Jasmine's thighs were still trembling, slick with her own release, dress bunched around her waist like a surrender flag. The world beyond blurred through the tears in her eyes. She leaned against the railing, one hand clutching it for balance, the other pressed between her legs, trying—and failing—to stop the aftershocks.
I stood, slow, deliberate, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. The taste of her lingered—sweet, sharp, family.
I chuckled, low and dark, the sound curling into the night like smoke.
"Look who was begging her nephew to fuck her," I said, voice rough with satisfaction. "Begging her sister's son to tongue-fuck her cunt until she screamed on Mom's balcony."
Her whimper was cute I could feel it in my chest. Needy. She tried to stand straighter, but her legs betrayed her, knees buckling slightly. Her panties were still tangled around one ankle, forgotten.
I turned and walked away.
Just like that.
