Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79332 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79332 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Colby stands with his shoulder resting against the wall, watching with as much discomfort as I’m feeling clear on his face. Seb babbles with questions, making mom laugh as usual. Micky’s baked a cake which mom doesn’t stop gushing about and we all drink coffee and sit around the long hardwood table in the kitchen, talking like nothing has changed.
But everything has.
My fingers tingle with the memory of touching my stepbrothers’ skin. My tongue remembers their taste. Between my legs, I’m swollen and wet at the memory of how many times they’ve made me come.
I avoid looking at them because I’m like Pavlov’s dog. Our eyes meet and my body primes for sex immediately.
When we’ve devoured half the cake, and mom has stacked the plates and cups into the dishwasher, I make my excuses and head up to my room.
My bed feels different; the mattress harder, and the comforter cooler than I remember. It’s as though my room has shut down through the lack of an inhabitant. Or maybe I’ve just gotten used to being surrounded by so much strength and warmth that existing in my space is no longer comfortable or familiar.
Rather than waste time feeling lost without the Colby, Seb, and Micky, I get my head down and study, trying desperately to keep my thoughts engaged on work rather than the three men in this house who make me weak with desire. When it’s time for dinner, I ask mom if I can eat it in my room, so I don’t get behind, and in her excellent mood, nothing is too much trouble.
At eleven pm, there’s a knock on my bedroom door, and when I tell whoever it is to come in, the door opens, and mom appears. “You’re working hard, sweetie. I’m so proud of you.”
They’re words I’ve been desperate to hear for so long, but now they feel tainted with the creeping guilt of my lies.
“Thanks, mom,” I whisper, already imagining the change in her expression and attitude if she eventually discovers the truth.
“Are you going to sleep soon?”
“Another five minutes,” I say.
Padding across my cream carpet, she rests a hand on my shoulder. On my shelf, there’s a photo of us all on vacation two years ago that mom framed for me, as though the forced smiles we were all wearing could convince me we were a happy family. I look up at her and find her smiling strangely.
“Life is funny, isn’t it?”
“I guess,” I say, unsure where she intends to go with her statement.
“One minute, everything is fine. The next, you feel the world has been torn out from under your feet.”
“I’m sorry about what happened,” I say.
She squeezes my shoulder. “So is Harry. I didn’t believe it at first, but I’ve never seen that man so humble. Everything feels different.”
“Different good?”
She nods, squeezing my shoulder again. “I was worried about what kind of message I’d send if I accepted his apology and believed his regret. I don’t want you to think his behavior is acceptable. But then I thought about the message of forgiveness and trying hard to make love work.” She shrugs, and I understand why. Life isn’t black and white, even though I try to make it that way. “Sometimes, we’re hit with a curveball, and we have to decide if a relationship is worth fighting for. This one is, but that doesn’t mean all of them will be.”
I know she doesn’t know about my feelings for her stepsons, but her words still feel strategically placed to make me feel bad.
How can anyone be sure which relationships are worth fighting for?
Is it a feeling? Does it come from having self-confidence? Whatever it is, I’m missing it.
“It’s okay, mom. I understand. Live your life for you.” Do I even believe what I’m saying? It’s certainly not how I’ve acted these past few weeks—hiding from myself and my feelings—hiding from our relationship and the implications it will have for others. Why is it so easy to give others advice that I would never give myself?
“I’m living it for you, too,” she says. “This home, you, and the boys. You all deserve stability and parents who are around to support you.”
The sinking feeling that’s been weighing in my stomach from the morning plummets another ten feet. “We’re almost grown, mom.”
“You are,” she says softly. “You know, one of my biggest regrets was always that I hadn’t given you a brother or sister to keep you company in life. Then I met Harry, and suddenly, there were three amazing big brothers to look out for you.”
Amazing big brothers?
Amazing big brothers don’t lick the places the Townsend triplets have licked. They don’t slide inside you while holding your throat and tell you what a good girl you are. They don’t spank your ass and make you gag on their cocks. They don’t touch you like you’re invincible and fragile and precious, all at the same time.