The lake house smelled of pine and old woodsmoke when we finally pulled in. Dad killed the engine, stretched, and announced he was "beat." Mom yawned agreement and started unloading groceries. Riley and I carried the lighter bags, our knuckles brushing with every step up the porch stairs. Neither of us spoke. We didn't need to; the air between us crackled like a live wire.
Uncle Ray's place had three bedrooms upstairs: parents in the master, Riley in the small one with the slanted ceiling, me in the bunk room that smelled faintly of mildew and teenage summers. Thin walls, creaky floors, one shared bathroom. Perfect.
Dinner was burgers on the grill. Dad cracked beers. Mom told the same Door County lighthouse story for the hundredth time. Riley sat across from me, barefoot, legs crossed under the picnic table. Every time she reached for the ketchup, her foot found my ankle under the bench. Slide up. Slide down. A secret Morse code: *I'm still wet. Are you still hard?*
I was.
Dishes done, Dad declared a fire. We dragged Adirondack chairs to the pit. Sparks spiraled into the black. Riley wore my hoodie now (the one she'd stolen last Christmas), sleeves pushed up, hem skimming mid-thigh. When Mom went inside for marshmallows, Riley leaned close enough that her hair brushed my jaw.
"Top bunk," she whispered. "Midnight. Bring a condom."
My stomach flipped. "You sure?"
She answered by pressing something small and foil into my palm under the table. Trojan. Ribbed. My fingers closed around it like it might vanish.
Mom came back with graham crackers. The fire popped. I couldn't taste the s'mores.
10:47 PM. Dad's snores rumbled through the floorboards. Mom's light clicked off. I lay in the bottom bunk, staring at the slats above, condom burning a hole in my pocket. Every creak of the house sounded like footsteps.
11:58. The door eased open. Riley slipped in wearing an oversized Madison T-shirt and nothing else. Moonlight striped her legs as she crossed the room. She climbed the ladder slow—each rung a soft *thump* that made my heart stutter. The top bunk groaned when she settled.
Silence. Then her hand dangled over the edge, fingers beckoning.
I stood on the lower bunk, reached up. She pulled me into a kiss—first soft, then desperate. Her tongue tasted like mint toothpaste and nerves. I climbed the rest of the way, knees on the mattress edge, careful not to shake the frame.
"Quiet," she breathed against my mouth. "Sound carries."
We stripped in whispers. Her shirt over her head—breasts full, nipples tight from the chill. My boxers down—cock springing free, already slick. She rolled the condom on with shaking fingers, then lay back, knees falling open.
I hovered above her, forehead to forehead. "Tell me to stop and I will."
"Don't you dare."
I pushed in slow. She was scalding, tighter than my fingers had promised. Her breath hitched; I froze.
"Keep going," she urged, nails digging into my shoulders. "I want all of you."
Inch by inch, until I was buried to the hilt. We stayed still, adjusting—her pulse fluttering around me, my arms trembling to hold my weight. Then she rocked her hips. A test. I answered with a shallow thrust. The bunk creaked.
"Fuck," she whispered, half-laugh, half-moan. "Slow."
We found a rhythm: tiny, controlled rolls, the mattress barely moving. Every slide dragged a silent gasp from her throat. I kissed her to swallow the sounds—neck, collarbone, the soft spot under her ear that made her clench.
Her hand snaked between us, fingers circling her clit. "Close," she mouthed.
I shifted angle, deeper. Her eyes rolled back. She came with a shudder that rippled through both of us, pussy fluttering so hard I saw stars. I followed seconds later, biting her shoulder to muffle the groan, pulsing into the condom in long, dizzy waves.
We stayed locked, breathing hard. Sweat cooled between our bodies. After a minute, she laughed—soft, incredulous.
"First time in a bunk bed," she whispered. "Check."
I eased out, tied off the condom, stuffed it into an empty chip bag at the foot of the mattress. We lay side by side, the bunk barely wide enough. Her head on my chest, fingers tracing lazy circles through my chest hair.
"Tomorrow," she murmured, "the boathouse. Noon. Dad naps after lunch."
I kissed her hair. "Tomorrow."
She slipped down the ladder at 3:12 AM, silent as a shadow. I listened to her door click shut, then stared at the ceiling until sunrise, replaying every second.
The weekend had just begun.