Chapter 2: The Taste of Sin
The world narrowed to the space between his knees and the velvet rug, to the scent of lavender rising from the fibers where her skirt had brushed. Alex looked up, the line of her body a dark silhouette against the flickering gold of the wall sconce. Her expression was unreadable, part challenge, part tender anticipation.
“You don’t have to,” Melody said, her voice soft, but her fingers were already carding through his short hair, not pushing, just resting. A claim.
“I know,” he said, and his own voice was rough. He felt split open. The guilty, writhing thing in his chest was momentarily stilled by a darker, simpler hunger. “I want to.”
His hands, broad and dusted with fine scars from his work, went to the clasp of her skirt. His fingers, usually so sure with a drill or a nail gun, fumbled on the delicate metal. She let out a small, breathy laugh. “Easy, tiger.”
The fabric slid down her hips, a whisper of sound. He helped it pool at her feet, his palms skimming the outsides of her thighs. The air was cool, but her skin was warm. He pressed his forehead against the soft plane of her stomach, just above the lace of her panties, and breathed her in. Jasmine, still. Lavender now. Her.
“Alex,” she whispered, and it was just his name, but it sounded like a prayer or a curse.
He hooked his thumbs in the lace and drew them down. She stepped out of them, one hand coming to rest on his shoulder for balance. He saw her then, fully, in the honeyed light. The slender curve of her, the feminine lines he knew she’d fought for, and, jutting from that soft thatch of blonde, the stark, undeniable reality of her. Thick, and heavy, and already flushed with desire.
He didn’t think. He couldn’t. Thinking was the enemy here. He leaned forward and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her thigh, feeling the muscle jump under his lips. His stubble scraped her delicate skin. He heard her sharp intake of breath.
“Please,” she said, and the word was a thread of sound.
He turned his head, and took her into his mouth.
The taste was complex—salt, clean skin, the faint, musky hint of her arousal. It was intimately, profoundly her. He groaned at the sensation, the weight of her on his tongue, the silken skin over rigid heat. His eyes slid shut. One of his hands came up to cradle her, to feel the full, heavy sac beneath. He marveled at it, the size and weight a shocking contrast to the rest of her delicate frame. He rolled them gently in his palm, and she gasped, her fingers tightening in his hair.
“Oh, god. Just like that.” Her hips gave a tiny, involuntary thrust.
He relaxed his jaw, let her slide deeper. The act was at once a submission and a conquest. He was on his knees, but he was the one reducing her to this, to gasps and trembling thighs. He could feel every shudder that ran through her, every stifled moan. He worked his tongue, his head moving in a slow, deliberate rhythm he learned from her reactions. The record player in the corner hissed softly, the music a languid, forgotten backdrop.
“Look at you,” she managed, her voice husky and deep with pleasure. “My straight-laced brother. Taking me so good. So pretty.” Her words dripped into his ear, filthy and sweet. “You love this, don’t you? Love how your sister fills your mouth.”
He moaned in answer, the vibration drawing a broken cry from her. His own need was a painful ache, but it was secondary, distant. This was her worship. This was his penance. His other hand gripped her hip, steadying her, feeling the tension coil in her like a spring.
Her breathing grew ragged, choppy. “Alex… I’m close. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”
He doubled his efforts, the rhythm becoming more urgent, his mouth a wet, heated vise. He tasted the prelude of her, a brighter, sharper salt. Her thighs began to tremble in earnest. Her whispers dissolved into incoherent, guttural sounds.
When she came, it was with a choked-off sob, her body bowing over him. He took it all, the pulses, the taste, the reality of it flooding his senses. He held her through it, his hands firm on her hips, until her shakes subsided into aftershocks and she sagged back, her hand slipping from his hair to cup his cheek.
He pulled away slowly, resting his head against her thigh again, breathing heavily. The taste of her was everywhere.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their shared breath and the slow, final crackle of the record reaching its end. The silence it left was immense.
Then, she slid down, graceful as a cat, to kneel on the rug with him. She didn’t kiss him right away. Instead, she looked at him, her storm-cloud eyes searching his face. She swiped her thumb over his lower lip, then brought it to her own mouth, tasting herself.
“Well,” she said, and a faint, shaky smile touched her lips. “That’s one way to unwind after work.”
A choked laugh escaped him, part relief, part hysteria. The normalcy of the comment, the lightness, was an anchor thrown into the raging sea of what they’d just done. He rested his forehead against hers. “You’re insane.”
“Yeah. But you’re here.” She kissed him then, deep and searching, and he could taste himself on her, a closed loop of intimacy that made his head spin.
When they broke apart, the reality of his own untouched need surged back, a sharp, urgent throb. She felt it, her hand drifting down to press against the denim. “Your turn.”
But he caught her wrist. A sudden, cold clarity was seeping in at the edges, like dawn through a dirty window. The guilt wasn’t gone; it had just been waiting its turn. It sat in his stomach now, a cold, hard stone.
“Wait,” he said, his voice ragged.
She stilled, reading his face. The playful light in her eyes dimmed. “Alex.”
He couldn’t meet her gaze. He looked past her shoulder, to the silver locket glinting in the half-open wardrobe. A relic from before. From when they were just brother and sister. “What are we doing, Mel?”
She sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to come from her bones. She settled back onto the rug, pulling her knees up to her chest. The vulnerability of the pose, after what they’d just shared, was more devastating than any nakedness. “We’re not doing anything we don’t want to.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.” She picked at a thread on the rug. “You think I have a map for this? You think I wanted to look at my brother and feel… this?” She gestured between them, a vague, frustrated slash of her hand. “But I do. And you do. And for a little while, in this room, it doesn’t have to be a tragedy. It can just be… a thing. That feels good.”
“It feels like hell,” he muttered, but he moved closer, drawn to her heat despite himself. He leaned against the side of the bed, his shoulder brushing hers.
“It can be both.” She rested her head on his shoulder. “It usually is, for me. The best things are.”
They sat in the silence for a while, the golden light painting them in static streaks. The heat between them had banked to a simmer, a low, waiting ember.
“Mom called today,” Melody said quietly.
The stone of guilt in his gut hardened. “Yeah?”
“She asked if I’d seen you. Said you’ve been ‘distant.’” She imitated their mother’s worried tone perfectly.
Alex closed his eyes. “What did you say?”
“I said you’ve been working a lot. Which is true.” She paused. “She wants us all to have dinner on Sunday. A family dinner.”
The words hung in the lavender-scented air, heavy with implication. A family dinner. Where he would have to sit across from her, pass her the potatoes, make casual eye contact. Where he would smell the jasmine in her hair and remember the taste of her on his tongue.
“Alex?” Her voice was small. It was the voice of the teenager she’d been, unsure and seeking approval.
He turned his head, pressed a kiss into her hair. “We’ll go,” he said, the words tasting like ash and resolve. “We have to.”
She nodded against his shoulder, her silence an agreement more terrible than any words. The record had ended, but the needle was still stuck in the silent groove, waiting for a hand to lift it, or for the music to start again.