A raw moan tore from her chest, swallowed by the hissing water. Her right hand abandoned the aching weight of her breast, skimming down the dip of her stomach, a path slick with soap and need. Her fingers plunged into the coarse, dark curls guarding her sex—that primal, untamed bush she'd never bothered with now feeling wild, obscene, and utterly right. Her fingertips found the swollen, saturated folds beneath. Hot. Drenched.
I shouldn't be feeling this. The thought was a whisper against a scream of sensation. Forbidden. But her hips bucked, betraying her. Is it, though? He's not my blood. He's… my best friend's son. The logic was a flimsy shield against a tidal wave of want. Not incest.
Just… a line. A line I'm about to cross.
Her middle Finger found her clit, and the electric shock made her knees buckle. Not mine. But her body ground forward, shamelessly chasing the friction of her own hand. He watched my ass. He knows. The knowledge was as potent as the touch.
