Chapter 8:Private lessons

The first Tuesday I showed up at Adrian’s house with a bottle of wine and a stomach full of butterflies. He opened the door in sweatpants and a faded Duke Med T-shirt, hair still damp from the shower, and the look he gave me (like he was already undressing me with his eyes) made my knees wobble.

“No clothes after the first ten minutes, remember?” he said, taking the wine without breaking eye contact.

I rolled my eyes to hide how fast my pulse was racing. “Hi to you too.”

He laughed, pulled me inside, and kissed me hello against the door until I forgot my own name.

That was how it started.

Tuesday and Thursday nights became sacred. I’d text him when I was five minutes away (always something stupid like “bringing contraband chocolate” or “if you make me wait on the porch I’m leaving”) and he’d reply with a single emoji that somehow managed to be filthy and sweet at the same time.

The first few sessions were technically lessons.

Week One he sat me in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom, both of us naked, my back to his chest, his legs bracketing mine. He made me watch while he touched me (slow circles, feather-light, until I was begging). Then he took my hand and placed it over his, guiding my own fingers until I came just from watching myself fall apart. I cried that night, not from shame but from relief. He held me until I stopped shaking and whispered, “See? Nothing broken.”

Week Two was toys. He laid out a row on the bed like a damn buffet (small vibrator, curved glass wand, sleek silicone thing that looked intimidating). He used each one on me while explaining pressure and angles and why most women need clitoral stimulation even during penetration. I came so hard on the glass wand I squirted (actually squirted) and he looked so proud I wanted to die of embarrassment and pride at the same time.

Week Three he blindfolded me. Said trust was the last barrier. He spent an hour kissing every inch of me without letting me touch him back. By the time he finally let me come I was sobbing his name into the pillow.

Somewhere around Week Four the lessons stopped being lessons.

We’d start with some pretense (tonight we’re working on edging, tonight it’s multiple orgasms) but it always ended the same: me wrecked and boneless across his sheets, him kissing the inside of my wrist like I was something holy.

Between sessions we texted like teenagers.

**Me:** just realized I left my panties in your couch cushions again  

**Adrian:** found them. wearing them as a hat right now  

**Me:** gross  

**Adrian:** you love it, little niece  

**Me:** stop that  

**Adrian:** make me

He started calling me that in messages (little niece) half teasing, half filthy. I hated how much I loved it. Every time the words popped up on my screen I’d feel it between my legs like a pulse.

During the day we were careful. Insanely careful. At the clinic he was Dr. Cole, polite and professional if we passed in the hallway. At family stuff we hadn’t overlapped yet, thank God. But the Sunday dinner was looming. Mom had been texting reminders for weeks.

**Mom:** Don’t forget next Sunday! Uncle Adrian is finally coming!! Bring dessert!!

I showed Adrian the text while we were tangled in his sheets, both of us sweaty and wrecked from round three.

He read it, groaned, and dropped his phone on the nightstand. “We’re so fucked.”

“Language,” I teased, tracing the line of hair below his navel. “What if someone notices?”

“They won’t.” He rolled on top of me, pinning my wrists above my head. “Because you’re going to sit across the table from me in that pretty little sundress and you’re not going to look at me once.”

I arched up, deliberately brushing against him. “Think you can ignore me for three hours?”

His eyes darkened. “I’m going to spend the whole dinner thinking about how you sound when you come on my tongue. You’re going to smile at your mom and pass the potatoes and pretend your panties aren’t soaked.”

I whimpered. Actually whimpered.

He smirked, kissed the tip of my nose. “Think you can do that, little niece?”

I tried to glare and failed completely. “You’re evil.”

“Only for you.”

The night before the dinner he kept me late. Said he needed to “prepare me.” He edged me for forty-five minutes (fingers, tongue, that damn vibrator on low) until I was crying and begging and promising him anything if he’d just let me come. When he finally did, I came so hard I saw stars.

Afterward he held me close, fingers combing through my hair. “Tomorrow,” he murmured, “no matter what happens at that table, you remember this. Remember who you belong to now.”

I fell asleep with his heartbeat under my ear and the taste of him still on my tongue.

Sunday morning I stood in front of my mirror for an hour trying to find something that looked innocent. Settled on a pale yellow sundress with tiny flowers, hair in a braid, minimal makeup. I looked like I was going to church. Perfect.

Adrian texted me on my way over.

"you look angelic. I’m already hard."

I shyly laughed and told him to stop it because i was driving 

He continued and told me to think about him in the bathroom if i need to cum.  

[Me]: I hate you  

[Adrian]I  love you too

I almost dropped my phone.

He’d never said it before. Not out loud, not in texts. I stared at the screen until the light timed out, heart hammering against my ribs.

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not yet.

I pulled up to my parents’ house ten minutes late, clutching a store-bought lemon cake like a shield. Mom hugged me at the door, Dad kissed my cheek, and then I walked into the dining room and there he was.

Adrian stood by the window, sunlight cutting across his shoulders, wearing a light blue shirt that made his eyes look greener than usual. He smiled at me (polite, distant, perfect) and my stomach flipped so hard I almost dropped the cake.

“Uncle Adrian!” I said, voice too bright. “So good to see you again.”

He crossed the room, hugged me exactly like an uncle should (quick, chaste, one arm) and whispered against my ear, “You’re killing me in that dress.”

I smiled sweetly and stepped back before anyone noticed my legs shaking.

Dinner was torture.

He sat directly across from me. Every time I looked up he was watching me with that calm doctor face, but his foot found my calf under the table and slid slowly upward. I choked on mashed potatoes. Mom asked if I was okay. I said yes, just went down the wrong pipe.

Dad asked Adrian about the new clinic. Adrian answered smoothly, all charm and medical jargon, while his toes traced circles on my ankle. I gripped my fork so hard I bent it.

Mom served roast chicken and kept saying how nice it was to have “both her girls” at the table (me and my little sister who was home from college). I smiled until my face hurt.

Dessert was the worst. Adrian took a bite of my lemon cake, licked frosting off his thumb slow enough to make my vision blur, and said casually, “Mabel’s always had the sweetest taste.”

I kicked him under the table. He didn’t even flinch.

After dinner the parents moved to the living room for coffee. Adrian offered to help me with dishes. Mom waved us off, said kids these days needed to bond with family.

The second the kitchen door swung shut he had me pressed against the fridge, mouth on mine, hand sliding up my thigh under the dress.

“Adrian—” I gasped.

“Shh.” He nipped my neck. “You’ve been dripping for me all night, haven’t you?”

I nodded, helpless.

He slipped two fingers inside me right there between the fridge and the island, curling them just right. I bit his shoulder through his shirt to stay quiet. Thirty seconds later I was coming around his fingers, knees buckling.

He caught me, kissed me soft and slow, then pulled my panties back into place like nothing happened.

“See?” he whispered. “Told you you could be good.”

I wanted to kill him. I also wanted to drop to my knees in my mother’s kitchen.

We made it through coffee without incident. When he left he hugged me again (perfectly appropriate) and said loud enough for everyone, “Great seeing you, kiddo. Let me know if you need help with that project you’re working on.”

Mom beamed. “Adrian’s so sweet offering to mentor you!”

I smiled through clenched teeth. “So sweet.”

That night I showed up at his place without texting first. He opened the door in nothing but low-slung sweats, hair tousled, looking like every filthy dream I’d ever had.

I didn’t say hello. Just pushed him inside and kicked the door shut behind me.

He grinned against my mouth. “Miss me?”

“Shut up and take me to bed.”

We didn’t make it to the bed.