Chapter 1

I’m sitting on the edge of my dorm bed staring at the half-zipped duffel like it’s going to pack itself.

One more pair of jeans. Underwear. That soft gray hoodie I always steal from the laundry when I’m home. My hands keep stopping though. Fingers hovering over the fabric while my brain does that thing it does now—slips sideways without asking.

Three months.

That’s how long it’s been since I last saw him walk out of the bathroom with just a towel around his hips. Hair dripping. Water still running down the line of his stomach. Eighteen and suddenly taller than me, broader, that quiet stretch of muscle across his chest that used to be soft kid-brother stuff. I looked too long. He caught me looking. Neither of us said anything. Just that little half-smile of his and the way the towel dipped lower when he reached for the doorknob.

I’ve gotten myself off thinking about it more times than I can count since then.

Stupid, messy, middle-of-the-night sessions with my hand shoved down my sleep shorts, two fingers working in and out while I picture the exact way the towel clung to the thick shape of him. The heavy hang of his balls. The dark trail of hair leading down. I’ve come so hard my thighs shook and I bit the pillow to keep from making noise the RA could hear. Then the guilt hits every single time—hot and immediate, like I just did something that can’t be undone. He’s my little brother. He’s supposed to be the kid I used to help with homework and yell at for leaving dishes in the sink. Not the reason my clit pulses every time I close my eyes.

Dating’s been a joke this semester.

Two guys. One never texted back after we spent half the night making out on his couch and I finally had to stop his hand before it went further. The other talked about his ex the whole time he was kissing my neck and grinding against me, never even got my shirt off. I kept comparing. Kept wishing the hands on my waist were bigger, the cock thicker, the voice lower when it groaned.

My grades are slipping too.

Papers half-finished. Lectures I sit through without absorbing a single word because some random memory of his bare shoulder or the way he smells after a shower drifts in and wrecks my concentration. I know it’s fucked. I know I’m the problem. Doesn’t stop the dreams.

Last night was the worst one yet.

We were in the basement at home, the old couch, lights off. He had me bent over the arm and he was slow about it—just the head of him pushing in, stretching me open while I begged. I woke up soaked, sheets twisted, my own fingers still buried inside me. Came again just from the leftover throb of it. Then sat there in the dark whispering “what the fuck is wrong with me” until the shame burned off enough that I could sleep.

Now I’m packing to go back into that house for four days. Same hallway. Same bathroom door. Same everything. My stomach feels tight and low, that mix of dread and the other thing I don’t want to name. I zip the bag finally. Check my phone. No messages that matter. Just the family group chat confirming dinner tomorrow night.

I toss the bag in the back seat of my shitty Honda and climb in. Key in the ignition. Engine turns over on the second try. I sit there a second with both hands on the wheel, staring at the dorm building like it might give me an excuse to stay. It doesn’t. I shift into drive and pull out.

The highway hums under the tires and the sky’s already going that soft purple-gray of early dusk. I should be two exits from home by now. Instead my hands turn the wheel without asking and I take the one before it. The sign flashes past—something about a business park and a dead-end service road. I don’t even read the name.

My heart’s doing that stupid stutter it does when the thoughts get too loud.

What if he’s home alone when I walk in. Mom and Dad still at work, or out getting groceries, or whatever. Just him on the couch in those gray sweatpants that sit low on his hips. The ones that leave almost nothing to the imagination when he stretches. I’d drop my bag by the door. He’d look up. That same half-smile. And then what.

I could play it normal. Hug him like always, ruffle his hair even though he’s taller now, ask about classes. Keep my eyes on his face instead of the way the fabric tents a little when he stands. Pretend the dreams never happened. Pretend I haven’t come with his name stuck behind my teeth more times than I can count.

Or I could stand too close. Let the hug last an extra second. Feel the solid heat of his chest against mine and the way his hands settle at the small of my back like they belong there. See if he notices the way my breath catches. See if he does anything about it.

The worst version keeps looping though. The one where I don’t pull away. Where I tip my face up and he doesn’t laugh it off or look disgusted. Where his mouth finds mine and it’s clumsy at first because we’ve never done this, and then it’s not clumsy at all. Hands under my shirt. The thick press of him against my stomach through the sweats. Me whispering that this is so fucked up while I push the waistband down anyway, wrap my fingers around the heavy heat of him, feel the vein pulse under my thumb. Him lifting me onto the kitchen counter the way he used to lift me onto the swing set when we were kids. Spreading my thighs. Sliding into the mess I’ve already made just from thinking about it.

