A room comes with a cost - Part 3 - Sexgeschichten

A room comes with a cost - Part 3

... under my feet, their breaths syncing with mine... ragged trio, the house creaking like it knew our secrets. In my room, they deposited me on the bed's edge, gentle as kittens. Liam tossed the clothes beside me, a soft "Night, motivated girl," with a wink that didn't land mean. Then he left the room. Steven lingered longer.

"Should I stay a bit longer or do you want me to leave?" he asked, while looking into my eyes.

Steven lingered in the doorway, his silhouette backlit by the hall's dim glow, casting long shadows across my rumpled bed. His eyes... those sharp, knowing ones that had watched me shatter downstairs... held mine without the usual smirk, just a quiet intensity that made my skin prickle all over again. The room smelled like me: Sweat, tears, and that sharp tang of release still clinging to my thighs, the air heavy with it. I sat there, bare from the waist down, shorts and panties a crumpled accusation beside me, the tank top twisted and damp against my ribs. My ass throbbed in time with my pulse, a deep, radiating burn that made shifting on the mattress send fresh sparks up my spine. And between my legs? Raw, swollen, an ache that bordered on bruise... overused, overstimulated, the ghost of Mike's fingers lingering like a brand inside.

Part of me wanted to scream at him... "Get out, you freak, you did this..." the rebellion flickering hot and familiar, a spark in the ashes. But my voice? Wrecked, throat raw from gagged pleas and muffled screams. And my ...

... body... god, it betrayed me even now, a lazy throb low in my belly at the memory of his hand in my hair, the shift from pull to stroke. Tender, almost. Like he cared. Bullshit.

"Leave," I whispered, half plea, half surrender, my eyes dropping to the floorboards scuffed from yesterday's vacuum drag.

"Just... go."

He didn't move at first, just watched, the silence stretching thin and electric. Then a nod... slow, like he'd expected it... and he stepped closer, boots soft on the carpet. Not crowding, not groping, but close enough I felt the heat off him, the faint soap-and-sweat scent that twisted my gut.

"Alright," he said, voice low, no edge.

His hand lifted... not to my thigh, thank fuck, but to the nightstand, grabbing the box of tissues I'd ignored earlier. He pulled one free, kneeling slow in front of me, eyes still on mine.

"But you're a mess, sis. Let me... clean you up. Dad's orders... gentle, remember?"

I flinched when the tissue brushed my inner thigh... cool, rough against the sticky trail cooling there... but he was careful, dabbing light, wiping away the evidence without lingering. Up the crease, skirting my folds without touching, then a fresh one for the splatters on my knees from the carpet. No words, just that steady gaze, his free hand resting loose on my calf... not squeezing, just there, thumb tracing absent circles on my skin. It should've felt wrong... creepier than the swats, the checks... but in the haze, post-crash endorphins flooding ...