Absolute Power
Chapter 8 Boyfriend Practice
The following morning, John shuffled into the kitchen, his heartbeat slightly too quick beneath his t-shirt, his stomach knotted with equal parts guilt and anticipation. Emily sat at the table, still in the sorority hoodie, scrolling through her phone, her spoon lay abandoned in soggy cereal, face calm. The house moved in its relentless, indifferent rhythm—the old plumbing clanking through the walls with familiar regularity.
He poured coffee into a faded blue mug with “Excellence in Mathematics” stamped across its side—one of Tara’s abandoned grade school prizes. “You look tired,” he said, studying her over the rising steam.
Emily glanced up, dark circles smudged beneath her eyes. “Look who’s talking.” She stifled a yawn, pushing her bowl aside. “Barely slept,” she muttered, rubbing her throat absently. For a moment, her spoon hovered over the cereal, then she just stirred, eyes never quite meeting his, lost somewhere in the pale spiral of milk.
“Yeah, me neither.” He slid into the chair across from her, noticing the way she seemed both tired and somehow more alert than usual. “Hey, can I ask you something weird?”
When aren’t you asking something weird?” But she set her phone down, meeting his eyes with that mix of annoyance and curiosity unique to siblings.
“ Jake Harmon? How you told me you just stood there like a statue when he asked you to winter formal?” Emily’s shoulders tensed as she looked up from her phone, her eyes narrowing. “We could help each other practice talking to the opposite sex,” he suggested, aiming for casual.
“Nice try. I recognize a practical joke when I see it.”
John rolled the mug between his hands, tracing faded letters. “I mean it—it’s not a joke.” He leaned in, voice softer, focusing on that familiar pressure point behind his eyes that seemed to open whenever he reached for his power. “We could help each other.” His chest tightened as he waited for her to slip under, watching for that telltale dreamy blink that always came when his will slipped past someone’s defenses.
Emily’s posture softened. “Fine,” she said, rolling her eyes. “But if you tell anyone, I swear to God...”
You either, Sis.” He sipped his coffee, watching her over the rim.
Later he found her in the kitchen, grimacing with frustration as she wrestled with a jar of stewed tomatoes, leftover from last years garden haul. The metal lid refused to budge despite the red marks forming on her palm. On the cutting board ingredients waited for their mom’s marinara recipe: garlic cloves, dried oregano, and a yellow onion already diced into perfect cubes.
“Need help?” he asked, lingering in the doorway.
She glared at the jar. “I’ve got it.”
He stepped closer. “Wait. This could be good practice.”
“What?” She gave the lid another futile twist.
Guys love feeling useful. Pretend you’re some helpless girl who needs her big strong man to save the day.”
Emily snorted, her knuckles whitening with renewed effort against the stubborn lid. “Right, because I can’t possibly open a jar without your manly muscles rescuing me from my feminine feebleness.”
He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Whoa there, Gloria Steinem. I’m not saying it’s right—I’m saying it works. Just pretend for when you meet someone you actually want to like you.”
She rolled her eyes but turned to him, jar extended, batting her eyelashes exaggeratedly. “Oh John,” she sighed, voice pitched higher, “I’m just a weak little woman. Could my big, masculine brother help me?”
Despite her tone, something electric shot through him. “Your beside needs a little work,” he said, taking the jar, his fingers brushing hers. The lid gave with a satisfying pop.
“My hero,” she said with mock adoration, taking it back.
That afternoon, the house fell into a lull of weekend quiet. John wandered downstairs, the floorboards creaking beneath his socked feet, and paused in the living room doorway. Emily had claimed the entire couch, her legs tangled in their mother’s knitted afghan, a graphic novel propped against her knees. She didn’t look up when he entered, just turned a page with a soft rustle.
“What are you reading?” he asked, moving her feet to make space before sitting down beside her.
She held up the cover—a worn paperback with a muscular woman in a tight black costume hurling lightning from her fingertips against a neon purple sky. Emily’s thumb rested on a dog eared corner. “You’d hate it.”
