I was already wet when I wrapped my hand around the doorknob to my uncle’s room.
Not from a boy. Not from the party Elara kept promising would ruin me before college. From him. From two years of coming on my own fingers to a night he was never supposed to know I saw — and from the filthy little lie I was telling myself in the hallway: I only wanted a pair of his boxers. Something he had worn against that c**k. Something I could take back to my bed and f**k myself with until I forgot I was not allowed to want my mother’s brother.
I didn’t knock.
The door wasn’t even fully closed. I pushed it with two fingers and the smell hit me first—soap, skin, the faint clean sweat of a man who had been traveling all day and hadn’t bothered with a shirt yet. Then I saw him.
Lucas. My mother’s brother
