Game Over
pairing: gator tillman/f!reader wc: 12.7k tags: pseudocest (stepsiblings), slow burn, pining, bittersweet ending, SMUT (masturbation [m & f], grinding/dry humping, spit kink, blow jobs, tit fucking, vaginal sex) a/n: yeah idk sorry &&
Descending the stairs, you pad into the kitchen, internally lamenting the fact that you have a companion for the evening.
You and Gator are both in the house tonight, as his dad and your mom had gone out for this new thing she's insisting they stick to: Monthly little outings on the same date as their wedding anniversary. She started the month after they tied the knot, and so for the last two months, on the 11th, your parentals stepped out on the town. Normally, you'd have the house to yourself. Normally, it was fine and actually preferable, because normally, Gator was on duty anyway, so you got to just do whatever you wanted (normally, make something sweet and gooey for yourself).
This time, though, it's pouring rain and Gator happens to have the night off. So while he's watching TV, you're in the kitchen trying to bake something. You pull out a mixing bowl, chocolate chips, eggs, and sugar—and then you realize there's no brown sugar and the cookies you were craving are just a pipe dream, slamming the fridge shut as you replace the eggs.
Stomping out of the kitchen, you drop down onto the couch next to Gator, already nursing a beer, and glance over at him, scowling, like he's the one who used all the brown sugar.
"Fuck's yer problem?" he asks, glancing over at you. The both of you are in your early 20s, only just met a few months ago when your parents decided that remarriage was the path they wanted to walk down together, and it was, unfortunately, lust at first sight. He's annoying but god damn he's hot, and you know by the way he always lets his gaze settle on your chest that he feels the same way about you. Except for the way he hates you for infringing on his space, and the way you hate him for being a total arrogant prick. Normally, you get on well, but being stuck in the house with him always riles you both up.
You decide to answer him honestly, even though he always teases you for baking. "Someone used all the brown sugar," you say, pushing yourself back into the couch cushion.
"So?" he asks. "Make somethin' else. Make brownies."
You quirk an eyebrow at him knowing what goes in chocolate chip cookies but not brownies, then shrug. "I don't want brownies."
"Geez," he huffs, sipping his beer. "All y'ever do is complain."
"Yeah, because you're always around pissing me off."
He looks over at you, and for a second you think you see hurt in his eyes, before he scoffs. "Yer just an uptight lil' prude."
"Prude?" you repeat, because that's the part you take offense to. He may be right about you being uptight.
"Y'heard me," he says. "You could do well t'relax a little." He offers you his beer. "Here. I gotta go get another one anyway, you finish this'n off and I'll grab one fer you too."
You scowl but take it and knock back the rest of what's left, which isn't much, but you just drinking out of his bottle seems to sate him somehow. He disappears into the kitchen and comes back with two new, cold bottles, twisting the cap off of yours first, then his.
"Let's play a game," you say, mostly so he'll stop thinking you're prudish. Playing a drinking game seems like a way to, maybe, rectify that.
"What, like chutes 'n ladders?" He chuckles at his own joke.
"No, like never have I ever," you say. "You know how to play, right?"
He scoffs again. "Yeah, let's play it, so I die of alcohol poisoning and that beer goes unsipped." He points at the bottle in your hand.
"It won't go unsipped."
Gator flattens his lips into a line and looks at you. "You wear a fuckin' old lady nightie to bed. It's goin' unsipped."
You narrow your eyes at him. "Never have I ever had sex," you say, and he opens his mouth to make a comment, before you add, "in a car," and take a sip of your beer.
He rolls his eyes and takes a sip too. "Low hangin' fruit," he says. "I know you saw me in my cruiser last week."
"I drank too, asshole," you say, flipping him off.
"Guess ya did," he says, smacking his lips. "Never have I ever fucked in public. Y'know, where anyone could see, not just in a car." He waits, watches.
"Are all of these going to be about sex?" you ask.
"You started it," he counters, and you just hesitate, then take a drink. His eyes widen, because he doesn't.
"Where?" he asks.
You bite your lip. "That's not part of the game."
"Fine," he says, clearly disappointed. "Go already."
"I'm thinking!" you say, tapping your index finger against your beer bottle. "Ok, never have I ever stole something."
He rolls his eyes and makes an annoyed noise. Both of you drink, and he pushes himself up to sit a little more upright on the couch.
"Never have I ever fucked raw," he says, and this time, he drinks right away, not waiting for you.
Hesitantly, you waffle a little with the bottle, but then lift it to your lips and take a small swig.
"No shit," he says, grinning. "Look at you."
"Shut up," you mumble, glancing at him. He's smirking, watching you, his hazel eyes shining with mischief, and the beer is warm in your belly. It's not enough to be drunk, not even enough to be tipsy, but it feels nice and you like Gator's approval, even though you're old enough to know better. But hell, you're unsupervised, and you know for a fact that you've both been dancing around this unspoken, stupid thing since you and your mom moved into his house a few weeks ago after the wedding.
"'S your turn," he says, gentler than before.
You meet his eyes and lift the bottle to your mouth, not drinking yet, but knowing you're going to after your next statement. "Never have I ever wanted someone I probably shouldn't." You swallow the mouthful of beer before what you said even really registers to Gator.
"Never have I ever," he says, voice low now, "thought about you." There's a slight, subtle emphasis on the second half of the sentence. He doesn't need to really complete the thought, doesn't need to specify what he means. It's clear when he lifts the bottle to his lips.
You take a sip, too, realizing that your brilliant idea of playing a drinking game to show Gator you weren't a prude actually made things ten times worse.
Not that it mattered, because you didn't get to speak your next prompt for the game—“Never have I ever wanted to kiss you.” Just as the thought crossed your mind, the front door opened, your parents walked in, and you shot up off the couch like you'd been burned. You practically ran up the stairs and disappeared in your room for the rest of the night, bristling a little when you heard Gator's bedroom door close an hour or so later, knowing he was separated from you by just some sheetrock and about fifteen feet of empty space.
It's not late, really; not late enough to start getting ready for bed, but you go about your routine anyway, putting in your Airpods, listening to vaporwave on low volume to get your brain to stop moving so fast while you change into your something to sleep in—pointedly choosing a loose old t-shirt and a pair of shorts because after his nightie comment, you're not going to be caught dead in it for at least a week. You head to the bathroom, finish up your routine in there, brush your teeth, and return to your bedroom to find a text message waiting for you when you unlock your phone.
It's from Gator.
sorry if that was weird
You climb onto your bed, slipping under the covers before you reply.
—what?
lol what just happened
—no, I meant what part was weird
oh uh u know that last part
—did you mean it?
i drank didnt i
You leave him on delivered, putting your phone down on your nightstand, laying back and covering your face with your hands when it buzzes again. You pick it up, read it (u did too), then swipe and tap at the screen to turn on Do Not Disturb.
You place it right back on the surface, facedown this time, resuming hiding your face with your hands and sighing. You remain still, laying flat on your back, the music still in your headphones washing over you. Eventually, you lower your hands from your face and pull your covers up higher over your chest, arms resting over your stomach beneath them.
The standing lamp is still on in the corner, casting its warm yellow light onto your face, and you tip your head back a little, pressing into your pillow, eyes closed. Never have I ever wanted someone I probably shouldn't. Never have I ever thought of you. Your sentence was clear, meaning transparent. His, though.