He watched her for a moment, then nudged her foot with his. “So who is she?”
Emily lowered the book slightly. “Who?”
He slid closer. “Who?” he echoed with a smirk. “You sound like that owl from the vintage candy add.” His knee bumped against hers. “The lightning lady. Is she any good at talking to people she likes?”
She shrugged. “She doesn’t really do much talking. Mostly just saves the world and hooks up with her girlfriend.”
“Oh,” he said, processing this. “Didn’t realize it was that kind of comic.”
“It’s not ‘that kind’ of anything,” Emily said, turning the page. “It’s just a normal story where the main character happens to be gay.”
He nodded, eyeing the heroine on the page. “If you liked someone, how would you get them to notice you?”
She glanced up, a strand of hair falling across her cheek. “Just talk to them, I guess.” Her attention returned to the page, fingers tightening slightly on the book’s edge.
His hand found her calf. She flinched but didn’t move away, the muscle tensing beneath his palm. “John.” Her voice dropped, eyes fixed on the same she’d been staring at for thirty seconds. “What are you doing?”
His thumb traced a slow circle against her skin as he focused on her eyes, willing her to relax. Her leg twitched once, almost pulling away, before going still again. His mouth went dry. “Getting you used to it.” His voice cracked, hand clammy against her skin. He felt her muscles tense beneath his fingers, then gradually surrender as his will pressed against hers. “Nobody wants to date someone who jumps every time they’re touched,” he added, hearing the slight tremor in his voice.
She set the book face-down on her stomach, her thumb absently tracing the spine. “So your brilliant lesson is calf massage 101?” The question came with an eye roll, but her leg shifted almost imperceptibly toward him as his fingers uncertainly pushed the boundary.
His hand slid higher, past her ankle to the soft crease behind her knee. His heart hammered as he felt her skin—hot and impossibly soft against his fingertips. Her leg twitched once, almost pulling away, before going still beneath his touch. “It’s about physical comfort,” he said, voice cracking before dropping lower. His thumb traced small circles, raising goosebumps in its wake. Her eyes flickered with momentary confusion, then glazed slightly as she exhaled. When she didn’t pull away, his confidence surged. “Girls who know how to respond get noticed.”
“I’m not—” Emily’s voice caught as his fingers pressed deeper. She swallowed hard, her leg tensing. “I know how to respond.”
He moved his hand again, and the muscle beneath his palm jumped like a startled animal. “Your body’s giving you away.” He felt nervous tremors. “Breathe, Em. You’re holding your breath.”
She exhaled, sinking deeper into the cushions. Her eyes met his, blue and wary in the afternoon light filtering through the blinds. “What now, Professor Awkward?”
“Eye .” His hand drifted higher, past the knee. The room fell silent except for the distant hum of the refrigerator. “Don’t look away.”
She held his gaze, something uncertain flickering across her face. “Like this?”
His voice went rough. “Better. But you’re looking at me like I just suggested we rob a bank with sporks.”
The corner of her mouth twitched in a ghost of a smile. His fingers traced slow patterns on her thigh, each circuit climbing imperceptibly higher. The afghan slipped from her lap.
“Is there actually a point to this?” Her words came out slightly breathless.
His fingertips found the frayed edge of her denim shorts. “You tell me.”
Emily let out a nervous laugh, her cheeks flushing. “Yeah, yeah. I’m sure the guys at school will be blown away by my ability to...” She trailed off as his fingers brushed just under the hem of her shorts, lingering there. Her breath caught.
“John,” she whispered, but didn’t move away. For a moment, her expression flickered——confusion crossing her features like a shadow before dissolving back into dreamy compliance.
He leaned in, breath close to her ear, “Still practice.” His fingers hovered at the edge of her shorts as Emily tensed.
“Is this—” she began, her voice barely audible.
The distant crunch of tires on gravel made John freeze. “That’s Mom,” he whispered, reluctantly withdrawing his hand. “We should probably—”
“Yeah,” Emily said, not moving, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “Probably.”
