Shower

The shower spray pounded against my shoulders like it could wash away sin. It couldn’t. Nothing could. Steam clouded the glass, turning the bathroom into a hazy confessional, but the only voice I heard was my own—low, ragged, cursing.

“Oh fuck…”

My left palm slapped flat against the cool tile wall for balance. My right hand was already wrapped tight around my cock—still slick from Miles’s cum, the evidence I hadn’t bothered to rinse off. I’d smeared it over myself the second I locked the bathroom door behind me, needing to feel him on me, in me, marking me the way I wanted to mark him. His release had cooled slightly on my skin, sticky and warm, and now it lubricated every brutal stroke.

“He’s my nephew,” I muttered through clenched teeth. Step-nephew. The distinction felt flimsy as tissue paper when I pictured his face again—head thrown back, mouth slack in that third, shattering orgasm, tears clinging to his lashes, voice cracking on “Daddy.”

Fuck.

I squeezed harder. Faster. The wet slap of my fist echoed off the walls, obscene in the quiet house. My thumb dragged over the swollen head, spreading the fresh bead of pre-cum that welled up instantly. Every nerve ending screamed his name.

“He’s so fucking pretty…”

I could still see him: legs hooked over my shoulders, thighs trembling, that sweet pink hole stretched around three of my fingers, clenching greedily every time I curled them against his prostate. His cock had jerked untouched when I slapped his thigh—once, twice—leaving blooming red handprints on smooth brown skin. He’d sobbed, hips snapping, cum painting his stomach in thick white ropes while he chanted my name like it was the only word he remembered.

“So sexy… so fucking delicious…”

I should have tasted him. Should have dropped to my knees right there on the living-room rug and buried my face between those thighs. Licked a long, slow stripe from his taint to the tip of his leaking cock. Sucked those tight balls into my mouth one at a time while he whimpered above me. Should have spread him wider with my thumbs and fucked my tongue inside that fluttering hole until he was crying, begging, grinding back against my face like he couldn’t get enough.

“Damn it… Miles…”

My rhythm faltered for a second as the fantasy sharpened. I wanted him over my lap—ass up, wrists pinned at the small of his back—while I fed him inch after thick inch. Wanted to watch those plush, kiss-bitten lips stretch obscenely around my cockhead, saliva dripping down his chin as he struggled to take me deeper. Wanted to feel his throat convulse when I hit the back, hear him gag and moan around me, tears streaming while he looked up with those big, wrecked eyes and called me Daddy again.

The image tipped me over.

“Ahh… fuck…”

A guttural groan tore out of me. My balls drew up tight, spine bowing as heat exploded low in my gut. I came hard—ropes of cum spilling over my knuckles, mixing with his dried release, dripping down my wrist to the shower floor. My vision whited out for a heartbeat; the only thing anchoring me was the tile under my palm and the phantom echo of Miles’s broken cries.

I stood there panting, forehead pressed to the wall, water still pounding my back. My cock twitched weakly in my grip, oversensitive, spent, but already stirring at the memory of him collapsing boneless on the couch—chest heaving, cum streaked across golden skin, hole still winking around nothing after I’d finally pulled my fingers free.

Months. Months of iron control. Cold showers. Random hookups with men who looked like him. Late-night gym sessions until my muscles screamed louder than my conscience. All of it obliterated in one reckless, drug-fueled hour.

How am I supposed to stay away from him now? Would I even be able to stand in the way room with him and not wanting to bend him over and have him moaning for me again?

I twisted the faucet off. Silence rushed in, broken only by my uneven breathing and the drip-drip of water from the showerhead. I grabbed a towel, dried myself roughly—chest, arms, thighs—avoiding my still-half-hard cock like touching it again would summon him through the door.

I had dropped me off to his room after he collapsed. He was probably passed out, exhausted from three shattering orgasms and whatever cocktail that bastard at the club had slipped him. I’d make sure that fucker paid. Tomorrow. After I figured out how to look Miles in the eye without remembering the exact texture of his hole clenching around my fingers, the exact pitch of his voice when he begged.

I walked to my bedroom instead, leaving wet footprints on the hardwood. Dropped onto the edge of the mattress and stared at the ceiling. My birthday was in three weeks. Thirty. A grown man. A successful one. Bank account fat, house paid off, business growing. And still reduced to jerking off in the shower like a teenager because I couldn’t stop wanting the boy sleeping down the hall.

He was twenty-one. Legal. Gorgeous. Willing—at least tonight he had been. But he was also Miles. The teenager who’d blush and stammer whenever I complimented him. The young man who still looked at me like I hung the fucking moon.

And I was the thirty-year-old pervert who’d just finger-fucked him on the living-room couch while he called me Daddy.

I dragged a hand down my face. My family already barely tolerated me. Stepmother never forgave me for coming out. Half-siblings kept their distance. Only Miles’s father—my stepbrother—had ever treated me like I belonged. He’d trusted me with his son. Trusted me to give Miles a stable place while they were abroad.

If he ever found out…

I’d lose the one person who still called me family. I’d lose Miles.

We weren’t even blood. The technicality felt like a sick joke. It didn’t matter. I was supposed to protect him, not ruin him. Not turn him into my personal fantasy.

But God help me, I wanted to.

I wanted to wake him up with my mouth on his cock, sucking him slow until he was hard and leaking against my tongue. Wanted to pin him to the mattress, spread his thighs, and slide inside inch by torturous inch while he clawed at my back and sobbed my name. Wanted to mark every inch of him—bites on his throat, fingerprints on his hips, my cum leaking out of his swollen hole.

I wanted to hear him beg again. Wanted him on his knees in my office while I worked late, pretty lips wrapped around me, eyes watering as I fucked his throat slow and deep. Wanted him bent over the kitchen counter while breakfast burned, whimpering “Daddy, please, harder” until he came untouched.

I wanted everything.

And I couldn’t have any of it.

I stood, paced to the desk in the corner of my room. Laptop. Files. Spreadsheets. Work. Cold, impersonal numbers. If I buried myself in projections and contracts, maybe the ache would dull. Maybe I could pretend tonight never happened.

I opened the laptop. Stared at the screen until the blue light burned my retinas.

It didn’t help.

Every time I blinked, I saw him: legs spread, cock dripping, hole glistening, voice wrecked on my name.

I slammed the laptop shut.

Tomorrow I’d be professional. Distant. Uncle Kale. Nothing more.

Tonight, though?

Tonight I sat in the dark, towel still damp around my hips, cock already thickening again at the memory of his surrender.

And I knew, deep in the black, twisted part of me that had wanted him for months that staying away was going to be the hardest thing I’d ever done.

Because now I’d tasted him.

And nothing else would ever be enough.