A hot little pulse that makes me shift in the seat. The denim of my jeans is already damp between my legs.

I know none of that is going to happen. I know what I’d actually do if he ever looked at me the way I look at him in the dreams. I’d freeze. Or worse—I’d lean in. And that scares the shit out of me more than anything. Because once you cross that line there’s no uncrossing it. He’s still my little brother. Still the kid who used to climb into my bed during thunderstorms. And I’m the older sister who’s supposed to know better.

Doesn’t stop the ache.

The service road curves past a stretch of empty offices and then opens into a half-abandoned parking lot behind a closed warehouse. No cameras that I can see. No other cars. Just cracked asphalt and weeds pushing up through the lines. Dusk is settling fast now, the last orange strip of sun gone behind the trees. I pull in, kill the engine, and sit there with my hands still on the wheel.

The quiet feels thick. My pulse is loud in my ears. I can already feel how wet I am just from the drive and the pictures in my head. Fingers twitching against the leather like they want to slide down and take care of it right here.

I don’t move yet.

Just breathe.

And try not to think about how close home still is.

I tell myself I’m just going to sit here a minute. Catch my breath. Then I’m reaching for the seat adjuster and sliding it back as far as it will go. The leather creaks. My duffel is still in the back. No one around. Just the warehouse wall and the weeds and the last thin strip of light dying behind the trees.

My hands are slower than they should be when I pop the button on my jeans. Zipper down. The sound is too loud in the quiet. I lift my hips and shove the denim and the plain black panties down together, past my knees, leave them tangled around my ankles. Cool air hits the wet mess between my legs and I suck in a breath. It smells like me already—thick, salty-sweet, the kind of smell that clings to your fingers for hours after. I used to hate that smell. Now it just makes my stomach twist.

I don’t touch yet. Just sit there with my knees parted, looking down. The little strip of hair I keep is dark and damp. My folds are swollen, shiny. I can see the way they part on their own, the pink inside glistening. A slow bead of wetness slides down and disappears against the seat. I watch it go.

When I finally reach, it’s with just the tips of two fingers. Light. Almost careful. Like I’m touching something that might break. I drag them up the seam of me, gathering the slick, and the sound is soft and filthy. My clit is already puffy, sticking out a little from under its hood. I circle it once, slow, and my hips twitch. The sensation is too sharp and too good at the same time. I pull back before it can build.

My other hand comes up to my mouth without thinking. I press those two wet fingers to my lips, breathe in. The smell is stronger up close—musky, a little sharp, pure me. I open my mouth and lick. Taste spreads across my tongue: salt and heat and that faint metallic edge that always shows up when I’m this turned on. I suck the fingers clean, slow, eyes half-closed, and the act itself makes another rush of wetness spill out of me. It feels wrong and necessary. Like if I don’t know exactly what I taste like right now, the rest of it won’t be real.

I go back between my legs. Two fingers again, but this time I press them flat against my entrance and just hold. Feel the way my body tries to pull them in. The heat is ridiculous. I can feel my pulse down there, steady and heavy. When I finally push inside it’s slow—knuckle by knuckle—until they’re buried to the last joint. My walls flutter around them. Slick. Soft. The stretch is nothing compared to what I’ve been dreaming about, but it’s enough to make my head tip back against the seat.

I start moving. Tiny circles at first. The wet sounds fill the car—soft squelches every time I twist or pull back. My thumb finds my clit and rests there, not rubbing yet, just pressure. I think about the towel. The way it hung low that day, the dark shadow underneath, the thick outline of him. In my head he’s standing in the bathroom doorway again, water still dripping down his stomach, and I’m on my knees instead of frozen in the hallway. I open my mouth for him. Let him feed the heavy head of his cock past my lips. The taste would be different from mine—cleaner, saltier, skin and heat. I suck harder on the fingers still in my mouth, pretending.

The guilt is right there, waiting. It always is. He’s your brother. You’re sitting in a parking lot fingering yourself because you can’t stop thinking about his cock. The words don’t stop my hand. They just make the next stroke deeper. I add a third finger. The stretch burns a little, perfect. My wrist starts working harder. In and out. The wetness is pouring now, coating my palm, running down to my wrist. Every time I pull out I can see the shiny strings connecting my fingers to my pussy. I bring the hand up again, inhale, lick from the base of my palm all the way to the tips. The taste is stronger. Thicker. I swallow it and go back for more.