He stood, smoothing his shorts, painfully aware of his arousal. “This was good practice though.” The car door slammed outside. “We can pick up where we left off. Later.”
He left her bedroom with his hands still tingling. His stomach churned—guilt mixed with something electric that made his skin feel too tight. At the doorway, he paused, turning back to see her uncertain expression. He reached out, not physically but with his mind, sending waves of calm reassurance washing over her. Her shoulders visibly relaxed, eyes growing slightly unfocused as the suggestion took hold: everything was fine, normal, nothing to worry about. The worry lines between her brows smoothed away as she smiled vaguely in his direction.
That evening, while he stood watching the microwave timer count down on a frozen burrito, Emily appeared behind him. She punched him in the kidney—not hard enough to hurt but with the familiar weight of a thousand childhood fights—then hooked her chin over his shoulder, her hair tickling his ear as she leaned in to look at what he was making.
“Thanks for earlier,” she mumbled, her voice barely audible over the microwave hum. She punched him again with forced casualness, then added, “Just don’t get weird about it. It’s just practice, right?” She rolled her eyes dramatically. “But if Mom asks why we’re suddenly spending so much time together, I’m going to tell her I’m teaching you how to pretend you’re a normal human being and not a complete dork… which you are.”
A quip back stuck in John’s throat. He should apologize, confess, take it all back. Instead, he watched steam fog the microwave door while her gratitude hung between them like something physical.
In that moment, he knew he couldn’t stop.
After dinner, John lingered in the hallway, his fingertips brushing the wall as he paused outside Emily’s closed door. From downstairs came the rhythmic clicking of Catherine’s laptop; from the opposite end of the hall, Tara’s music thumped with a steady bass line. He hesitated, wiping his sweating palms against his jeans. What they’d done earlier was in no way just “practice” anymore, even if she didn’t know it. That should bother him more than it did. He half-turned to leave, then stopped. The memory of Emily’s flushed cheeks and parted lips returned. The guilt was there, but so was the desire—and lately, the desire was winning.
He pushed the door open without knocking. Emily sat cross-legged on her bed, scrolling through her phone, but her eyes flicked up with a quickness that betrayed her anticipation. She’d changed into a thin tank top that rode up above her navel, paired with dolphin shorts rolled at the waistband. When she saw him, she straightened her posture, glancing at herself in the mirror to make sure she looked the way she wanted to. “Hey,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. She cleared her throat and tossed her phone aside with a fumble that nearly sent it off the bed and managed in a half-suave playful voice, “So? How’d you like my Waiting-for-you vibe?”
He sat beside her on the bed, causing her to bounce slightly. The mattress dipped under his weight, and she shifted, angling her body toward him, her shoulders back in a way that pushed her small chest forward.
His eyes traced her posture, lingering on the way she’d positioned herself. “Were you practicing in the mirror while you were waiting?” The words came out as a sibling jab instead of the seductive tone he’d intended, and he winced internally. He’d meant it to sound suggestive, inviting—not like he was quoting from a stolen diary.
She shoved his shoulder, her hand lingering against his t-shirt before pulling away with a jerk that seemed rehearsed. “Shut up,” she mumbled, her cheeks blooming pink as she tucked her hair behind her ear and glanced at him sideways through her lashes—exactly the way she’d seen girls do in movies. Something about her obvious effort, the way she was trying so hard to seem casual yet flirtatious, made John’s hesitation dissolve.
“You totally were.” He reached for a wayward strand of her hair, intending to tuck it behind her ear with, but his hand trembled slightly. His fingers fumbled, grazing her cheek before abandoning the attempt. The strand fell back across her face. He cleared his throat. “Batting your eyelashes at yourself in the mirror,” he added, forcing a laugh.
She covered her face but peeked through her fingers, her tank top riding up as she shifted closer. “God, stop.”
“Show me,” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, her shyness giving him confidence. He felt the mental push of his power leave him like an invisible hand, and swallowed hard.
