My cousin

My cousin came over that afternoon. We were getting ready for the party when I offered to do her hair. I started slow, brushing through those soft, silky strands, and then the comb caught. That little snag made me stop breathing for a second. Heat flared in my gut. I kept my hand moving, but my mind had already slipped under her dress. I pictured sliding the straps from her shoulders, pressing my lips to the warm skin at the nape of her neck while my fingers kept stroking her hair. She smelled like citrus and clean sweat. I imagined pushing her forward over the vanity, watching her face in the mirror as I eased inside her, gentle at first, then harder, watching her mouth open in the glass. I didn’t move any faster than the brush through her hair, but every stroke kept feeding the picture in my head until I had to step back, pulse thick in my throat, pretending everything was still innocent.