The heft of the latter part of the sentence. The way he'd pressed those syllables down, giving them weight that told you he meant something more than what he was saying.
Maybe he hadn't meant it that way, how you were taking it. But from where you were laying you weren't sure how else he could have meant it. Thought about you in the dark in his room; thought about you in the quiet, secret times when the house was silent, the only noise the wind outside; thought about you when his mind drifted to somewhere it wasn't supposed to, somewhere he couldn't come back from.
You lower your hands from where they're folded on your stomach down the expanse of your body, fingertips timidly brushing your thighs, curling into the hem of your shorts, tugging at them as you squeezed your eyes closed, the beat of the music fading from one song to the next, your heart syncing to it as you let your mind drift to the only place it reasonably could: Gator.
Biting down on your lower lip—you could be quiet, unlike him, something else you know but have filed away to ignore—you swallow the lump in your throat and let your hand slide back up to the waistband of the shorts you had on, a pair of soft terrycloth things you had in the back of your underwear drawer because they're too obscene to wear anywhere other than in the privacy of your home.
Gator had admitted it first, but you'd drunk too. Except the only times you'd ever thought of him were when you could fucking hear him through the wall, because he would stifle the sounds he was making on a good day and forget about it completely on the bad ones. But you'd only ever listened, thinking, trying to fall asleep without considering too much of what was going on over there. Never touched.
The notion that he'd possibly—almost certainly, now—been thinking of you changed everything. You let your hand disappear into the shorts, bypassing your underwear completely and moving straight to your folds, fingers slipping through them, wet already. You shiver as you touch yourself, because now you're thinking about whether Gator imagined you touching yourself too, or you touching him, or him touching you.
That's the one you latch on to, your fingers slipping from your clit down to just barely press against yourself, teasing entrance, loosing a quiet sigh just as the light changes on your face, something suddenly casting a shadow on you. Your eyes blink open, and you see Gator standing above you, snapping his fingers right in your face though you obviously can't hear him.
Embarrassingly, you loose a short, startled scream, pull your arms out from under the covers to yank the headphones from your ears, one hand slipping as you try, your fluids coating your fingers. He seems to realize exactly what was going on a bit too late, and you know that the heat you can feel spreading over your face is mirrored on his.
“What the fuck, Gator?” you ask, tossing the Airpods to your nightstand, the rhythmic pulsing still emanating from them, but faintly. “Don't you know how to knock?” Harried, you pick up your phone and pause the music.
“I did,” he says, taking several steps back from your bed as you sit up, holding the covers tight to your front, trying to surreptitiously wipe your hand clean on your duvet. He tries not to watch you. “Obviously not loud enough.”
“You—please leave,” you say, certain now that he knows what you were doing, so the only way you can save face is to keep him from discovering that you'd been thinking about him fingering you.
“You didn't text me back,” he replies, ignoring your request, and you take a moment to steady yourself, drawing in a deep breath and surveying the room. Your door is closed, the light is still on, you're half aroused and your stepbrother is hovering over you. The man had only been in your life for three months but he'd been a thorn in your side ever since you'd met, getting buried even deeper in as the days went. Now was no exception.
“What else was there to say?” you ask. “We both—” You bite the words back, trailing off.
“We both,” he repeats, but his words have an underlying meaning: The two of you feel the same. Now you each know.
“If you're staying,” you snap, “can you get the light?” You ask because you're feeling entirely too visible with it on, too exposed. He glances at the switch by the door, rounding the foot of your bed to turn it off, but it's already angled down. “No, that's—nevermind,” you say, because that switch doesn't work, never has as long as you've been in the house. Without even thinking, you push yourself up and out of the bed, and make it five steps across the room before you realize how cold your legs feel. Because you're wearing the tiniest shorts known to man, the entirety of your thighs exposed, and you can only pray that they didn't get turned any which way or twisted to hang off you crookedly when you were starting to pleasure yourself.
You hear Gator's sharp intake of breath, but you're already up, crossing to the lamp, unable to hide now. Five more steps get you there, and you switch off the lamp in the corner so the only light in the room are the blue moonbeams shining in through the window.
“What happened t'the nightie?” Gator asks, and you feel your cheeks warm again. Bracing yourself, you turn to face him, and discover that he's shamelessly staring at your legs in the sorry excuse for shorts that you have on.
Self-consciously, you reach to flatten them down against your legs, and thankfully, you can tell without looking that they've stayed straight around your hips. “Nothing.” You pull on the hem of the t-shirt, trying in vain to provide yourself a little more cover, but it barely works, and all it does is tighten the fabric over your breasts.
“You doin' that on purpose?” Gator asks, eyes trained on your tits now, and you don't understand what he means until you glance down at your front. The t-shirt is taut over your chest, nipples perked up and poking through the fabric from the chill, and you release the shirt at once, but the damage is done. Gator's staring straight through you, his hazel eyes darkened in the gloom.
“No,” you protest, and he just nods, then huffs a quiet breath.
“Can we pretend y'were?” is his next question, and you forget about your own clothing situation—or lack thereof—for a moment, and instead look at him. His hair is hanging loose over his forehead and he's got on a tight black t-shirt over a pair of sweatpants, but the moment you let your eyes sink down over his form, you can see that he's chubbing up. It makes your core clench, and you turn your head so you physically cannot look at him any longer.
You don't answer, not right away, and just move back closer to the center of the room, only maybe three steps away from him where he stands beside the door, watching your every move.
Turning your face up toward his, you inhale slowly through your nose, letting it out through your mouth. He's watching you closely. Fire is burning in your stomach.
“Never—” you say, and your voice catches; you clear your throat nervously, a small little sound. “Never have I ever been caught t...touching myself.”
Gator stands perfectly still, the words hitting him, the understanding seeping in. “I ain't got nothin' fer you ta drink.”
You hold his gaze.
“'N yer lyin', anyway,” Gator says. “Ain't ya, cheater.”
You nod.
“How about a different game,” Gator suggests. “How about... Truth or dare. Can't really cheat at that.”
“Truth,” you say, and he steps away from the door, his hands slipping into the pockets of his sweats.
“Didja pull yer shirt down on purpose?” he asks, and you watch as his gaze falls from your eyes to your breasts again.
“No,” you say, and he lets it go—it was obvious that you didn't in the first place. “Truth or dare?” you prompt him.
As you watch, he changes his stance, flexing his hips just a little bit forward, the sweats pulling tight over his front this time, the outline of his cock more pronounced; he wants you to notice. “Truth.”
“Are you doing that on purpose?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he answers, simply, like he knew you'd ask the obvious question and wants his turn again, bad. “Truth or dare.”
Your fingers curl into the front of your shirt. “Dare.” You watch his lips curl into a lascivious grin.
“Pull yer shirt down again,” he says. “I wanna see.”
Your hands are already there, already fisted in the fabric. It would be easy for you to do what he asked—no, challenged you to do. That's the game. You pull your shirt down, the collar stretching across the back of your neck, the thin cotton molding easily to the curve of your breasts, nipples pressing points through it again. It's too dark for him to see through the white shirt properly, but you know he probably could if you'd left the light on. Gator takes a step closer to you, but you speak before he can. “Truth or dare.”
