crook of my neck, groaning against my sweat-slicked hair, chanting my name as his own orgasm claims him. His thrusts become clumsy as he empties into me with a satisfied grunt of pleasure, filling me in every possible way.
I hold him as he comes down.
I wrap my arms around his back, link my wrists, and I just hold him.
I’m not sure if it’s the gesture itself, or the aftershocks of his climax, or the heaviness of it all—but Brant breaks down. He falls on top of me, slightly to the side so I don’t bear the brunt of his weight, and lets out a ragged, painful sound near my ear. He gathers me into his arms, so close, so vulnerable, and he trembles beside me as emotion funnels through him and warm tears rain down on my shoulder.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, my fingers twining through his air. “I love you, and I promise it’s okay.”
He inhales a shuddering, tearful breath, pressing a kiss to the tender skin just below my ear, riding out the final waves of grief. We stay like that for a while, Brant still sheathed inside of me, as our bodies remain fiercely entangled.
“When the day comes and you regret this,” he murmurs softly into my neck, his voice cracking, “I pray you can forgive me.”
My chest tightens. My muscles lock up, and all I can do is cling to him tighter. “I’ll never regret this,” I tell him. I kiss the top of his head, his damp curls tickling my nose. “Never.”
I’ll never regret you.
