Trapped With My Stepbrother novel · Chapter 3 of 6

Chapter 3: The Morning After

Back in the tent before dawn, Perry lies rigid beside Reid, trying to pretend the forest never happened, but Reid reaches for him under the sheet and refuses to let him retreat, and when Reid's hand slides under Perry's shirt and he whispers for Perry to tell him to stop, Perry says nothing.

Perry's body was still humming from the forest, the taste of rain still on his lips, and he lay rigid beside Reid, listening to Reid's breathing, waiting for the moment Reid would speak and ruin everything.

The tent was small and warm and too quiet. The rain had softened to a steady hush against the canvas, and the fire outside had burned down to a low orange glow that pushed their shadows up the walls. His stepfather's snore came from the far side of the tent, deep and even, the sound of a man who had no idea what his son had been doing in the dark.

Perry kept his eyes on the canvas ceiling. Counting the drips. One. Two. Three. As if that would make the wanting go away.

It didn't.

Reid shifted beside him, and the sleeping bag rustled, and Perry felt every inch of the movement like a hand on his skin. They were still damp. Both of them. The rain had soaked through their clothes and their clothes were still on, but only barely, and the heat of Reid's body came through the thin fabric in waves.

Perry did not look at him.

If he looked, he was done. If he looked, he would see the rain still beaded in Reid's hair, the way his t-shirt clung to his chest, the mark Perry's mouth had left at the base of his throat. He would see everything he had done and everything he still wanted to do, and he would not be able to pretend any of it had been a mistake.

So he stared at the canvas and counted drips and tried to remember how to breathe.

'You're quiet,' Reid said.

His voice was low, rough from the rain and the things Perry had done to him, and it went through Perry like a current. Perry's jaw tightened.

'I'm sleeping,' he said.

'No, you're not.'

Perry didn't answer. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, and he could feel Reid looking at him. He could always feel it. Two years of pretending he couldn't, and his body had never once believed the lie.

'Perry.'

'Go to sleep, Reid.'

'Look at me.'

Perry's heart kicked hard against his ribs. He kept his eyes on the ceiling. The canvas was grey with the first hint of dawn, and the drips had slowed, and he was not going to look. He was not going to give Reid that. He was not going to give himself that.

'You're doing it again,' Reid said.

'Doing what?'

'Pretending.'

Perry's throat closed. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to shove his face into the sleeping bag and never come up. The worst part was that Reid was right, and Reid knew he was right, and Perry knew that Reid knew, and still he lay there, rigid as a board, counting drips like a man with any dignity left to protect.

'I don't know what you're talking about,' he said.

'Yeah,' Reid said. 'You do.'

The sleeping bag shifted. Reid turned onto his side, and the movement brought him closer, and Perry felt the heat of him along the whole length of his arm. He didn't move away. He told himself it was because there was nowhere to go. The tent was small. The sleeping bag was shared. Moving would wake his stepfather.

All true. None of it the reason.

'Nothing happened,' Perry said.

Reid was quiet for a moment. Then, very softly, he said, 'That's the first time you've ever lied to me.'

Perry's breath caught. He turned his head before he could stop himself, and there was Reid, close enough that Perry could see the rain still clinging to his lashes, the dark of his eyes, the slow, knowing curve of his mouth. He wasn't smiling. It was worse than a smile. It was the look of a man who had already won and was waiting for Perry to admit it.

'What do you want me to say?' Perry whispered.

'Nothing,' Reid said. 'I want you to stop pretending.'

'I'm not pretending.'

'Then why are you shaking?'

Perry looked down. His hands were shaking. He hadn't noticed. He'd been too busy counting drips and lying through his teeth and pretending the whole forest hadn't happened, that he hadn't sat on top of his stepbrother in the rain and held him at the edge and felt the power of it like a drug.

He was shaking because he wanted it again.

Right now. In this tent. With his stepfather snoring ten feet away.

'It's cold,' he said.

Reid's hand moved under the sheet.

Perry felt it before he understood it, the slow drag of warm fingers over his hip, and his whole body went still. Reid's eyes stayed on his, dark and patient, and his hand didn't stop. It slid down, over the jut of Perry's hipbone, and Perry's breath went shallow.

'Reid,' he whispered.

'Tell me to stop.'

Perry's mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Reid's hand moved lower, fingers splaying over the outside of Perry's thigh, and Perry's eyes fluttered, and he bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound. The sleeping bag was hot now, stifling, and his stepfather's snore rolled on, oblivious, and Reid's hand was on his thigh, and Perry was not pulling away.

That was the answer. He knew it. Reid knew it.

'Tell me to stop,' Reid said again, softer this time, and the words were a dare and a question and a promise all at once.

Perry said nothing.

Reid's fingers found the hem of Perry's shirt and slipped underneath. The touch was electric, skin on skin, and Perry's breath caught hard in his chest. He could feel the calluses on Reid's palm, the heat of him, the slow, deliberate drag of his hand up over Perry's stomach.

Reid leaned close, his mouth at Perry's ear, his breath warm and uneven.

'Tell me to stop,' he whispered.

Perry's chest rose and fell. The canvas ceiling blurred above him. His stepfather snored. The rain kept falling, soft and steady, and somewhere far off a bird called out into the grey dawn.

Perry said nothing.

Reid's hand slid higher.

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