Emily hesitated, then shifted her weight toward him, the mattress dipping between them. She leaned in, letting her breasts rest against his arm as she put her hand on his. The lingered—not quite an accident, not quite intentional—hanging in that uncertain space of plausible deniability. “Something like this?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, eyes flicking up to gauge his reaction.
“Better.” He caught her wrist, his thumb circling where her pulse jumped beneath the skin. Their eyes met, both aware they’d crossed some invisible line. “But guys notice when you’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” she said, voice catching.
He noticed the pink creeping down her throat. “You’re blushing.”
“I am not nervous,” she said, but her free hand flew to her cheek. “It’s just hot in here.“
He leaned closer. “Prove it. Kiss me.”
Her blush deepened. “What?”
“Just practice. Unless you’re chicken.”
She hesitated, her eyes darting to his lips, then away. Her shoulders tensed as she leaned in, aiming for his cheek at the last second. The kiss landed awkwardly, a butterfly touch that lingered a half-beat too long. He laughed, but caught how her fingers twisted in her lap, how she bit her lower lip after pulling away. “Weak,” he said, watching her pupils dilate.
“Like you could do better,” she challenged, voice unsteady.
“Watch me.” His lips brushed hers. She froze, then melted against him with a small sound.
“That felt weird,” she said.
“Weird good, or weird bad?”
She bit her lip. “Weird good, I think.”
They kissed again. Her hand found his thigh; his slid to her waist, then lower. Static built behind his eyes as he guided her with his power. Her tongue brushed his; she giggled.
“Sorry,” she pulled away. “Ticklish.”
“You’re learning fast.”
Emily pressed against him. “This really isn’t weird? Practicing with your brother?”
He let the suggestion pour out. “It’s not weird if you trust me. It’s just practice.”
She nodded, eyes half-lidded. “I do trust you,” she said. “More than anyone.”
The words “more than anyone” lodged in John’s throat like a fishbone. She trusted him more than anyone—her brother, her protector—while he manipulated her mind for his own desires. The power hummed beneath his skin, a predator’s purr urging him forward, while his last shred of conscience, the part that ed building forts with her when they were kids, pulled him back.
“Em, can we pause for a moment?” His voice cracked.
She leaned in, her breath warm on his neck. “Why? I thought I was getting better.” Her hand drifted along his collarbone. Her nipples pressed visibly against her thin shirt.
He caught her wrist. “You are. I just need a minute.” He rose, easing away.
Emily tugged at her shorts. “Did I mess up?”
“No,” he said, brushing hair from her face. “You did great. I just need air.” He slipped out, closing her door.
Outside, he pressed his palm to the wall, heart pounding. The power thrummed. With a thought, he sent a wave through—comfort, assurance that everything was normal.
Hours later, John lay awake, sheets twisted around his legs. His mind replayed every touch, every smile. The want was a physical ache. What haunted him most was the trust in her eyes, the way she’d melted into him.
Jerking off did nothing. He needed more.
It was late when he edged towards Emily’s room, the door hinges squeaking softly as he pushed it open. Inside, the scent of her strawberry shampoo mingled with the vanilla body spray she had started using recently. Stripes of moonlight cut through the partially closed blinds, casting a cool glow on her unmade bed and turning her skin a pale blue against the crumpled pink sheets. She lay on her side, one leg free from the light blanket, her tank top gathered around her midsection, and her shorts hiked up on her thighs. One arm was tucked under her head, the other rested against her chest, fingers slightly curled.
The carpet prickled his bare feet as he neared her. The digital clock on her cluttered nightstand read 2:17 AM in red letters. He stood there, listening to her steady breaths, accompanied by the distant hum of the refrigerator downstairs. Her mouth parted slightly as she breathed, a strand of hair moving gently with each exhale. His hand hovered above her stomach, feeling the heat from her skin.
His palm rested flat against her tummy, warm and smooth, then moved upward. Her tank top bunched at his wrist. He paused briefly at her sternum before continuing.
