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She breathes my name against my mouth.
Her mouth is on mine.
June’s mouth is on mine.
And I don’t push her away. I should, but I don’t, I can’t, I just can’t…
“Junebug, what—”
“Shh. You want this,” she whispers, the tip of her tongue brushing along my upper lip. Her pelvis is flush against mine, arousal pulsing through my blood. “You want me, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
I don’t hesitate.
Why don’t I hesitate?
“Take me, Brant. Touch me.” June pulls her cotton tank top up over her head, her tresses fused with static splaying out over my pillow, her bare breasts highlighted with moonglow as she tugs at my hair, yanking my face down until I’m level with her chest.
No, no, no.
This is wrong. This is so wrong.
A groan spills out of me when I flick her nipple with my tongue, then do it again, and again, until my mouth is wrapped around her breast, my hand palming the other, and she’s writhing against me, gasping for more.
I’m hard.
I’m so goddamn hard.
I want her. I need her.
You can’t have her. She’s seventeen. She’s your fucking adopted sister, you fucking freak.
My mind is shrieking with madness, but my mouth is still moving. Still tasting. Still sucking her tits as she digs her nails into my scalp, my name spilling from her lips.
“Brant…yes, please…” she begs. “Please, wake up.”
Her voice sounds far away as I drag my tongue up her body to the curve of her neck. “What?” I grit out.
“I said wake up.”
I inhale a sharp breath.
My eyes ping open.
It’s silent in the room, save for my ragged breaths muffled by lilac-scented threads of chestnut hair. My face is buried in her tresses, her back to me on the bed, while she’s sound asleep.
The room is dark.
It’s still nighttime.
I was dreaming.
Holy shit, it was just a dream.
Only, the horror doesn’t wane when I realize that I’m spooning her, my hand cupping her breast, my groin pressed into her bottom, jabbing her with a rock-hard erection.
I fly backward, letting her go as if she morphed into brushfire.
