Page 10 of Trick of the Flesh
But it’s no use.
I’m fourteen again.
No—ten. Miguel’s twelve. Stepbrothers by accident, a match made by our parents and circumstance. A built-in best friend, our parents would say.
I remember the first day I realized he wasn’t just another kid in the house. He shoved me into the wall in the kitchen, laughing because I tripped on his skateboard. His elbows were sharp against my ribs, and instead of hitting back, I froze. Something about the way he looked at me then—like he knew something I didn’t—is burned into my memory.
Over the years, every fight, every scuffle, every accidental brush of his hand became a spark. He crowded me, teased me, and dared me. I pretended not to notice, pretended it was all normal sibling rivalry, but I always felt the heat—always felt my body gravitating toward him in ways I couldn’t explain.
Near-kisses, almost-touching. Times when we argued in his room, and I caught him looking at me too long. Times when our hands brushed, and I jerked away, angry at myself for feeling what I felt. He always smirked like he knew something I wouldn’t admit even to myself.
And then that night. The night before I left for college.
I remember it perfectly.
He was leaning against my closet door, with that look in his eyes that made my stomach clench. I was half-packed and sweatyfrom the panic of leaving and the awkwardness of saying goodbye to everyone, and he didn’t care.
He just watched me.
“Ever kissed anyone before?” His voice was soft and teasing, but there was an edge under it. Something dangerous.
He already knew the answer to that. Even though we were both on sports teams in high school, he was way more outgoing than I was. I had issues that prevented me from making moves on… anyone.
I swallowed hard, breathless, heart hammering. “No.”
He nodded, like he’d expected it, like it confirmed some unspoken knowledge. “You’re gonna need to know how to do it in college,” he said in a low and casual voice. “You’ll thank me for this later.”
I wanted to laugh. I wanted to shove him. I wanted to run. But my legs were rooted. My throat was dry. My chest tightened.
And then he moved.
He turned away for a second, like he was going to leave, and I exhaled, relieved, thinking it was over.
But he didn’t leave.
He turned back, slow and deliberate, and pressed his lips to mine.
At first, it was gentle. Hesitant, testing, teasing. But then—Tongue sliding over mine, slow, urgent, demanding, pressing into me as if he’d been storing up years of want.
I froze. My hands found his shoulders, gripping, trembling. My stomach flipped. My legs shook. My shorts tightened in ways I didn’t want to think about.
Then he pulled back, eyes dark and unreadable.
“There. Now you know how,” he said, and turned, leaving the room like it had been nothing, like he hadn’t just set me on fire.
I turned and sank against the closet door, hands on my knees,heart still pounding. Hard under my shorts, confused, ashamed. Confused because I wanted it. Ashamed because I knew I shouldn’t.
I’m curledon my bed, hands wrapped around my knees. Every muscle in me aches. My chest is damp and my stomach flips just thinking about him—the smell of his hair, the scrape of the mask on my cheek, the way his hands pinned me against the wall and made me forget how to breathe.
I want to scream. I want to throw something. I want to cry and laugh and beg.
All at once.
But I don’t.
I can’t. Because he’s my brother. Step or not. He’s been in my life since I was eight. He’s not supposed to make me feel this way. I’m not supposed to imagine him in my bed, on top of me, whispering filthy promises that curl in my chest and make my knees weak.
And yet…
