“Okay,” I mumbled, and left the room.
I walked through the house, my heart beating race-horse fast for no outward reason (but all the time thinking of Eli, of that night, of the lion and the way he touched me, of the orgasms and his rock-hard cock), to my bedroom. I was about to walk into the room when I heard two things. The first was Annabelle squealing as Dad entered the bedroom: “Andrew, you’re not supposed to see the bride before the wedding!” The second was Eli, clearing his throat behind me.
I turned and he stepped forward. I knew I had to keep up the fa?ade, had to smile my fake smile and pretend that this was what it looked like, pretend that we were not connected. I forced my lips to twitch upward, but as I did so I found myself looking at his dagger-marked hand, at the hand which had touched my clit. An image, burning, strong, thrust itself into my mind, of Eli moving forward and moving his hand up my thigh, lifting the hem of my dress and clamping his hand down on my clit. I felt the heat, my clit pulsing, hungry for it. But he didn’t do that. He just stood there for a few moments, watching me.
His eyes trailed to the tops of my breasts, lingering there for a moment, and then moved down to my bare legs. I knew it was wrong, I knew that I was supposed to be the good sister, the nice girl, the girl who plays along in this elaborate play, but even so, I reached down and lifted the hem of my dress. That was the true me coming out, I think. I could hear Andrew and Annabelle at the other end of the house, laughing, and I knew I would hear them if they decided to come to this side of the house. I wanted to be desired by him. That was the truth. I lifted the hem of my dress and showed him my panties, which were pink and lacy. His beautiful earth-brown eyes widened when he saw them, and he took a step forward.
I dropped the dress. The madness passed. Idiot, I thought. Why would you do that? Idiot! I’d worked so hard this past week at pushing him away, and here I’d done the one thing that was sure to bring him closer. “Don’t,” I whispered, the fake smile gone from my face. I was revealing my true self, the self that wanted nothing more than for him to ignore me and push me into the bedroom and suck my nipples, grab my ass, spank me, fuck me. “Don’t, Eli.”
He ignored me and stepped close, looming over me. The sun entered from behind him, from a small window set into the wall opposite my bedroom, and when he stepped close to me his shadow fell upon me, making me feel small. But it was not small in a frightened, diminishing way. It was good to feel small near him because it reminded me of how big he was.
He looked down at me with hard eyes. “You can’t fight it forever,” he said. “Sooner or later—”
The laughter stopped, and a sound like galloping came from the direction of Dad and Annabelle. I took a step back. After a moment—just as Dad and Annabelle turned the corner in the hallway and came into view—so did Eli. “Are you not ready yet?” Annabelle asked, looking at her son. He was wearing shorts and a tank top, as he often did about the house.
“Sorry, Mom,” he mumbled, but his eyes didn’t leave me. His gaze lingered on my body, and then he snapped his head around to his mother. “I’ll get ready now,” he sighed.
“Me, too,” I said quickly, shutting the door behind me.
I ran across to my bed and threw myself onto the mattress. I was horny and guilty at the same time, the result being that I felt a strong urge to masturbate, but would have felt dirty if I’d touched myself. I lay on that mattress until I knew that it would cause problems if I didn’t get ready, and then quickly applied my makeup.
When I joined Dad, Annabelle, and Eli at the front door, it was like a perfect family scene. Here was the bride and the husband, desperately in love, who could barely stop looking at each other long enough to address their children. And here were the children, going along with it all so peacefully, becoming a real brother and sister! That must have been how Dad and Annabelle saw things at that moment, but I couldn’t bring myself to.
I kept thinking about how I had lifted my dress, about how the men and women back home would call me a slut, about how they’d call me even worse things if they knew what I’d done with Eli one masked night. But I didn’t regret it. I was nervous as hell—everything trembled, and there was a deep pit in my belly like disastrous foreboding—but I didn’t regret it. I wanted him, even as I told myself otherwise, even as I acted against it.