Page 1 of Wanting What’s Wrong

One

Kat

W elcome to the crossroads of terrified and awe-struck.

I press myself against the floral wallpaper of the hallway, wondering in all these years why I never noticed him leave the bathroom door open before? It’s only a few inches, three at most, but it feels ominous and purposeful.

Shower steam billows out into the darkness as I stare into the reflection in the bathroom mirror, salivating over his rippling muscles. His vivid tattoos. The deep V from his abdomen to his hips.

A God’s body.

My step-brother’s body.

Holy heck-balls.

I should walk away.

I make the sign of the cross over my chest though I can’t remember the last time I went to church, and we are Baptist. That doesn’t seem to matter, I need to protect myself from impending sin.

I have to walk away, for all that is good and holy. But I can’t. I can’t take my eyes off him. The brain/body/vagina connection here is strong . It’s holding me in its clenching force field. Because I have never wanted anything the way I want him. Right. Now.

I’ve never loved anybody the way I love him, either.

The practical, reasonable parts of me say, I shouldn’t. I can’t.

But my pulsing Polly Pocket down low says, You should. You can.

The clear glass door hides nothing . He is all carved angles, and muscles, and nakedness.

His masculine body stutters my breath. A tight knot of tension low in my belly and between my legs gathers.

He runs his hands over his hair, down his chest, soaping every hard, broad surface, until one hand takes a trip downtown.

I stifle my gasp, squeezing my inner muscles as the flutter in my core threatens to detonate.

Oh, Lord, so many sins to be forgiven…why now? Why tonight?

Tomorrow, he deploys, so today has been full of heartbreaking lasts.

Our last morning jog. Well, he jogged, I rode my bike.

Our last round of mini golf together. Our last trip to the grocery.

My last afternoon watching him sketching in the lawn chair out back, wishing I had an ounce of his artistic talent.

Our last dinner, with all his favorites.

Mom’s spaghetti and meatballs. Caesar salad.

Black forest cake. And a side of mashed potatoes, too. Extra butter.

All through today, my parents have vacillated between crying and bursting with pride.

My mom laugh-crying half the time, my dad so choked up all he could do was clear his throat and walk away whenever he tried to say anything.

As for me, I’ve been in a daze. Because Trent is my rock. Always has been. Always will be.

Unless he doesn’t come home.

I know that is a real possibility. He is an elite long-range sniper for the SEALS. Hugely important, incredibly dangerous. And, as I discovered late last night, scrolling through Reddit, also a very fancy way to say dead man walking.

Today, none of us addressed that. We couldn’t.

But it hovered over us in the small, cornflower blue kitchen.

At the dining room table where we’ve celebrated holidays and bemoaned another losing season for the Detroit Lions.

The heaviness darkening the living room that’s a near copy of the one on that Archie Bunker show.

An inescapable cliff of grief on the horizon.

Trent and I stayed up hours after Mom and Dad went to their room, finishing the dishes, trying to hold on to every last moment we have together. A day of lasts .

But tonight, I noticed a first. Tonight, he was looking at me, watching me, in a way I’ve not noticed before. He watched me in the reflection of the window above the sink and when I bent over to pick up a dropped fork. But every time I looked his back, his eyes would dart away.

We said goodnight a little before midnight. He opened his arms for a hug and I fell against him. “Love you, Kitty Kat,” he said, like always.

I managed an, “I love you, too,” through a half-strangled sob.

Walking to my room, I focused on the way the rust-colored shag carpet felt under my feet, the way the A/C window unit hissed—anything to distract me from that hard knot in my stomach.

I tossed myself face down on my bed, kicking at nothing, tears stinging my eyes, thinking of all that awaited him. So much danger. So much risk.

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 of need .

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.

Oh god. 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 my brother. Okay, sure step -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, my step-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, pump against 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, and with 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 the click of 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 this ache . 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 and wrong.

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 ago pressing into 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 the spot. I thrust and circle with all my weight on the magical, rising arousal.

The storm inside me goes from a category three to a five in an instant as I think of Trent under me, whispering, “It’s okay, it’s our secret. Just let me in a little bit,” as sounds and words burst from my lips.

The eye of the hurricane is bliss. Pure bliss, as his name mixes with my throaty gasps and moans.

I bite down on my lip, stifling the words and noises that threaten to give me away. My body is on autopilot and waves of the most delicious heat and relief pulse through me. I jerk and thrust myself into the pillow, as wetness gushes onto the fabric.

I collapse onto my side, curling in a panting heap on the lavender and white quilt my Great Aunt Katherine made for me when I was born. Every muscle throbs with the release. I open my mouth, tugging in a long, low breath as a rainbow of sparks flicker behind my closed lids.

I turn my head, laying my cheek on the soft quilt and open my eyes. I freeze. My heart now a lump in my throat. There’s a shadow , beneath the door. Two feet, blocking out the light from the hallway.

The hallway was dark when I came in here…

Oh my god. I wait. Listening. Embarrassment roars through me, making me queasy and chilled.

Whoever it is stays there. Waiting. As if ready to knock.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven …

I hold my breath. And wait. The Taylor Swift poster on the back of my bedroom door scolds me.

After ten lifetimes, I draw breath into my burning lungs, the shadow moves away, and I cover my head with the pillow and scream.