Page 37 of Unwrapped

My face burns, but I do it. I spread my legs, my knees falling open, and I slide my fingers through my wetness. I’m so sensitive that even my own touch makes me gasp, and Vince watches, his hand moving to grip himself through his boxers.

“Tell me what you think about,” he says. “When you touch yourself. What do you imagine?”

I’m trembling, my fingers circling my clit, and the words come out before I can stop them. “You. Behind me. Your cock inside me. Your hand on my breast, your mouth on my neck⁠—”

“Jesus Christ.” He shoves his boxers down just enough to free his cock, and he wraps his hand around himself. He’s so hard his veins stand out, and his strokes are rough, almost frantic. “You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about it. How many times I’ve jerked off thinking about your mouth, your pussy—fuck, Sophie, you’re so wet for me.”

“I am,” I whisper. “I’m so wet for you, Vince. I’ve wanted this for so long.”

His hand moves faster. His breathing is ragged, his abs tightening with each stroke. His cock is slick, his fist sliding easily. It doesn’t take long. In seconds, he’s baring his teeth and groaning. His back arches off the pillow, legs rigid, and the next second he comes—thick jets of cum striping his fist and splattering his stomach. His head tips back, cords standing out in his neck, his whole body shuddering with release.

I bend down impulsively and lick a stripe through the mess on his stomach.

“No, Sophie,” he says. “It isn’t right.”

But his hand finds the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair, and he doesn’t push me away.

I clean him with my tongue, and when I’m done I kiss my way back up his body to his mouth. He kisses me, his hand in my hair, then he pushes me onto my back and moves between my thighs.

This time is different. Slower. Softer. He parts my thighs, guiding me open, and his tongue flicks over my clit in soft, tentative strokes that make me shiver. Every time he pulls back, I can feel my body arching after him. He spends forever teasing little circles, then flattens his tongue and drags it up through my folds, the pressure steady. He lets the pleasure build slowly, until I’m trembling, my hands fisted in the sheets, and when the orgasm rolls through me it’s not a violent crash but a long, liquid surrender that leaves me limp and smiling.

He kisses his way up my body and pulls me against him. His skin is warm, his heartbeat steady against my cheek, and his arm wraps around me, heavy and secure.

“I shouldn’t have let this happen,” he murmurs into my hair. “But fuck, that was amazing.”

“I loved it,” I whisper. “I loved it.”

I settle against him and close my eyes. A moment later, he kisses the top of my head and I smile, already half asleep.

Eleven

DECEMBER 25

Vince

Iwake up with my arm wrapped around Sophie just as the sky is beginning to lighten.

Sophie.

I’ve spent the last few days telling myself that I have to put a stop to whatever is happening between us. And every time I’ve said it, I’ve meant it.

But I keep coming back to the same questions. What am I actually trying to protect her from? She’s an adult. She’s capable of making her own decisions, and she’s made her feelings clear. I can’t keep dismissing them simply because they make me uncomfortable.

Then there’s the question of whether she’ll regret any of this. That’s the one I can’t answer. I’ve been part of her life since she was seventeen, and she’s trusted me to look after her. I know how much that matters. I also know that wanting something badly doesn’t necessarily mean it’s good for you.

Still, last night felt different than what I was afraid of. We talked. She was happy. And for a few hours, I stopped treating every moment between us as a problem that needed solving.

Maybe I’m making excuses for myself. I’ve certainly been doing enough of that lately. But it’s Christmas morning, she’s asleep beside me, and right now I find it difficult to regret being here. I just want to lie here enjoying the warmth of her body beside mine.

I could stay here all day, except that almost immediately my cock starts thickening as I think about her. I shift onto my back carefully, trying not to wake her, and ease out of bed one limb at a time. I grab my clothes from the chair and slip out of the room.

I brush my teeth in the bathroom, and step into the shower, turning the water up until it’s scalding hot as if it can burn the sin off of me. I soap up, rinse off, and step out dripping onto the bath mat and get dressed.

Downstairs, the house is dark and quiet. The living room windows frame a view of the lake, flat and gray under the morning sky, the trees along the shore heavy with snow. I flick on the Christmas tree lights first, and then the garland along the mantel, and finally the wreaths in the windows. I kneel at the fireplace, crumpling newspaper under the kindling and striking a match. The flame catches, licks up through the dry wood, and I sit back on my heels and watch it grow. When it’s going, I add two more logs, and close the screen. Christmas music next. I scroll through the playlist Sophie made last week and select something instrumental. Then I head into the kitchen. I pull eggs and milk from the refrigerator, flour from the pantry, the cast-iron skillet from the cabinet. I’m going to make pancakes for Christmas breakfast because they’re Sophie’s favorite. I whisk the batter until it’s smooth, wash blueberries, set the bacon on a sheet pan in the oven. I start a pot of coffee. Soon, the sky outside is lightening to pale gray.

Images of last night flash through my mind as I work, each one so vivid it takes me out of the present for a second when it hits—Sophie’s body, the taste of her cunt, the way it pulsed when she came. I shake my head and flip a pancake, my cock hard with the relentless arousal I can’t shake off.

I hear her on the stairs just as I’m putting the stack of pancakes in the oven to warm. I lift my eyes to see her in the doorway, and I smile.