Beneath her shirt, he found her breast, small and fitting perfectly in his palm. He squeezed gently, feeling its weight and shape, the slight give of the flesh.
Emily sighed softly, a sound like a breeze through leaves, and shifted against her pillow. He froze, his heart pounding. She rolled onto her back, arms spreading across the mattress, her tank top riding up further. In the moonlight, the shadows of her nipples were visible under the thin fabric, rising and falling with each breath.
He lifted the shirt to her collarbones, exposing her braless chest. Goosebumps formed in the cool air. He watched, intrigued by her unconscious responses, the way her sleeping body reacted. A small frown briefly crossed her face, then disappeared.
His eyes traced every inch of her exposed skin, memorizing the gentle slope where her ribs gave way to her waist, the soft rise of her chest in the dim light. He leaned forward slowly, feeling his own heartbeat quicken as his lips met her skin. The warmth of her body against his mouth sent a jolt through him—not just arousal but a strange intimacy that made his stomach tighten. Her skin tasted faintly of salt and something else he couldn’t name—clean, familiar. He closed his eyes, suddenly aware of his own breathing, the slight tremor in his hands as they pressed into the mattress on either side of her.
Emily gasped, a soft, delicate sound that sent a thrill through him. Her eyes remained closed, her breath coming in shallow, ragged bursts. He swirled his tongue over her nipple, then lightly grazed it with his teeth. Her toes curled slightly, but she remained in her dreamlike state. He pulled back, watching as her chest rose and fell more rapidly, her lips parting slightly. He blew a cool stream of air across the wet skin, making her shiver.
He trailed kisses down her stomach, his hand staying on her breasts. Her skin was warm and responsive, every touch eliciting a subtle reaction. When he reached her navel, he circled it with his tongue, and her hips lifted unconsciously toward him. He pushed her shorts down her hips, revealing her hip bones, the delicate curves creating shadows under the fabric.
John watched Emily’s sleeping face as his fingertips grazed her thigh, noting how her breathing quickened at even this light . When he traced circles higher, her legs parted without resistance. Each unconscious response—the way her back arched when he brushed her chest, how her lips parted when he squeezed—sent electric currents through him. A final thread of conscience snapped inside him, replaced by a flood of raw desire. This was different from controlling her mind; her body was responding naturally, honestly. The realization hit him like a drug: he wasn’t just commanding her thoughts anymore, he was discovering what made her react. He wanted all of her, completely. There would be no turning back now.
Emily’s breathing changed, growing less even. Her eyelids fluttered, a small frown creasing her forehead again. John froze, his fingertips still resting on the curve of her hip. She shifted, turning toward his touch rather than away.
“Mmm,” she murmured, not fully conscious.
He felt his power humming beneath his skin, stronger than ever before. “You’re dreaming,” he whispered, letting the suggestion seep into her mind. “A good dream about our practice.”
Her lips curved into a sleepy smile. “Practice,” she repeated, the word slurred.
That’s right,” he continued, his voice gentle as he stroked her hair, his heart skipping when she stirred. His fingers trembled slightly near her lips, hesitating. His mind ed the wrongness for exactly one second before he deliberately pushed the thought aside, like closing a door on an unwanted visitor. “ how you wanted to be a good girlfriend? How you asked me to show you what to do with your mouth?”
Her eyes opened halfway, unfocused but seeking his face in the darkness. “John? What’re you doing here?”
His stomach dropped. He froze, then exhaled slowly, gathering his power. “Shh,” he soothed, letting his influence wrap around her like a warm blanket, pressing down on her consciousness. He felt her mind resist for a moment—a brief flicker of alarm—before his power smoothed it away. He guided her gaze downward briefly, then back to his face. “You asked for more practice, ? You were so excited to try it.”
She nodded slowly, the manufactured memory taking root as her eyes drifted to his lap. “I did?”
His heart hammered as he helped her sit up. Emily glanced down, suddenly noticing her exposed chest. Her hands flew to cover herself, eyes widening.
