Operation Seduce My Cousin: Steamy Secrets

Quinn ~ “Ah~”, I moan as his tongue thrusts into me faster, my body shaking with every deep lick that sends sparks shooting up my spine. I grip the wall of the bathroom tighter, my fingers digging into the cold tiles while I spread my thighs wider, trying to take in more of that intense pleasure that's building up inside me like a storm I can't control. “Oh God, oh God, f**k”, I can't breathe, it's too much, but I don't want it to stop, not ever. His hands or whatever they are, since I can't see them—hold my hips steady, pulling me closer to that invisible mouth that's devouring me like I'm the only thing that matters in the world. I arch my back, my head falling against the shower wall as water from the faucet drips down my skin, mixing with the sweat that's already beading on my chest. This has been happening to me ever since I turned sixteen, back when everything in my life flipped upside down. It started right after my dad's funeral, actually, like some kind of twisted gift or curse that showed up uninvited. Every single time I take a bath or find myself alone in a room, this presence comes out of nowhere and arouses me in ways I never thought possible. I shudder just thinking about how it all began—that first night in the old house, when I was trying to wash away the grief and suddenly I felt fingers tracing my skin, it's light at first, then bolder, making me gasp and question if I was losing my mind. I never see his face, but I know deep down it's a man; the way he touches me is too intentional, too knowing, like he understands every inch of my body better than I do. He's invisible, more like a ghost that slips in and out of reality but I feel every single touch, every kiss, every thrust of that tongue that's driving me wild right now. It's not just physical; it's like he feeds off my reactions, making the heat pool between my legs until I'm begging for release without saying a word. My dad died when I was sixteen, and now here I am at twenty-one, still dealing with this secret that's turned my life into a nightmare wrapped in ecstasy. Mom and I have moved to almost five different towns since then, but we never last a year in any of them before we're kicked out or forced to leave. And the reason? It's always because of me, somehow. Things go wrong around me; strange accidents happen, people get hurt or scared off, and whispers start spreading about the "weird girl" who brings bad luck wherever she goes. My mom blames me for killing my dad, even though it was only a mistake—a desperate mistake I made to save her. We were in the car that night, arguing about something stupid, and he swerved to avoid hitting another vehicle, but I grabbed the wheel in panic, thinking I could help and instead, it sent us crashing. He didn't make it but she did, and ever since, she's looked at me like I'm the monster who ruined everything. She hates me for it, won't let me forget, and this presence? I sometimes wonder if it's connected, like a punishment or a guardian that's stuck to me, but it only makes things worse because the more it happens, the more unstable I feel and the more trouble follows. Right now, though, all that fades away as his tongue circles my most sensitive spot, making my knees buckle while I bite my lip to keep from screaming too loud. My breasts heave with each ragged breath, and I reach down instinctively, my hand passing through empty air where his head should be, but that doesn't stop the sensation—it's like he's right there, sucking and licking with a rhythm that's pushing me closer to the edge. I can feel my core tightening, that familiar build-up that's both terrifying and addictive, and I whisper under my breath, "Please, don't stop," even though I know he never listens to my pleas; he just takes what he wants, giving me pleasure that's so overwhelming it borders on pain. My free hand slides up to cup my breast, pinching the n****e hard to match the intensity down below and I imagine what he looks like—tall, dark hair maybe, strong jaw, eyes that burn with the same hunger I feel echoing in my veins. But he's never shown himself, not once in these five years, leaving me to chase shadows in my mind while my body betrays me over and over. Just as I'm about to shatter, the door of the bathroom kicks open with a loud bang, and someone screams, "Quinn!" I jump up so fast that my breasts dangle freely for a second before I catch myself, swallowing hard as my heart races from the interruption. There stands my mom, her eyes wide at first then narrowing into that familiar look of disappointment and disgust. She stares at me for what feels like forever, taking in the scene—the steam still rising from the half-filled tub, my flushed skin, the way I'm