Chapter 9:Sunday dinner

Mabel

I was already soaked before I even pulled into my parents’ driveway.

Adrian had started the mind-fuck at 10 a.m. with a single text:

[Adrian]Wear the pale-blue sundress. No panties. I want to know you’re bare under that table while you smile at your mom.

I’d stared at my phone so long the screen went black. Then I’d shaved, lotioned, and slipped into that exact dress (light cotton, little buttons all the way down the front, skirt that flared and stopped mid-thigh). When the breeze hit me as I stepped out of the car, I felt the air slide between my legs like a promise.

Mom greeted me with a hug and a “You look glowing, honey!” Dad kissed my cheek and took the peach pie I’d baked at three in the morning because I couldn’t sleep. And then I walked into the dining room and saw him.

Adrian stood by the window, sunlight pouring over him like he’d ordered it personally. White linen shirt, sleeves rolled up, topily casual. His eyes flicked down my body (slow, deliberate) and the corner of his mouth lifted in the tiniest smirk.

“Hi, kiddo,” he said, voice perfectly normal, and hugged me exactly like a dutiful uncle should. His hand settled at the small of my back for two seconds (thumb stroking once, secretly) before he let go.

I felt that touch between my legs for the next three hours.

Dinner was hell in slow motion.

He sat directly across from me. Every time I reached for the water pitcher, his gaze dropped to the buttons straining slightly across my chest. Every time I laughed at one of Dad’s stories, his foot found my bare ankle under the table and slid upward (slow, deliberate) until his toes brushed the inside of my knee.

I almost dropped the gravy boat.

Mom noticed nothing. She was too busy beaming about how nice it was to have “both her girls” home and how proud she was of Adrian’s new clinic. My little sister asked him a million questions about med school. I smiled, nodded, passed the potatoes, and tried not to squirm while slick heat soaked my thighs.

He waited until Mom was telling the story about the time I tried to dye my hair with Kool-Aid before picture day. Everyone was laughing. Adrian took a slow bite of chicken, licked his thumb clean, and let his foot slide higher (until the top of it pressed right against my bare pussy).

I choked on green beans.

“You okay, sweetie?” Mom asked.

“Fine,” I squeaked. “Spicy.”

Adrian’s eyes glittered. He pressed harder (just a flex of his foot) and held it there while he asked Dad about the lake house roof. I gripped the edge of the table so hard my knuckles went white.

Dessert was worse.

He took a bite of my peach pie, closed his eyes like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted, and made the smallest, filthiest sound in the back of his throat. Then he looked straight at me and said, loud enough for the table, “Mabel’s always had the sweetest pie.”

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

After dinner the parents migrated to the living room for coffee. Adrian offered to help me clear. Mom waved us off with, “Let the kids catch up!”

The second the kitchen door swung shut, he had me.

One hand fisted in my hair, the other shoved my skirt to my waist. He spun me, bent me over the kitchen island, and dropped to his knees behind me.

“Adrian—” I gasped.

“Shh.” His breath ghosted over my bare skin. “You’ve been dripping down your thighs all night, haven’t you?”

I couldn’t answer. He spread me open with his thumbs and licked one long, slow stripe from my clit to my entrance. My knees buckled.

He caught me by the hips, held me up, and devoured me like a starving man. Tongue fucking inside me, nose pressed against my clit, filthy wet sounds I prayed the living room couldn’t hear. I bit down on my own forearm to stay quiet. He didn’t let up (sucking my clit into his mouth, two fingers sliding deep, curling hard) until I came so hard my vision whited out and I sobbed into the granite.

He stood, spun me again, and kissed me with my taste all over his tongue. I could feel how hard he was through his slacks, pressing against my stomach.

“Upstairs,” he growled against my lips. “Guest bathroom. Two minutes.”

He disappeared to say goodbyes. I slipped upstairs on shaky legs, locked myself in the little half-bath under the eaves, hands trembling as I tried to fix my hair in the mirror.

The door opened less than sixty seconds later. He stepped in, locked it behind him, and had his belt undone before the click finished.

“Turn around,” he ordered, voice rough. “Hands on the sink.”

I obeyed. The mirror showed both of us (me flushed and wide-eyed, him towering behind me, eyes black with want). He shoved my dress up again, lined himself up, and pushed inside me in one slow, thick slide.

No condom. We’d stopped using them weeks ago. The feel of him bare made me moan embarrassingly loud.

He slapped a hand over my mouth, leaned in, and started fucking me in deep, punishing strokes. The sink rattled. My breasts bounced with every thrust. His other hand snaked around to rub tight circles on my clit.

“Look at me,” he rasped.

I met his eyes in the mirror. He looked feral.

“You’re mine,” he whispered against my ear. “Every time you sit at this table for the rest of your life, you’ll remember your uncle had you bent over in this bathroom, coming around his cock while your family drank coffee ten feet away.”

I came again (harder than downstairs), clenching around him so tight he groaned and followed me over, pulsing hot inside me, teeth sunk into my shoulder to muffle the sound.

We stayed like that for a long minute (him buried deep, both of us panting, my legs trembling). He kissed the bite mark he’d left, smoothed my dress down, tucked himself away.

“Fix your lipstick,” he murmured, smirking. “You look like you’ve been fucked senseless.”

I wanted to kill him. I also wanted round three.

We slipped out separately. I went down the back stairs, he took the front. Mom caught me in the hallway, pressed a Tupperware of leftovers into my hands, and said, “Adrian says you’ve been helping with some admin at the clinic after hours. We’re all so proud of you two bonding.”

I smiled until my face hurt. “Yeah. Bonding.”

That night I didn’t even pretend to go home.

I showed up at his place at 11:07 p.m., still in the blue sundress, hair wild, lipstick long gone. He opened the door shirtless, sweatpants riding low, eyes dark.

I didn’t speak. Just pushed him inside, kicked the door shut, and dropped to my knees in the entryway.

He groaned my name like it hurt.

I took him deep, tasted both of us on him, and didn’t stop until he was yanking me up by the hair, bending me over the couch, and fucking me so hard the cushions slid off.

Later (much later), tangled in his sheets, sticky and wrecked, he kissed my shoulder and said, voice hoarse, “Move in with me.”

I laughed, breathless. “We can’t.”

“We already are,” he murmured, fingers tracing the bite mark he’d left. “You haven’t slept in your own bed in three weeks.”

I turned to face him, heart pounding all over again. “Adrian—”

“I’m serious.” His eyes were steady. “I want to wake up to you every morning. Want your toothbrush next to mine. Want to fuck you on every surface of this house without looking over our shoulder.”

I swallowed. “And when Mom asks why I’m never home?”

“We’ll figure it out.” He brushed my hair back. “I’m tired of pretending I don’t love you.”

The words hung between us, heavy and perfect and terrifying.

I kissed him instead of answering (slow, deep, until we were both hard and wet again). He rolled me under him, slid inside me like he belonged there, and made me come twice more before I finally whispered it against his mouth.

“I love you too.”

He buried his face in my neck and stayed inside me long after we were done, like he was afraid I’d disappear if he let go.

Outside, the wind rattled the windows. Inside, I fell asleep with my step-uncle wrapped around me, his come still dripping out of me, and I didn’t care how wrong it was.

It felt like the only right thing I’d ever done.