“Wait—why am I—”
John pressed harder with his ability, redirecting her thoughts before panic could set in. “ how we were talking about trying new things?” he whispered, watching her confusion transform into something else entirely. “Like what couples practice together?”
Emily blinked heavily, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. Her hands lowered inch by inch, nipples hardening in the cool air. A flush crept across her chest as she noticed his gaze fixed on her. “Oh,” she whispered, the single syllable catching in her throat. She shifted, her body responding to his attention in ways her drowsy mind couldn’t fully process. “Mmm... what time is it?” Her voice was thick with sleep, but something else too—a breathy quality that hadn’t been there before.
“Late,” he murmured, sitting on the edge of her bed. “But you said you wanted to learn.” He gently guided her shoulders toward him. She resisted, her body stiffening under his touch. Her eyes, still heavy with sleep, suddenly widened with confusion.
“John, I don’t—” she started, pulling back slightly, her fingers clutching at the sheets.
He felt his power waver as her consciousness fought against the suggestion. A thin line appeared between her brows as she struggled against the fog in her mind. He pressed his influence deeper, feeling it flow through his fingertips like warm honey, seeping into the cracks of her resistance.
“You were so excited about it earlier,” he whispered, his thumb tracing small circles on her collarbone. “?”
The resistance in her eyes flickered, then melted into something else—confusion giving way to curiosity, then surrender. Her muscles relaxed in waves, starting at her shoulders and flowing downward. She allowed him to guide her forward, then down, until she knelt on the carpet between his legs.
She glanced down at her exposed chest, then back to his face, her expression transforming from drowsy uncertainty to a mixture of embarrassment and unexpected pleasure.
“I did?” She looked up, her eyes drawn to his pajama bottoms, the bulge obvious beneath the thin fabric. Her lips parted slightly as she exhaled. Her cheeks burned brighter, pulse visibly quickening at the base of her throat. “Like... like this?” Her hands found his knees for balance, her body tensing not to stand but in response to the unfamiliar heat building inside her.
John stroked her hair, channeling his power through his fingertips directly into her mind. “Exactly like this,” he whispered, feeling her resistance melt away under his touch. “You’re curious, ? You want to know what it’s like.”
“You’re doing perfect,” he assured her, stroking her hair. “This is just practice, ? Nothing we haven’t talked about.” She nodded uncertainly, eyes searching his face for confirmation. She blinked up at him, uncertainty flickering across her face. “I don’t know if I...” Her voice trailed off as his power nudged gently at her mind, smoothing the edges of her hesitation.
“Just touch me first,” he suggested, his voice low and reassuring. “Like you’re curious.”
Her hands steadied on his knees as she nodded, a flush spreading across her chest. His power pulsed again, softer this time, planting the seed of desire.
“That’s it,” he murmured as her fingers crept higher along his thighs. “Just exploring, right? Nothing scary.”
Each time she paused, he felt her resistance—a wall he could dissolve with just a thought. He stroked her hair, channeling his power through his fingertips. “You want to see what it’s like, don’t you? Just to know.”
She tugged at his waistband, her movements growing more confident with each subtle mental nudge. When his cock sprang free, her eyes widened, but the panic that should have followed melted under his influence.
“Maybe just touch it?” he suggested, as if it were her idea all along. “See how it feels?”
Her trembling fingers hooked into his waistband, tugging downward with hesitant determination. The elastic caught briefly on his erection before snapping underneath, exposing him fully to the cool air of her bedroom. Emily’s sharp intake of breath matched his own as her wide eyes fixed on his naked flesh—the first male anatomy she’d ever seen in person. Her hand wrapped shyly around him, skin-to-skin sending a visible shudder through her small frame. John felt the connection surge between them like static electricity, his consciousness expanding as her breath quickened, pupils dilating. He guided her thoughts toward curiosity rather than the fear flickering at the edges of her mind, watching as her lips parted unconsciously.