“Truth,” he says, and your grip falters for just a second—you didn't expect a second request for truth, but you recover.
“When was the first time you thought about me?” you ask, and you can tell he didn't expect that from you either, but he answers easily.
“Night of the rehearsal dinner,” he says, no hesitation. “In the hotel. After dinner when we went down t'the pool.”
You remember—most of the wedding guests were older, all with adult children around your age who hadn't wanted to sit around with their parents in stuffy lock-off rooms when there was an indoor pool and hot tub downstairs in the hotel your parents had booked for the wedding party. The gaggle of twenty-somethings had meandered down to the pool, the girls sitting on the edge, dipping their toes in, and half the boys had commandeered the hot tub while the other half got rowdy, splashing and bothering the girls. Gator hadn't gotten within ten feet of you that evening, and now you understood why, as he kept talking.
“Y'had on that fuckin' striped thing,” he said. “Little one piece. Cut real...real high on the sides.”
You nodded. “Halter top.”
Gator visibly shuddered. “Fuckin'...legs for days, back out, hair tucked up under a fuckin' Twins hat.” He met your eyes, and it hit you hard when he did. “I seen ya in'at number,” his voice wavered, “jerked off in the shower after. Came so hard I was seein' fuckin' spots.”
“Dare,” you said, without even waiting for him to ask. He held your gaze.
“Get back in bed.” You hesitated, but stepped away from him, climbing onto your bed, sitting facing him. “Truth.”
“Gator...” you said, but he only repeated the word. Your breathing was shaky, the shorts clinging to you; a wet spot was forming in your underwear, you could feel it as you moved. “How long were you in here before?” you asked. “Watching me.”
A smirk tugs his lips to one side, but he doesn't let it out. “Not long,” he says. “Texted ya, waited a couple minutes fer an answer, didn't get one, walked over'n knocked, waited, then came in.” He licked the corner of his mouth. “Was gonna give ya shit fer fallin' asleep so early, 'nd then ya...fuck.” He swallows, throat bobbing, and he takes one hand out of his pocket to adjust his cock through his sweats. Your eyes follow every movement of his hand. “Ya made that sweet little sound 'nd I figured out what y'were up to. Snapped ya out of it then. 'Nd now here we are.” You lift your eyes back to his face as he continues. “Truth or dare?”
“Dare.” You refuse to look away from him, the way his eyes are boring into you, like he can see every thought in your head.
Gator takes a step closer to you, not quite as close as when he'd snapped his fingers in your face, but close enough that you can see the way his shoulders tense as he looks down at you on the bed, the way his lips part just a fraction, press back together, then part a second time as he speaks. “Touch yerself again.”
Air catches in your throat, and you stare up at him, taking a stuttering breath as you squeeze your thighs together. You cannot remember a time you've ever been more turned on, and part of it is the taboo, even though you're not really related, haven't known each other long enough for it to be weird, the idea of getting caught by your mom or his dad making your pussy throb, all the while Gator's got his eyes on you, trailing down from your face to your stomach as you slide to lie down again, pushing the covers away. The shirt rides up a little over your waist, and Gator's gaze zeroes in on the exposed skin above the waistband of your shorts.
Lifting your arm from where it was resting against the sheets, you open your legs just enough to fit your hand between your thighs and slip it into your shorts again, resuming what you'd been doing before he came into your room.
Before you can start up again, though, he speaks even though you didn't say anything. “Dare.”
You swallow, looking up at him, your hand hovering just over your mound, fingers curved and poised to masturbate with your stepbrother watching you, but you don't touch, not yet. He waits while you think about it; it's the first time he's asked for a dare and you know what you want to say but part of you is too timid. You blink, looking down at his body instead of his face, the way his cock is tenting his sweats, his hands are balled into loose fists at his sides, his head tilted down so his hair partially covers his eyes, but you can feel the way they rove over you despite it.
A small noise comes from your throat, indicating that you're about to speak, and his eyes lock onto yours. “Sit and watch,” you tell him. “But don't touch.”
He smirks, but steps to the side and lowers himself to sit on the edge of your bed, giving himself the perfect angle to look down at you while you're half propped up on your pillows. You keep your eyes on his, even when he looks away, gaze dragging down your front so pointed you can almost feel it. And when it hits you between your legs, lingering there, that's when you lower your hand, fingertips sliding against your wetness, and you make a small noise because you knew you were aroused but you didn't realize to what extent.
“Fuck,” you mumble, your eyes on Gator, who's still watching your hand move beneath the thin fabric of your shorts. You circle your clit, the sound of your fingers moving over yourself audible in the stillness of the room, the quiet of the house. You can hear Gator swallow thickly, watching you without actually seeing anything, everything you're doing covered by the shorts you're wearing.
“Dare,” you whisper, hoping he'll understand what you're asking for, and he glances up at your face.
“Take 'em off,” he says without missing a beat, and you push the shorts and your panties down lifting your legs up to ease them off, not quite folding yourself in half but almost, realizing as you do it that you're giving him a full, complete view of your entire lower half, dripping pussy on full display until you drop your legs back down, crossing them at the ankle to hide yourself, like it matters anymore. You meet his eyes, and he looks about as wild as you feel, eyes unable to still on one place on you, hands pressing into his thighs like if he doesn't force them down, he'll do something, anything, to release the tension. “I'm sick'a this game,” he says.
“Watch,” you say again, firmly. “I dare you.”
Gator's hands flatten against his thighs, then curl into the cotton of the sweats, holding onto it as you let your legs fall open again, your arm snaking down your front once more to rub your hand flat over yourself, spreading your arousal over your lips, your palm. He makes a small noise as he watches, and then you're pressing the tip of one finger against your slit and letting it move inside, Gator focused solely on your cunt, even as you watch his face, transfixed.
Slowly, you ease your finger further into yourself, trying to keep your eyes on Gator's face. He's staring at your pussy, the way you're slowly letting your slick finger disappear inside of yourself, then pulling it out, your fluids rolling down from your slit as you do, wetting the sheets below you. You press back in with a second finger this time, your lips parting in a shallow gasp as Gator watches, his eyebrow twitching upward. He’s just as affected as you, and god, that’s so fucking satisfying to see.
“Were ya thinkin’a me before?” he asks, moving so he’s fully on your bed, shifting to sit at your feet, not touching you, still, legs folded in front of him. He leans closer, hand moving to cup himself through his sweats, purposefully now, not even feigning anything else.
“I didn’t say truth,” you say, much more confidently than you feel. You use your fore- and pinky fingers to spread your labia apart, giving him an unobscured view of your middle and ring fingers fucking your hot, damp slit, curving upward to make sure you press the pads of them against your g-spot.
“Then I dare you ta answer,” Gator says, leaning back again and shoving his hand down the front of his pants, but he doesn’t do anything else just yet, at least not anything that’s obvious to you—but the image of him, about to jerk off while you’re doing the same, well. It’s really, really fucking overwhelming.
“Gator—” you whimper, and he shifts a little, starts slowly moving his hand over himself, just barely. His wrist is hardly moving.
“Were ya?” he asks. “Tell me,” he insists.
