“I’m not wet for you.”
Tyler dropped the glove in the tray.
“Turn your face. Look at me when you lie.”
I turned my cheek on the paper. He was still on the stool between my thighs, machine off, stencil purple on my lower back, my shorts a useless ring at my knees. Four years I had practiced being older than this. It lasted until he put two bare fingers against me and felt the truth.
I was soaked.
A breath left him. Controlled. Not boyish.
“That’s for the room, then.”
“Tyler—”
“You booked an hour.” His fingers slid through me, slow, spreading the mess, not pushing in yet. “You paid to be alone with me. You refused to take your shorts off and then you took them off. You can keep saying stepbrother like it’s a lock. Or you can admit you came here dripping.”
His middle finger pushed in
