Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
God, Kayleigh! What is wrong with you!?!?!
I clamp my hand over my mouth and squeeze my thighs together, pulse galloping as my insides moisten.
He fucks her faster, now, his grip turning savage. Cassie’s red nails scratch at the wallpaper. She whimpers, and the sound—so high, so uncontrolled—sends a jolt of electricity down my spine. My nipples pebble inside my bra, hot and aching. I’m suddenly aware of every inch of skin beneath my dress, every secret fold, every damp place.
Trevor groans—low, guttural, not a sound I’ve ever heard from him before. He’s close. Cassie is close. They move together, like dancers who’ve rehearsed the finale a thousand times.
“You’re such a fucking slut,” he pants. “Flashing those tits and pussy at a family wedding. Fuck!”
“I am a slut!” she gasps. “Oooh, yes, I’m your slut, Nate! Oooh Daddy, I’m gonna—” Cassie cries, and then she breaks, body arching, every muscle tight. She shakes, and her face contorts into something wild and obscene, almost like she’s having an epileptic fit. I visibly see her pussy clench on Trevor’s cock, and then my brother shoves into her one last time, hard enough to jar her into the wall as he comes like a beast.
“Shit!” he roars. “Goddamn, your fucking pussy is so tight! Shit shit shit!”
“Ooooh!” Cassie wails, her eyes rolling up so far they show the whites. “Mmmmm!”
They scream and yell, hot jizz spilling out from between where they’re joined, Trevor continuing to pound into her wet cunt with brutal thrusts. Then, after a few moments, he stills, breathing ragged, his fingers locked so tight in her hair she continues to scream.
“Ooooh!” is her cry. “Mmmm, use my pussy, fuck it, Daddy, fuck it! I want it so bad!”
He stays like that for a moment, every muscle carved from stone, then lets go. Cassie pitches forward against the wall, so hard that she hits her head a bit, her dress a crumpled mess. Trevor steadies her, takes a shaky breath, and runs a hand through his hair. He looks younger, softer, in this light. Almost human.
“Fuck,” he bites out, pulling his dick out of her twat with a sucking sound and then palming it. “Damn, that was hot. The wedding is so fucking boring and this is exactly what I needed. Thanks, sweetheart.”
He leans forward to kiss her shoulder as she pants and heaves a bit more. I’m still watching. I haven’t moved because I can’t. My entire body is a live wire, charged and trembling, as I take in the scene before me.
Then, Trevor turns toward the mirror, and for one heart-stopping instant, our eyes meet. Oh shit, oh shit, I’m screwed! But then I realize that he probably can’t see me, seeing that I’m standing in the shadows. Sure enough, his gaze lingers, sharp and intent, and then sweeps away.
That’s my sign. I duck away, silent, breathless, my heart a wild animal. I almost trip over my own feet as I retreat down the hallway. The noises from the room fade into nothing, replaced by the frantic rush of blood in my ears.
Two doors down, I find the bathroom. I slam the lock, lean against the wood, and slide to the floor. My dress rides up my thighs; I don’t care. I put my hands over my face and try to breathe, but all I can see is Trevor, his body, the way he looked at her. The way, maybe, he looked at me.
My heart won’t slow down. My skin burns.
I am so, so fucked up.
But god, I have never felt more alive.
The bathroom is cool and blue, the lighting diffused through frosted glass. I peel myself from where I was leaning against the wall, heart still racing, palms sweating, and for a moment I just stand there, hands braced on the porcelain edge of the sink. My reflection is a stranger—hair slightly wild, makeup blurred at the edges, mouth slack. My cheeks are raw with color, and my pupils are so wide the blue of my eyes is just a rim.
I lean closer, like the right angle might reveal a less fucked-up version of myself. No dice.
The dress is still perfect. Deep-rose, demure, tailored to hide the softness I hate. Golden tendrils fall in careful, face-framing waves. To anyone else, I’m the same girl who walked into the reception two hours ago. Only my eyes betray me, hot and over-bright. There’s a shine there that I can’t wipe away.
I turn on the cold water and let it run, the sound soothing and a little bit sad. I cup my hands under the stream, then press the icy shock to my face, my throat, the nape of my neck. The chill burns away some of the flush, but not all. I run wet fingers over my wrists, pulse thumping hard.
It’s okay, I think. It’s okay. This never happened.