“Yes,” you moan brokenly, unable to avoid it anymore, the word almost a sob with how vehemently you say it, how hard you come, just from fingering yourself in front of him, stretching yourself on two digits as he watched and touched himself, too; this is undoubtedly the most aroused you’ve ever been, and as you let your fingers slip out of your cunt to come up and rub over your sensitive clit, trying to draw it out as you shiver with the tremors of your orgasm, Gator moves, crawling up to lie beside you, agonizingly close but still not touching.
“Game over?” he asks, and you nod, chest heaving beneath the stupid t-shirt you still wore, perked nipples poking up through the worn fabric.
“Game over,” you repeat, nodding again, or maybe still nodding, you aren’t sure because you haven’t quite regained your faculties yet. And as soon as you agree that you’re done playing around, his hands are on you.
You feel them like a brand, his fingertips pressing hard against your waist as he pulls you over to him, rolling you on top of him, your bare legs fall to either side of his hips, your wet cunt landing right on the stiff ridge of his cock, erect but confined in the sweats. You both groan, the pressure against your clit with the slight roughness of the fabric affecting you—but Gator can feel how wet you are, your slick dousing the fabric, his cock warm with you as you straddle him. He grinds up against you and you roll your hips into him, hands gripping tight to his upper arms.
“Gator,” you whine again, and his hands slide up your sides, beneath the shirt, billowing down away from your front. His fingers trail over the sides of your tits, just for the briefest moment, and then he places them on your back, pulling you down toward him; your arms give in to him and you find yourself flat against him, your hips still locked together as you keep flexing them, almost riding his cock even though there’s layers of fabric between you.
Gator’s arms wrap around you as he lifts his hips up into yours; you sigh as his cock slides against you between your pussy lips, rubbing you from your clit to your cunt, ruining his sweats, neither of you giving a fuck about them enough to push them down or stop what you’re doing.
“Gonna,” Gator manages to say, though he’s breathless too. “Gonna need ya t’come a little closer, sis,” he finishes, and you groan, feeling your pussy clench at the name, how fucked up it feels, even though you aren’t his sister at all.
“H-how?” you ask, then clarify what you're asking. “Closer how?”
He cranes his neck, bringing his face closer to yours, but you’re not quite close enough for him to reach. “C’mere,” he implores you—you can hear how bad he wants it, so you lower yourself, hesitating just another half a second before your lips meet his. You’re kissing Gator. Your stepbrother. Really just some guy you met three months ago, or so you tell yourself.
You let your eyes slip closed again as you part your lips against his, letting him in, his tongue licking against yours as he deepens the kiss, his arms tightening around you, holding you beneath your shirt. You’re not sure how long you lay there kissing him, on top of him, curling your hips forward every now and then, feeling his length twitch against you, when he finally moves. You wish he didn’t—he’s a fantastic kisser, and you were content just feeling his cock against you, riding the fine line between coming again and holding it off, your arousal building and then receding, but Gator’s had enough and it’s clear.
“Lemme up,” he says, sliding his hands down to your lower back. You push up, sitting astride his hips now, but he nods his head to the side and you climb off him, the front of his sweats drenched, clinging to his thick cock where it lays flat against his stomach. “Kinda unfair yer the only one getting' t'show off, huh?” he asks, nodding to your lower half.
“Very unfair,” you agree, and even though it was obviously coming, you still hold your breath as he lifts his hips, rolling the waistband of his sweatpants down, baring first the trail of hair below his bellybutton, which leads further down to a patch of hair nestled above the base of his cock. But how it had been resting on his front, how it had been positioned while you were teasing it through his pants with your own pussy, you see it first and now you understand the way Gator was staring at you when you removed your shorts before—wild, body thrumming, unable to keep still. The heels of your hands press into your thighs, fingers curled against your palms to stop from taking it in both of your hands right now just to feel how hot and soft his skin is.
Gator notices you staring—of course he does, how could he not? You haven’t moved since he took his cock out, haven’t looked away even after he pulled his sweats off the rest of the way and dropped them off the side of your bed. He sits up and reaches over, snaps his fingers in front of your face again, drawing your attention away from his prick, red and wet at the tip. The hand still near your face cups your cheek, just for a moment, a tender gesture in an otherwise crazy situation.
“‘S all yours,” he says, then draws back and shrugs off his t-shirt, and suddenly Gator is naked in your bed and you’ve been given free rein to his dick.
“Lie down,” you say, and he listens, laying back to nestle into your pillows, watching as you take in the sight of him, bare and waiting for you to decide what’s next. You walk on your knees over to him, closer, closer, until your knee brushes against his hip and you stop. You take the shirt off, slipping your arm through one sleeve and then the other, lifting it up over your head so you’re naked too, both of you nude and exposed to the other, but neither making any attempt to even pretend you don’t want this. “What do you like?” you ask.
He gives you a short chuckle. “I ain’t picky,” he says. “You did somethin’ fer me. Your turn t’get what you want.”
You draw a breath, trying your hardest to temper it, keep it even. You climb back over his legs, straddling him again, but much lower this time, hands on his hips. His cock is flushed and leaking from the slit in the head, and he watches as you reach out toward him, hissing a little as your cool hand slips beneath his heated cock, angling it up from where it was resting against his front, the precome sticky on his stomach as you lift it. He’s heavy in your hand, but you wrap your fingers around him, velvety skin smooth against your palm.
Gator keeps his eyes on your face while you stroke him, except every now and then they dip down to where you’re curling around him, moving up and down his length, slicking precome over him before you duck your head down. You look up at him through your eyelashes, then back down, sliding your hand to the very base of his cock and holding him upright. You pause—there’s a still moment where neither of you move, and then you press your lips together at the sides, leaving a small open space right in the middle of your mouth, and let the saliva you’d collected on your tongue drip out onto the tip of his cock, slowly, lewdly, and Gator can’t help the way his hips kick up, the mouthful of your spit pooling on the head until there’s too much and it oozes over the sides, rolling down his length slowly until you move your hand up and slick him up, jerking him off.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Gator says, lifting an arm to cover his face as he composes himself. “Holy fuckin’ shit.”
Amused, you take advantage of him not looking to bow your back and press your closed mouth to the head, parting them to take him in gradually as you move down onto him, and in your periphery you can see him lift his arm just enough to peek at you, watching as you feed his cock into your perfect, hot, wet, waiting mouth, despite how big he is; his head brushes your palate but you don’t even flinch as you take him even deeper, swallowing around him before you can’t go down any further. Most of his cock is in your mouth—your throat, he thinks absently, he’s not sure—and then you suck at him, and both of you feel the spurt of precome as it drools out of the slit. Your tongue undulates beneath him as you hold him there for another few moments, and then you pull off, enough that you can bob your head on him comfortably, using your hand to jerk him off where your mouth can’t reach.
Much like your orgasm—it doesn’t take him long to come either. He was already worked up, the same as you, and you feel almost a constant stream of precome in your mouth as you swallow every bit of it, closing your eyes as the thought crosses your mind that you know how your stepbrother tastes, with an even worse thought following: You like it.