panting like I've run a marathon. Finally, she sighs heavily, shaking her head as if this is just another item on her long list of my failures. "Get out of there, it's almost time," she says, her voice cold, before slamming the door shut with enough force to rattle the mirror on the wall. I let out a shaky breath, the pleasure fading as quickly as it came, leaving me empty and frustrated like always. It's not the first time she's caught me in this despicable act of mine; hell, it's probably the tenth or twentieth by now. She thinks I'm just some pervert touching myself obsessively, but she has no idea about the presence, the ghost-man who invades my privacy and turns me into this mess. If I told her, she'd probably blame me for that too, saying I invited it with my "bad energy" or whatever excuse she uses to push me away. I grab my towel from the rack, the soft fabric brushing against my still-sensitive skin, and tie it around myself securely, making sure it covers everything before I step out of the tub. Water drips from my hair onto the floor as I glance at my reflection in the foggy mirror—my cheeks are pink, my lips swollen from biting them, and my eyes look wild, like I've been through a battle I both won and lost. I push open the bathroom door and head straight to my room, the hallway feeling colder than usual against my damp skin. Our house or what's left of it—is packed up in boxes everywhere, a reminder that we're leaving again, chasing some illusion of a fresh start that never sticks. I shut my bedroom door behind me and drop the towel, standing naked for a moment as I stare at the clothes laid out on my bed. Simple jeans, a black top, sneakers—nothing fancy, because who am I trying to impress? I put everything on at once in minutes. I run a brush through my wet hair, not bothering with makeup because we're just driving to the next town, not going to a party. As I'm slipping on my sneakers, the door creaks open without a knock. My mom walks in, her arms crossed and that glare fixed on me like I'm a criminal she's interrogating. She's dressed in her usual practical outfit—khaki pants, a button-up shirt, hair pulled back tight and she looks exhausted, lines around her eyes that weren't there before dad died. She stands there for a second, watching me tie my laces, before she speaks, her tone laced with warning. "Remember, we're going to be staying in your aunt's place from now on, so you better behave yourself, Quinn. I do not want you to bring any misfortune to that household just like you've been doing for the past five years, ruining every chance we had at a normal life. You'll continue college there, so don't mess it up this time—keep your head down, focus on your studies, and stay out of trouble." I look up at her, feeling the sting of her words like a slap, but I don't argue back; what's the point? She's been saying variations of this since the accident, convinced I'm a walking disaster. "I know, Mom," I mutter, standing up and grabbing my backpack from the floor. "I'll try not to screw things up." But inside, my mind is racing—what if the presence follows me to Velaris? What if it causes more problems, more accidents, and we get kicked out again? Aunt Lydia's family sounds perfect on paper: her with her husband, and they have a son and a daughter I've never met, not once since I was born. We've never visited, never even exchanged photos or calls; it's like Mom cut ties after some old family drama I don't know about. But now, with nowhere else to go, we're heading there, and I can't help but wonder if this "operation" to start over will just end in more chaos because of me. She nods once like that's all she needs to hear, but her eyes linger on me with that mix of resentment and pity. "Good. The car's packed; we're leaving in ten minutes. Don't make me come looking for you again." With that, she turns and walks out, leaving the door open as if to say she's watching. In few moments I'm done, I went down in the living room, boxes are stacked high and Mom's already outside loading the last few into the trunk of our beat-up sedan. She glances at me sideways. "This is our last chance, Quinn. Aunt Lydia was kind enough to take us in after I explained... well, some of it. Her husband, Uncle Mark, he's a good man, works in construction. And their kids—your cousins are around your age. They have a son, and also a daughter who's nineteen and in college like you. Be nice to them; don't cause any scenes." I nod, staring out into space"What's the son's name?" I ask, curiosity creeping in despite everything. She hesitates, like even sharing details is a risk. "Damon and the daughter is Mia. Just... remember what I said. No misfortune." Damon? The name repeats in my head strangely and oddly familiar~