“I think...” she whispered, leaning closer as his power urged her forward, “I think I want to try...”
He noticed her free hand reaching between her legs, her body responding to his desires. Her fingers trembled as they wrapped around him, her grip uncertain. She stared at it, lips parted, breathing shallow.
“Just a little taste,” he murmured. “You’re safe with me.”
Emily leaned forward, hesitated. Her warm breath tickled the tip. John watched her face—flushed cheeks, eyebrows drawn together in concentration, lower lip caught between her teeth. When she finally touched her tongue to him, her eyelashes fluttered, and he shuddered. Her eyes widened, pupils dilating as she ed his reaction. She tried again, her expression shifting from uncertainty to curiosity as her lips brushed against him. The salt-bitter taste made her nose wrinkle slightly, her rapid blinking betraying surprise, but her jaw set with determination. She parted her lips further, her expression softening as she took just the head into her mouth. As the unfamiliar weight rested on her tongue, her eyes lifted to meet his—wide, vulnerable, seeking reassurance.
He gave it to her, murmuring encouragement, letting the command slip into every word. “You’re perfect,” he whispered. “You’re so good at this. You make me feel amazing.” She moaned, the vibration sending shocks up his spine. He rocked his hips, careful not to hurt her, but she matched his rhythm, still awkwardly but gaining confidence.
John’s mind splintered the warmth from Emily’s mouth overwhelmed him. His power surged with each hesitant lick, building pressure behind his eyes until he couldn’t contain it anymore. The dam broke, his control dissolving as her warm, wet mouth enveloped him.
You need to know what I can do, he gasped mentally, the thought penetrating the edges of her consciousness like he was testing her entrance. His power pressed against the threshold of her mind, seeking permission that she wasn’t ready to give.
Her eyes flew wide and she looked up at him as his presence pushed inside her thoughts. She tried to pull back physically, but his hand firmly cupped the back of her head—his hips and power thrusting together into his sister’s body and mind.
Don’t be scared, he projected, his mental voice trembling as he reached her throat. His thoughts filled her completely now, stretching her consciousness as her lips stretched around him. I know this is your secret desire. To take all of me. To be mine.
A soft sound escaped her as her eyelids fluttered closed. His power surged again, harder this time, breaking through her final barrier as his hips bucked involuntarily. Her muscles relaxed around him as her mind did the same, both surrenders happening in synchrony.
That’s it, he encouraged, stroking her hair with shaking fingers, his mental presence now throbbing inside her thoughts with the same urgent rhythm as his pulse. You’re doing so well. You can feel how much I need you, can’t you?
Emily’s hands rested against his thighs, fingers curling gently into the fabric as she adjusted to accommodate him. Her jaw ached from the unfamiliar stretch, but beneath the discomfort bloomed something else—a warmth spreading through her chest as his thoughts caressed hers. She could feel his desire like a living thing, hot and urgent, wrapping around her own confused arousal.
I’m not changing who you are, John assured her, even as he guided her movements with gentle mental pressure. You’re still my Em.
Her mind fluttered against his like a moth against glass, confused but drawn to the heat of him. The mental connection pulsed between them, raw and intimate in ways their physical ing couldn’t match. She felt his need as her own—urgent, desperate, consuming.
Let go, his thought whispered through her consciousness. Let me show you what you’ve been missing.
The command dissolved her last resistance. Her throat relaxed, taking him deeper as her own arousal spiked in response. Between her legs, wetness bloomed, soaking through her thin shorts. She squirmed, thighs pressing together, but it only intensified the ache.
John felt it all through their connection—her confusion melting into need, her body responding to his mental touch as surely as his physical one. He guided her rhythm, showing her how to use her tongue, how to breathe through her nose, how to take him just a little deeper each time.
You’re perfect, he projected, and through their link she felt the truth of it—how beautiful she looked to him, how good she made him feel. The knowledge sent another wave of heat through her core.
