Page 37 of Trick of the Flesh
I feel exposed.
Our parents pull up next to us in their little sedan, and I shift my gaze away, feeling the pit in my stomach grow.
She knows. That means Dad must know.
“Breathe, Caleb.” His hand inches across the bench to mine, covering mine and giving it a squeeze. “She wouldn’t tell him. Just relax and let’s get through this madness that she forces us to do every year.”
I nod but nearly jump out of my skin when my dad raps his fist against the window. “Come on, slowpokes, or all the good pumpkins will be gone.”
We do the usual—pick pumpkins, take pictures for Celeste, and pretend to laugh at Dad’s terrible scarecrow jokes. But Miguel never stops brushing against me. His shoulder bumping mine, his hand skimming low on my back when he passes behind me, his breath too close when he leans in to “help” me pick up a beanbag for the corn hole board.
Every touch is deliberate.
Every touch says,I own you.
By the time we reach the corn maze, my nerves are fucking fried and I’m on edge.
“Go on ahead,” Celeste says, waving us off. “You boys are faster than we are.”
My heart drops.
Is she giving us space?
Miguel grins, hand settling on my shoulder. “Come on,little brother.”
I swallow and give our parents a forced smile before heading in with him. The maze swallows us whole. Tall walls of corn, narrow paths, voices distant but never close enough.
We’re alone.
“Creepy, huh?” I try to joke, but my voice cracks.
Miguel steps in front of me, blocking the path. “Not half ascreepy as how bad you want me to catch you and cover your mouth so no one can hear you moan my name.”
My mouth goes dry. “Miggy?—”
He plucks a long piece of straw from the ground, twirls it between his fingers, then threads it around my wrist. His grip is light, but the implication is heavy as chains.
“Just think,” he murmurs, tugging just enough to make me stumble into him. “Me tying you up right here, where anyone could find us.”
Heat spikes in my gut. Shame follows right after. My pulse hammers so loud I’m sure he can hear it.
“You’d hate that, wouldn’t you?” His voice drips with mockery. “Or maybe you’d beg for it. Moaning for me with the whole town just a few feet away.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Stop?—”
He laughs softly, low and cruel. “Tell me to stop and mean it. Otherwise…” He tightens the straw until it digs into my skin. “…you’re mine.”
I don’t say it.
We both know I want him.
The silence is its own answer.
He smirks, lets the straw drop, then pats my cheek like I’m some obedient pet. “That’s my good boy.”
My knees nearly buckle. It should be a sin the way he says those words.
Fuck him for having this much control over my emotions.