Gator reaches down with both hands, curling his fingers into your hair as he holds it, then tries to pull you off of him. “I’m gonna—wait, I’m—” His voice is tight, urgent. You swallow around him again, and he licks his lower lip, tongue flitting out over it. “Y’cool with it?” he asks, and you hum to the affirmative, holding his gaze now that you’ve got it, sinking a little further onto him, and he lets go of you, fisting his hands into your bedsheets, trying in vain to keep from bucking up into your mouth, but you’re anticipating it—you rise and fall with him, teasing the ridge of the glans with your tongue as he gives one final spasm, cock twitching, and then you feel him release in your mouth, hot, thick shots of his come hitting the back of your throat, spilling from him onto your tongue, and you swallow it down, eyes closing at the taste of it, sighing as much as you can around him still in your mouth, filling you up in multiple meanings of the word.
“Oh, shit,” he breathes out, voice ragged as you pull off him, his cock wet with your spit, even more so as you let your tongue hang out of your mouth, enough that he can see there’s still some of his spunk on it, mixed with your saliva, translucent and milky as you let it drop off of your tongue, back down onto his cock. He shakes with an aftershock, hips lifting up off the bed at the sight of you spitting part of his load back onto him. “Shit,” he says again, as you draw him back into your mouth to suck him clean.
“Remember how you called me a prude?” you ask, straightening up and smirking, reaching up to wipe some of the come and spit from your chin.
“I was wrong,” Gator says immediately, his arm thrown back over his face. “Never been more wrong in my fuckin’ life.”
You rise up to stand on your knees and then lean over him, hands resting on his waist this time, squeezing your upper arms together to press your tits against each other, maybe showing off a little. Your nipples are puffy, erect but still soft, not tight peaks like if he played with them. “You could make it up to me,” you offer.
“Oh yeah?” he asks. “How?” He lowers his arm, taking in the sight of you above him, his cock flagging beneath your tits.
You shrug, but not because you have no ideas—because you want his eyes exactly where they are.
“You seem pretty interested in these,” you say, arching your back to press your chest out toward him.
“Yeah, no shit,” Gator says. “Show me anyone who ain’t lookin’ at a nice pair’a tits when they see ‘em.”
“I want you to fuck them,” you say, and he gapes at you, dumbstruck, before sitting up so that you’re face to face, his hands moving to your waist as he pulls you into him, kissing you again, and it’s needy, sloppy, messy, licking and sucking at your tongue, biting your lower lip. Mouth still on yours, you feel his hands leave your waist and touch you again, cupping both of your tits at the same time, thumbs flicking over your nipples, turning them into tight little buds that he circles, pressing against them with his thumbs until you sigh, leaning your forehead against his, looking into his eyes. “Gator,” you whisper, and he tips his chin up to kiss you again, harsh and wanting, before he lets his hands fall away from you.
“Gonna be honest,” he mutters. “Don’t think I got three in me.” He keeps his eyes on yours, and you just smile a little, leaning in to let your lips brush his temple.
“So just don’t come on my tits,” you say, and kiss him again. “Think you can manage that?”
Gator scoffs, but nods, sliding his hand around you to your lower back to pull you closer to him again. You kiss him, licking into his mouth before you pull away, then climb off his lap and lower yourself off the bed to the floor, standing on your knees. Gator doesn’t hesitate, turning himself where he sits to move right to the edge of your bed, spreading his legs to let you move between them, already cupping your breasts together.
“Let—let me?” Gator asks, but you can tell he didn’t necessarily mean for it to come out as a question. He covers your hands with his, and you let them slip out from beneath Gator’s, coming to rest one on his thigh instead. You lean in closer to him, your free hand taking hold of his cock, stroking him a little. He doesn’t make any move to pull you into him, wrap your tits around him—instead, he rubs at your nipples again, tongue flitting out to wet his lips as he fondles your chest, finally groaning after your nipples perk up, hard against his fingers.
With a firm grip, not too rough but definitely guiding you, he moves you closer. You press your thumb against the underside of his cock, rubbing a line against him, keeping him at the right angle for you to let his cock move in between your tits, and he looses a long breath as you engulf his length, lifting yourself up a little before settling back down.
He groans again, curling his hips up, before he leans back, just a little. You move your hands over his again, letting him get comfortable as he reclines, resting on his elbows; in this position, now, he has the leverage to actually fuck up between your breasts. You hold them tight around him, watching his face as he looks at your hands moving over your tits—up and down over your nipples, the hard nubs flicking between each of your fingers.
“Fuck,” he mutters, lifting his hips up against you repeatedly, his body still recovering from his previous orgasm, not ready to go again yet, but the soft warmth surrounding him is definitely helping him get hard again, no matter how gradually.
“Feel good?” you ask, still teasing your nipples. “You like it?”
“Yeah,” Gator grunts, working his hips against you, snapping them up over and over.
You catch his eye and smirk, and he gives you a look, half curious and half intrigued, maybe even laced with a touch of concern at just what your next move will be.
He watches as you tuck your chin to your chest, your pink tongue peeking out from between your lips, and then you open your mouth, just enough, letting a dribble of saliva land on your cleavage, wetting his cock as the head appears again between them from below, and he groans as you do it again, spitting on them a little harsher, not letting it out slowly this time.
“You’re filthy,” Gator says, his voice gruff, thick with lust. “Fuckin’—dirty fuckin’ mouth.”
You look up at him, tongue pressed cheekily to your upper lip. “You like it.” Your smirk is even more pronounced.
“Fuck,” Gator says, sighing as he fucks up into your tits again. “Yeah, I do.”
“You like this?” you ask, pushing your hands tighter around your breasts, squeezing his dick just a little tighter with them.
“Y-yeah,” Gator says, nodding, his bangs falling over his eyes. “Soft fuckin’ tits, fuckin’—fuckin’ gorgeous, fuck—”
“Do you need to stop?” you ask quietly, and he shakes his head, then nods.
“Lil’ more,” he says, bucking his hips up into you. “Could ya—could ya spit on it again?” he asks, and when you look up to meet his eyes, he’s staring down at your chest again, his cock hard now, in between your tits.
You wait for him to lift his eyes to your face, his hips still, your hands holding your breasts tight around him, and once his eyes land on yours, you push the mouthful of saliva out of your lips, letting it land on the head of his cock, rolling down the side to wet your tits, and Gator shudders, shaking his head and letting it drop back on his shoulders before he relaxes his hips, cock sliding down between your tits. You pull away, your chest a sopping wet mess, spit and precome mixed between them, as Gator pushes himself up to lean on his hands now, rather than his elbows; you splay your hands out on his thighs, using him as leverage to stand now, between his legs. You look down at him as he looks up at you, both your expressions clouded with desire and arousal, mixed with a bit of reluctance and reticence. You could stop. You probably should have stopped after he watched you touch yourself. All this is—all of it—is a fantasy come to life for one night, and you both know it.
You can’t speak for Gator, but that’s the reason you choose to continue. This can’t happen again. And it won’t. You have to finish this, now.
His face is flushed as you look down at him, pinkened cheeks spattered with beauty marks; they extend down his neck to his chest, his arms, you can see them everywhere on his skin, and you try to memorize the few that catch your eye, the ones that you’ll probably never see again. The one next his bellybutton. A couple on his thigh. One, almost hidden by the patch of hair at the base of his cock, but you were up close and personal with it only minutes ago. You’ll remember it, you don’t doubt that for a second.