His climax built like a thunderhead, power crackling between their minds. When it hit, Emily’s eyes widened in shock at the sudden warmth flooding her mouth. Her throat worked reflexively, swallowing what she could as some escaped down her chin. The mental link between them amplified everything—his release becoming hers as unfamiliar pleasure ricocheted through her consciousness. Her small body trembled, hips rocking against nothing as she processed these new sensations. The vibration of her surprised moan only intensified his pleasure, creating a loop neither of them fully understood but both surrendered to completely.
Her own orgasm caught her by surprise, ripping through her innocent body with violent intensity. She convulsed around nothing, inner muscles clenching desperately as wetness gushed into her shorts. The fabric darkened, clinging to her as she shook. A muffled cry escaped around him, vibrating through sensitive flesh.
John held her steady as aftershocks rippled through them both, their minds still tangled together. Through their connection, he felt her confusion—the lingering taste of him mixing with her own release, the ache in her jaw, the way her whole body hummed with unfamiliar satisfaction.
Gently, he withdrew from her mouth, but continued to sooth her mind with his, watching as awareness slowly returned to her eyes. She sat back on her heels, catching her breath. A strand of hair clung to her damp cheek, and her tank top remained bunched above her breasts, forgotten in the aftermath.
She touched her throat, swallowing carefully. Her eyes met his, no longer glazed but sharp with awareness. “You were in my head somehow.” She tapped her temple. “I felt you there.”
“I didn’t mean for it to happen like—” he began.
“Don’t.” She twisted a strand of hair around her finger. “It felt... good,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Which is weird, right?”
She glanced at the framed beach photo on her desk. “ when Dad taught us to swim at Clearwater? How I kept freaking out but then couldn’t stay out of the water?” Her fingers found a loose thread on her tank top. “Maybe this is like that.”
He helped her stand. She swayed against him, strawberry shampoo filling his nose.
“My legs feel all wobbly,” she mumbled.
John glanced down at the darkened fabric of her shorts, then quickly away. “You should probably change.”
Her cheeks flushed pink. “Oh god, did I...?”
“It happens,” he said.
She studied his face, then his hands. His fingers trembled slightly. The power still hummed beneath his skin, but it flickered like a bulb about to burn out. “You can’t totally control it either, can you?” she asked, her voice steadier now. “This thing between us.”
He opened his mouth, closed it. The reality of what they’d done settled between them, transforming the familiar into something unrecognizable.
“I don’t mean it’s bad,” she clarified, tugging her tank top down. “Just... different. I don’t know what we are now.”
He didn’t either. The power still hummed under his skin, whispering that he could smooth this over. He let a tendril of warmth reach toward her, not controlling but comforting.
Emily’s shoulders relaxed as she felt his presence, gentle as a hand on her back. “That’s nice,” she whispered. “When you do it like that.”
“We’re still us,” he said, maintaining the connection. “Just... with something new between us now.”
She nodded, leaning into the mental touch like a cat seeking affection. Then, in a move so typically Emily it made his chest ache, she punched his arm. “A really weird something, dork.”
“The weirdest,” he agreed, rubbing the spot she’d hit while letting his power wrap around her more fully, easing her lingering anxiety.
A smile bloomed across her face as the tension melted. “I should shower. And burn these shorts.”
“Probably smart.”
She padded to the door, hand hovering on the knob. “John?” Her voice was soft. “Tomorrow... can we still do normal stuff? Watch TV, argue about dishes?”
“Yeah,” he said, his voice a little rough. “We can do all that.”
She started to open the door, then paused. Their eyes met—hers clear now, certain. “But this is part of normal too now, isn’t it?” She tapped her temple, acknowledging the gentle pressure of his mind against hers.
He nodded, feeling his power pulse involuntarily, a mental caress that made her eyes flutter briefly closed. The realization struck him—he couldn’t have stopped it if he tried.
“Only when you want it, Em,” he lied, knowing they both needed the pretense.
“Night, John,” she whispered, slipping out into the hall. She paused, then added, “See you at breakfast. You promised to help me with the weeding, ?”