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Had I said all I needed to say, if I never got to see him again?

Not even close.

So I pushed myself up and out of my tantrum, my heart full of things left unsaid. How I’d miss him, and how I’d pray for him every night. How I wouldn’t be the person I am without him, so he better come back safe.

I forced my knuckles against the bedroom door in three soft raps, expecting the familiar, ‘Yah, come in.’ But instead, I heard nothing. Except the sound of the water running in the bathroom down the hall.

Turning, that’s when I saw it—the bathroom door, standing open several inches.

Now, here I am. Watching him naked, my body teaching me a new definition ofneed.

I know what men look like. Down there. I might be a virgin, but I have the internet. But nothing could prepare me for him. His soapy hand circles the shaft. It stands up almost to his bellybutton as he begins to caress the head in his palm then pump up and down along the length.

His hand forms a sort of fist. Very firm. So erotic.

Up and down, up and down. Shorter strokes now, four fingers flattening just under the tip.

I take it all in. Faster, faster, shorter pumps, fingers gripping now. Tighter, and tighter fingers. I concentrate like I’m studying for finals, trying to remember every movement, every nuance.

Every taut muscle in his body hardens as the rivers of soap and water trickle down his torso and flow over his hand as he works the engorged steel rod in front of him. His chiseled abs flex then release with every breath.

Ohgod.I shouldn’t watch. I should turn away and get right back to my tantrum. Because this isn’t right, not at all.That’s mybrother.Okay, surestep-brother but there’s nothing about Trent that is a step away from what a real brother feels like.

But I am rapt. Held prisoner. Captivated by the size, the shape, the angles of his body. By the pure power that pulses from every inch of him.

Trent’s hand moves so fast it blurs. Greedy, aggressive, and ruthless. Up and down the entire length now, tip to base, tip to base and I hear a sort of wet, flapping noise as he works his flesh along with low, guttural grunts between clenched teeth.

The tingling inside my panties matches his rhythm. Watching makes me dizzy, almost woozy with a kind of desperation. I sink down on my knees, scooting closer, watching every brutal stroke.

My warm, wetness trickles onto the backs of my calves. My own primal instinct bursts into flames. Feelings unknown, unimaginable desire, overtake me from the inside out. I press my thighs together as hard as I can, my pulse thrumming at my clit like a ball-peen hammer.

I keep my eyes on him—him, mystep-brother—as his hand begins to clench harder. He drops his head back into the spray of the shower, opening his mouth as though he needs more air. A soft groan, and his chin drops to his chest.

He sucks in a breath through his teeth, leans forward and plants his free hand on the tile shower wall, elbow locked. His ass clenches tight, his abs flex again, and then his stroking changes. He focuses on the spot just under the swollen tip, hand quivering, fingers tight,pump, pump, pumpagainst the bottom edge of the swollen tip, then a groan, so deep and painful my heart wrenches in my chest.

Then.

Oh god,then…an explosion of thick, hot, white cum. Ropes of it spraying in an arc.

He works the huge head once, twice, three more times, andwith each movement of his hand, another spray of white, thick liquid spurts from the tip.

He looks to the ceiling, his broad chest heaving. I don’t know how much time passes. I’m lost. Floating. Hypnotized.

When he turns off the water, I startle, shaking myself from my lusty, waking slumber as droplets of water trickle from the angles and planes of his body.

I find my feet on shaky legs. Awkward as a foal. Pressing back against the wall, I inch my way to my room on measured tiptoes, closing myself inside, careful not to let theclickof the knob give me away. Before I make it to my bed, I have my hand down my soaked panties, desperate for relief.

I climb into bed. I flick my fingers up and down, back and forth. Finding that spot. Trying to ease thisache. This urge. I’ve played with myself before, but never have I felt so much fire churning inside me. Never have I found the blissful end of the knotting, erotic tension.

I pop onto my knees, rolling up one of my pillows. I wriggle out of my panties, then straddle and spread my myself onto the fabric. The pressure of the pillow makes me imagine Trent’s hard body underneath me. Ink and milk. Strength and softness.

Right andwrong.

Grinding into the pillow, the waking dream returns. A vision. I feel him beneath me, his sea-blue eyes looking up, lust filled and urgent. And I whisper to him,“We shouldn’t, Trent. We can’t,”as I drive my hips into the pillow again and again.

I play out the fantasy, imagining his fingers inside me, that monster of manhood I saw in the shower a moment agopressinginto my innocent opening. I arch and wiggle. Driving myself hard onto the pillow, so hard my muscles burn, my desperate ache becomes a swirl, and then a hurricane.

I find thespot.I thrust and circle with all my weight on the magical, rising arousal.