“Penny fer yer thoughts,” Gator says, snapping you out of your reverie, and you consider telling him what you’re thinking, just to hear how he feels.
Instead, you deflect. “Trying to remember the last time I bought condoms,” you say, and he sits up properly, running a hand back through his hair, trying to sweep it off his face, but it just falls right back down over his forehead, and you smile, because it’s cute, then look away, because you shouldn't think that.
“Uh, well, I got—”
“You’re gonna risk leaving my room looking like that?” you ask, partly because you don’t want him to, and partly because you’re afraid if he left to grab a condom, he wouldn’t come back. You and Gator can be you-and-Gator as long as you’re in the bubble of your bedroom, at this moment, on this night, and once the door opens, it pops.
“Like what?” he asks, almost like he wants to hear you describe it. You wonder if he’s trying to cling to moments too, like you are.
“Like you got fucked within an inch of your life,” you say, wishing you had something a little more eloquent to say. “Like—like that,” you gesture at him, deciding to stop being abstract. “All…messy hair and, and, I mean, it’s obvious that you’ve been kissing someone. Your lips,” you say, and he quirks his head to the side, waiting for you to go on. “They—look like you’ve been kissing someone.” You pause. “Plus you’re naked.”
Gator barks out a laugh. “Yeah, ‘cause I’m gonna just walk outta here naked,” he says, chuckling still. “Look—you got anything?” He eyes your nightstand.
“Yeah,” you say, pretty sure that you do, but you haven’t exactly had much action after moving into the sheriff’s house so you aren't sure how many condoms you still have anymore.
You tug the drawer open and dig around for a moment, thankfully finding an open box of rubbers near the back. You pull one out and turn back to Gator, who’s lazily stroking himself, legs still bent over the side of the bed, watching you. Inhaling deeply through your nose, you step over to him, and his arms wrap around you easily, comfortably, like he’s been pulling you close for years, not minutes. You palm the condom and card your fingers through his hair as he tips his head back to look up at you while you look right back down at him.
“Lie down,” Gator says to you this time, and you extricate yourself from him, pausing only to hand him the condom, before climbing onto the bed next to him; Gator watches you as you go, eyes on the slant of your shoulder blades, the dip of your lower back, the curve of your ass. You relax down against your pillow, Gator’s residual warmth still beneath you, and you watch as he sits with his back to you for a moment longer, the quiet crinkle of the condom wrapper reaching your ears, the muscles in his arms flexing as he rolls it on. Then, he stands and turns to face you, kneeling on the bed to crawl toward you on all fours, cock bobbing between his legs. You bend your legs at the knee, parting them to give him space, and he holds himself above you as he leans in to kiss you again, nose nudging yours as he pulls away.
“Y’ready?” he asks, and you nod.
“Don’t make me dare you,” you joke, and he smirks.
“Truth is ya wouldn’t hafta,” he says, then straightens up, moving one of his hands down between your legs, feeling how slick your folds are, your cunt still wet, and you feel your clit twitch as two of his fingers curl into you.
“Gator,” you moan, trying to stay quiet. He pumps his fingers a few times before pulling them out and rubbing your arousal over your folds, your clit; your leg dips a little to the side as he does.
“Gonna let me fuck ya, sis?” he asks again, and you close your eyes, nodding, jaw clenched as you try to keep your composure.
“Fucked up,” you say, opening your eyes as he takes his hand off you—just in time to watch him lift his fingertips to his mouth, licking your essence off of them.
“That’s why you like me,” Gator says. “You got a dirty mouth, I got a fucked up one.” He sucks at the pad of his index finger. “So,” he says, leaning over you again. “Gonna let me fuck ya?”
You nod, meeting his eyes; the window over your shoulder, moonlight still bleeding in through the slats of the blinds, make his hazel eyes look almost a dark, rich blue instead, flecked with green and gold.
“Say it,” he whispers.
“Fuck me,” you say, voice just as low. “Want you to.”
He kisses you again, gently biting at your lower lip as he manhadles you just a bit, tugging your hips down the bed, hands gripping just beneath your knees, pushing your legs up and open. You move with him, replacing his hand with yours when he releases your leg, holding the position he put you in while he reaches down his front to hook two fingers beneath his cock, holding the top with his thumb, easing the head against your slit.
He groans immediately, even though he’s not even inside you yet, just the pressure and heat and the slide of him against you already affecting him.
Below him, you’re staring down your body, watching as he flexes his hips, driving his cock forward into you, the head breaching you and stretching you wider than you think you’ve felt recently, if ever. A gasp is punched from your lungs as he rolls his hips into you, giving you another inch, before backing out a little, wanting to do it slowly, easily.
You lift your arms to let your hands come to rest on his nape, fingers laced as you both look into the other’s eyes, part terrified, part vindicated, not knowing which is bigger, or which will win out in the end.
Gator hoists your leg up over his hip, your thigh pressing into his waist as he braces his hand flat beside your head, and you pull him down to your face to kiss him as he fucks into you again, your walls tight around him, but wet enough to take him in with no resistance. You feel him, though, really feel him, deep inside even though he’s not even fully seated yet. He swallows every whimper and moan you make into his mouth, sighing softly against your lips as you pull away, adjusting yourself on the bed, wanting him to start fucking you—you’re turned on and so wet you can feel it on your thighs. You’re ready to fuck already, and you bite at his lip, using the leg hooked over him to pull him closer, wanting him flush with you.
“Gator, please,” you beg, voice dark and needy. “Wanna feel you m—” You cut yourself off, swallowing the word, but then just saying it anyway—he’s already inside you, so why should you be embarrassed about what you want from him? “Wanna feel you moving in me, please.”
He groans, breath warm on your lips as he sighs heavily, letting his forehead rest against yours. “Gonna,” he gets out; his voice is tight, just like yours. “I’ll make you feel real good, sis, promise—”
You feel your core tighten around him, gasping at how full you feel. The first time, when he’d said it, it seemed almost like a joke; the second time, you thought he’d only said it to incite you, to rile you up; this time, the third time, you feel a coil of heat in your belly and realize that he’s playing it up, leaning on the taboo of it, the part that clearly dictates that you should not be doing this. The thrill of doing something wrong—something forbidden.
“Please,” you whine, drawing it out as he pushes into you even deeper.
“I gotcha,” Gator says, drawing his hips back, and when he snaps them forward again, you know it’s all over for you.
He sets a quick pace, the sound of his hips slapping into your ass mixing audibly with how wet you are, your bodies pressing together as he fucks you, hard and fast, making sure not to overwhelm you but filling your cunt so, so good with each thrust forward. He’s hard and thick inside you, your pussy clamping down on him, sucking him in, wanting to hold him there so you never feel empty without him again—even though you know in your heart of hearts this is the one and only time you’ll ever get to have him.
“How’s’at feel?” Gator asks, his voice gravelly as he speaks. He kisses you, burying his cock inside you again and again, your legs wrapping around him, arms holding his face close to yours. He punctuates each word with a stroke into you, dragging along your walls. “Feel—feel good? Tell me it feels good—”
“Feels good,” you utter, your pussy fluttering around him. “So good, n-need you—” you pant, desperate.
“Y’got me,” Gator answers, but you shake your head, lowering one hand from his neck to grope for his free hand, the one that isn’t pressing into the pillow beside you. You find it after a moment’s search and take hold of his wrist, guiding it down between your bodies. At about your bellybutton, he understands and moves the rest of the way on his own, his fingertips moving over your swollen clit, throbbing and sensitive, the bead of it hard against his fingers; he presses back on it, rubbing it with fervor, and your hips kick against him, taking his cock even deeper, moaning loud enough that he kisses you, quick and dirty, tongue in your mouth to muffle you, rolling his hips into yours until you’re grasping at his shoulders, whispering over and over against his lips that you’re gonna come, Gator, please, make me come, I’m so close, Gator please, Gator—I’m gonna—
Your cunt spasms around him, and he drives his cock home inside of you two, three, four more times before he stills, filling the condom as he really leans into you, sheathing his cock as deep in you as he can, feeling you squeezing down on him. His mouth is on yours, kissing you slow and sensual as your bodies stay joined together, each of you breathing in the other’s air, connecting in every way possible, not wanting to come apart.
Slowly, you come down, your afterglow fading, your breath evening. Gator pushes himself up off of you, looking down with a stoic expression and leans in for one final kiss, lips moving against yours a little harder than he’d kissed you all night. Gently, he pulls out of you, your pussy gaping a little, your come leaking down from your slit after Gator leaves you empty. You close your legs, squeezing your thighs together; this is the penultimate step before he leaves your room, before this all ends. Like it should.
“Y’ok?” he asks, and you nod as he stands up off the bed, looking for his clothes in the jumble on the floor. You reach for the covers, pulling them up and over yourself—you’ll dress and go to the bathroom after he vacates your room.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see him tie off the condom and use his t-shirt to wipe his dick clean, and then he turns back to look at you, moving to cover himself with the come-stained shirt once he sees that you’re sitting with your covers pulled up over your chest.
He swallows loudly, loud enough for you to hear it, and then gestures at your bed. “I’d stay,” he says, and you believe him, “but—”
“You can’t,” you interrupt him. “It’s ok.”
He shuffles from foot to foot. “I want to.”
A faint smile reaches your lips. “I know.”
He crosses to the door, holding his clothes in front of him in a bundle. His bedroom door is right next to yours and by now it’s late enough; he can make it without worry. “We—uh, we ain’t doin’ this again.” It’s only a question in the expression on his face.
The smile on your face drops by a couple degrees. “I don’t think we can.”
He gives you a half nod. “Yeah.” He reaches for the doorknob. “Goodnight.”
“‘Night,” you reply, watching as he quickly opens your door, slips out into the hall, closes your door—then opens and shuts his in barely two seconds, safe in his own room.
You wait until you hear him settle onto his bed, then grab the oversized shirt you were wearing earlier, slip it back on, and slip from your bedroom to the bathroom.
Once you’re cleaned up, back in your bed, you lie close to the wall, avoiding the wet spots that serve as reminders of exactly what you and Gator had done.
You cover your face with your hands, then take a deep breath. You reach for your headphones, slot them into your ears, and start your music again, thumbs hovering over the screen.
&&
THREE MONTHS AGO
Gator dropped his carry-on in the lobby of the hotel, the force of it sending it careening away on its wheels before he grabbed it. This whole wedding thing was bullshit. It was his dad’s third marriage, for fuck’s sake—what the hell did he really need the whole kit and caboodle for? A nice, scenic country club and a block of hotel rooms for guests; at least there was going to be an open bar at the rehearsal dinner and the reception itself.
You would be there too, but that was neither here nor there. Gator had met you in passing a few times—apparently you and him were less of a concern to your folks than arranging everything else to do with the wedding, so when you’d approached him only a week or so ago when you and your mom stepped onto the ranch, shaking his hand instead of giving him a hug, that had been fine. You two didn’t know each other, and probably wouldn’t want to; you had your own life and your own friends and you were both adults. He had a job that kept him busy most of the time—you probably had one too. Even if you moved onto the ranch with your mom, odds were you’d never be around each other that often anyway.
His dad and your mom were already checked in to the hotel, so he sidled up to the counter alone, giving his name to the clerk, taking his room key, and turning around directly into you.
“Oh hey! Gator,” you said, giving him a friendly smile. Your voice around his name still sounded like you were still getting used to saying it. “How’re you?”
“Can’t complain,” he said, though he definitely could and, in fact, wanted to. “You?”
“Busy day at work,” you said, ruffling your hair a little. “But I have tomorrow off for the wedding and then the rest of the week after too, so that’ll be nice.” You step up to the desk, going through the motions with the clerk, taking your room key from her and turning back to Gator, who waited for you.
“Need help with yer bags?” he asked, gesturing at the large tote on your shoulder, and the smaller suitcase at your side.
“Oh, um,” you hesitated, but then handed him the bag off your shoulder. “Thanks.”
He followed you onto the elevator, up to your room, and then inside, depositing the bag onto your bed for you, brushing away your attempts to take it out in the hall.
“I’ll see ya at the dinner,” he said, giving you a short wave as he left your room, heading down the hall to his.
It was barely an hour to said dinner, and Gator spent the next 45 minutes watching Nickelodeon on the hotel’s TV before standing up from the bed, shrugging off the hoodie he’d worn and donning instead a black button-down over his jeans. He'd brought a tie, but wasn’t sure if his dad would mandate he wear it; hopefully not.
He met Roy in the lobby, his dad surrounded by his friends and their children, young men and women roughly his age who he grew up with; your mom was there too, with you and her friends, couples and their children nearby too. You lifted a hand in greeting to him, and Gator nodded back at you, sizing you up.
This was the second time he’d been through this as an adult, and he wasn't exactly looking forward to it. His dad’s second wife had no kids, so it wasn’t too much of an adjustment—but this time, you were coming along with Wife #3, and Gator wasn't really into the idea of having a second new housemate to deal with.
Ok, so you were pretty goddamn nice to look at in your cocktail dress, skirt not too short but short enough to show off your legs—but his dad was already an imposing presence in the house; having to share the limited space with two extra people wasn’t really high on his list. Even if one of them is pretty hot.
The rehearsals went without a hitch, and after the dinner, one of Gator’s friends pulled him aside, whispering an idea to him that made him grin, and it spread through his clutch of friends like wildfire—so Gator caught you before you stepped onto the elevator and explained that he and his friends were heading down to the pool in a little bit, if you and your friends wanted to join. He said something about how his boy Ralphie snuck in a 24 pack of beer, and it was up for grabs if any of you guys came down.
You thanked him for the invitation and pulled out your phone to let everyone know.
The group of young adults descended on the pool an hour later, the girls from your group mingling with the girls from Gator’s, reminding each other of names you’d forgotten from the dinner, or catching up with old friends. The boys were much louder, fist bumps and slapping backs, suggestive comments about the girls earning them middle fingers or in one case, your childhood friend Dinah pushing one of the boys (her on-again-off-again boyfriend, Leo) into the pool after he pinched her ass a little too hard. You guessed they were off again.
At that, half of the boys splashed into the pool too, the others heading straight for the hot tub, declaring it off limits to any “females” unless they flashed their tits. Dinah was the only girl in there, a scowling Leo watching from the deep end of the pool.
Gator watched as you choose a lounge chair, shrugging off the silky wrap you’d been wearing over your suit, leaving the Twins baseball cap atop your head, and he immediately wished he hadn’t been looking. He thought, maybe, if he’d just seen you in your suit he’d have been fine. But seeing the reveal, the way you went from shrouded in an opaque, off white, floor-length cover-up to…that. A black and white striped bathing suit, revealing even more of your legs than he’d thought was even possible, the cut higher than he’d ever seen on anyone other than lingerie models. You turned to drape the cover-up over the lounge chair, and the next thing he saw was that your entire back was out, the angle of your shoulder blades visible in the fluorescent lighting of the pool. You were laughing at something your friend had said, and Gator turned away, blinked a few times, and then jumped in the pool directly on top of Ralphie because he had to direct his energy somewhere and fucking with his friend seemed like the best option.
After an impromptu game of volleyball—one of your friends had found a beach ball in the towel room—and after you’d been threatened with expulsion three times by hotel staff (no running; no nudity; no drinking, in that order) the group of you had calmed into somewhat collected chaos. The hot tub crew was a bit more varied now, and most of the girls from your group were seated on the edge of the pool, legs dangling into the cool water, while two couples played chicken across the way and another group was trying to have a contest to see whose cannonball could make the biggest splash.
Gator spotted you with no trouble, your legs crossed at the ankle beneath the water, hands curled over the edge of the pool as you listened intently to—shit. That was Neve, with whom he’d had a short-lived situationship because she hated his daddy but liked his dick, and he wanted more than she was willing to entertain. He thought for a moment about running interference, but before he could, you and Neve were both looking at him, laughter in your eyes as Neve wiggled her fingers at him.
“Whatever she said, it ain’t true!” Gator called, and the two of you collapsed into giggles while Gator scowled, water licking at his chest as the others in the water gallivanted around.
Thankfully, Neve left you alone on the edge of the pool; you sat, feet kicking in the water, scrolling on you phone. Gator thought about swimming over to you, trying to chat you up—insanity, you were going to be his stepsister tomorrow—but before he could really make up his mind, you pulled your feet out of the water and stood up, heading back to your lounge chair to retrieve your wrap and step into your flip-flops.
He shouldn’t have been looking, he absolutely knew that, but when you turned he saw that the bathing suit had ridden up on you just a little, your ass much more visible than it had been initially, and he couldn’t help but stare at your ass until you swung your cover-up back over your shoulders and one of his boys—probably Vic, he was that kind of asshole—beaned him with the beach ball.
“Hey, shitbird,” he said. “Your turn to serve!”
“I’m out,” Gator said, paddling over to the edge of the pool. You were leaving with a couple of your friends, looking for Dinah and spotting her off in a corner with Leo, thus deciding to leave her well alone—and Gator had, honestly, seen enough. He’d been half hard despite the cool pool water, since he saw that shit excuse for a swimsuit basically poured onto you.
“What?” Vic asked. “Fuckin’ lame.”
Gator climbed out of the pool, and the game continued without him.
By the time he’d toweled off and got to the elevator, you and your girls were gone. He rode it up to his floor, wondering if you’d still be in the hall, but it was deserted. He passed your room, considered knocking, but thought better of it and continued on to his own.
He made a beeline for the shower, skin dry and pruny from the chlorinated water, and stepped in once the water was hot. He washed himself mechanically, hair, face, arms, torso… until he reached the problem he’d been having since you all had arrived at he pool. He didn’t bother teasing himself or trying not to commit to it—no. He was jacking off in this fucking hotel shower and that was all there was for it.
His hand wrapped around himself as he leaned against the tile, eyes closed as he replayed the scene of you standing up from the pool’s edge, your bathing suit riding up your ass, already cut high on the sides, your back flexing as you threw the fabric over yourself.
Gator grunted, almost a gasp, as he stroked himself. He tried in vain to just do it, without letting his mind wander to you, but that was nigh impossible, because now that he’d imagined you putting that damn wrap back on the next logical step was to think about you taking it off, and that made his stomach clench, back bowing forward as he curled against the wall of the shower, his hand moving over himself quickly, too quickly if he wanted this to last, but he didn’t. He wanted to come hard and fast before the memories of you faded, before he forgot the way your ass looked with your suit riding up on you, the way he’d felt when he saw the expanse of your hips exposed for the first time, even the way you’d laughed at him while seated next to—no, not thinking about her, this was about you—your pretty face and your bare back and the way you’d tossed off the cover-up like it was nothing. The way that tonight had been his only chance because tomorrow would be too late. He’d be standing up across from you at the altar—him his dad’s best man, you your mom’s maid of honor—and any chance he had with you would be shot.
He didn’t stop moving his hand, though, just thought about your ass in the swimsuit, the way he would have untied the strings at the nape of your neck and freed your tits, mouthing at them before he just shoved your bathing suit to the side and had you ride his fingers, two deep, three, four maybe, he’d bet you could take it, get you nice and ready for his cock—
His cock, which was twitching in his grip, hand moving over it as he knocked his head against the wall, trying to get the obscene thoughts of you out—away, gone; he was so fucked up for this, but that made it even hotter.
He thought about sucking your tits while he fucked four fingers into your tight little cunt, hearing you whine out his name as he growled against your breast, “Nah, c’mon sis, y’like me treatin’ ya this way, don’t ya?” and when you answered—to the affirmative, of course, moaning his name in a way that sounded less tentative than you’d said it earlier in the afternoon—he gasped aloud again, squeezing at the base of his dick. He was close, he was so close. He was ruined.
Gator swallowed, eyes closed, cheek pressed to the tile wall; he waited a minute, letting the water rush over him, and then resumed moving his hand over himself, his cock jumping a little as he felt his orgasm take him, come landing in streaks on the wall, shame curling through him—though that only made him come harder—as he muttered one syllable, swept away down the drain with the rest: “Sis.” Fuck.
&&
NOW
Gator eases his bedroom door closed, picking through his clothes until he finds his underwear, stepping back into them. As he moves away from the door, he hears yours open and holds his breath—but you don’t come to him. You go into the bathroom; he hears the water running, the toilet flush. A door opens; a door closes again.
Taking a shaky breath, Gator ambles over to his closet, depositing his clothes in the hamper, then climbs into his bed. He’d meant it when he’d said he wanted to stay with you, and he thinks, truly, that you wanted him to, too. You’d seemed just as into it as he was—the both of you were wrapped up in it, in each other, so the only thing keeping you from another late night rendezvous is simply the fact that nobody would understand besides the two of you. But…does anyone else have to?
It’s not something that you both need to figure out tonight, Gator thinks to himself. You’ll sleep on it, and hell—maybe you even got it out of your systems. Maybe you just needed to act on impulse, fuck up the possibility of any friendship between you two, and now you’ll never spare each other a glance ever again.
That isn’t what he wants, Gator realizes. And no amount of sleeping on it will change it. He sighs heavily, spreading out in his bed, tossing his arm back over his face. Stays like that for a few minutes.
Then he reaches over to his bedside table and picks up his phone to text you.
But three dots show you’re already texting him.
&& taglist: @sunriseinhawkins @snoopyharrington @ghostlyriddles @souperbloom @sheisjoeschateau @morninglesss @cheugy-djobe @cpnsteverogers @harringtonsdiary @s3xytosomeone