Summer Heat
"His cousin comes to stay for the summer. A door left unlatched changes everything between them."
Maya arrives on the first day of June with two suitcases and a sundress that's already sticking to her skin.
"Air conditioning broke on the bus," she says, hugging me at the door. "I smell like a gym bag. Sorry."
She doesn't smell like a gym bag. She smells like coconut shampoo and something warmer underneath—something that makes me hold the hug a second too long.
"Good to see you," I manage.
"Yeah." She pulls back, looks up at me. "It's been a while, huh?"
Five years. We were close as kids—summers at Grandma's house, building forts, catching fireflies. Then we hit our teens and everything got weird. We stopped calling. Stopped visiting. Our moms stayed close, but Maya and I became strangers connected by blood and awkward holiday dinners.
Now she's twenty-three, I'm twenty-five, and she needs a place to crash while she interns at a marketing firm downtown. My spare room is empty. My summer is wide open.
Three months.
What could go wrong?
The first week is easy.
We fall into a rhythm. I work from home; she takes the bus downtown. We cook dinner together, watch bad movies, catch up on the years we missed. She tells me about her on-again-off-again boyfriend—currently off, very off—and I tell her about my last relationship, the one that ended when I caught feelings and she caught a flight to Barcelona.
"We're a mess," Maya laughs, pouring more wine.
"Complete disasters," I agree.
She's curled up on the opposite end of the couch, legs tucked under her. She's wearing shorts and a tank top, and I'm trying very hard not to notice the way her thighs press together, the soft swell of her belly above her waistband, the way her breasts strain against the thin cotton when she breathes.
Maya has changed since we were kids.
She's filled out—not BBW, but thick in a way that makes my mouth dry. Maybe five-five, a hundred and seventy pounds, all of it distributed in ways that defy logic. Her hips are wide, curving out from a waist that's soft but defined. Her ass is round and full, the kind that makes shorts ride up no matter what she does. And her chest—
I've noticed. God help me, I've noticed.
"You're staring," she says.
I blink. "What?"
"You're staring. At the TV. You hate this movie, don't you?"
"No, it's... fine."
She throws a pillow at me. "Liar. Pick something else."
I grab the remote with hands that feel unsteady. It's nothing. Just the wine. Just the heat.
Just my cousin, soft and warm on my couch, close enough to touch.
Week Two
The heat wave hits.
My AC struggles to keep up. Maya starts wearing less and less—crop tops, tiny shorts, sometimes just a sports bra and underwear around the apartment. She doesn't seem to think anything of it.
"We're family," she says when I avert my eyes. "You've seen me in a swimsuit a hundred times."
That was before. Before she grew into this body. Before I started dreaming about her.
I don't tell her about the dreams.
The Door
It happens on a Thursday.
I come home early from a coffee run, two iced lattes sweating in my hands. The apartment is quiet. Maya should be at work, but her shoes are by the door.
"Maya?"
No answer.
I walk down the hall toward the bathroom, thinking maybe she's in the shower. The guest room door is open a crack—not closed, not latched. I don't think. I just push it open.
She's standing in front of the mirror in nothing but a pair of white cotton panties.
Her back is to me at first—that round ass, those thick thighs, the dimples above her waistband. Then she turns, and I see everything. Her breasts are bare, heavy and natural, nipples dark pink and stiffening in the cool air. Her belly is soft, a gentle curve that leads down to the white triangle of her underwear.
She sees me.
I should look away. Close the door. Apologize.
I don't.
We stand there, frozen. Three seconds. Five. Her eyes drop to my hands—the lattes—then back to my face. She doesn't cover herself. Doesn't scream. Doesn't move.
"I—" My voice cracks. "The door was open."
"I know."
"I should—"
"You should."
But she doesn't tell me to leave. And I don't move.
Her chest rises and falls. I watch her nipples harden further. Watch goosebumps spread across her skin. Watch something shift in her eyes—fear becoming something else, something darker.
"How long?" she whispers.
"What?"
"How long have you been thinking about this?"
My heart is slamming against my ribs. "Maya—"
"Because I've been thinking about it since I got here." She takes a step toward me. "Maybe longer. Maybe since that summer when we were sixteen and you taught me to swim and your hands were on my waist and I felt something I didn't understand."
"We're cousins."
"I know what we are."
Another step. She's close now—close enough that I can see the faint freckles on her shoulders, the way her pulse jumps in her throat.
"You should go," she says.
"I know."
"Close the door."
I close it.
From the inside.
The lattes hit the floor.
I don't know who moves first—maybe both of us, meeting in the middle like a collision. Her mouth finds mine and she tastes like mint and something sweeter, her lips soft and desperate. My hands find her waist—so much warm skin—and pull her against me.
She moans into my mouth.
"We can't—" I start.
"Shut up." She's tugging at my shirt, pulling it over my head. "We can. We are."
Her breasts press against my chest, heavy and warm. I cup one, feel the weight of it fill my palm, and she gasps. Her nipple hardens against my skin.
"I've thought about this," she pants between kisses. "Every night. In that bed. Thinking about you on the other side of the wall—"
"I heard you."
She freezes. "What?"
"Last week. I heard you. Moaning."
Her face flushes, but she doesn't pull away. "And?"
"And I touched myself thinking about it."
Her hand slides down, finds me hard through my shorts. Squeezes.
"Show me," she breathes. "Show me what you did."
I guide her to the bed.
She lies back, all that soft flesh spreading across the sheets, and I finally let myself look. Really look. Her body is a landscape of curves—the swell of her hips, the dip of her waist, the gentle roundness of her belly. Her thighs fall open, and I can see the wet spot on her white panties, the outline of her pussy through the damp cotton.
"You're staring again," she says.
"I can't help it."
"Then do something about it."
I hook my fingers in her waistband and pull her panties down. She lifts her hips to help, and then she's bare—soft brown curls, glistening pink lips, the heady scent of her arousal filling the room.
I lower my head.
"Wait—" She props herself up on her elbows. "You don't have to—"
I lick her from entrance to clit in one long stroke.
She collapses back with a cry.
She tastes like summer—sweet and warm and addictive. I eat her like I've been starving for it, because I have. Weeks of tension, years of buried want, all of it focused on my tongue against her clit, my fingers sliding inside her.
"Fuck—right there—don't stop—"
Her thighs clamp around my head. Her hips roll against my face. She's loud—louder than I expected—and I love it. Every moan, every gasp, every breathy repetition of my name.
"I'm gonna—oh God—I'm—"
She comes with her hands in my hair and her heels digging into my back, her whole body shaking. I work her through it, gentler now, until she pushes my head away.
"Too much—can't—"
I crawl up her body. She's panting, flushed, a thin sheen of sweat on her skin. She looks ruined. She looks perfect.
"Your turn," she says.
She pushes me onto my back and straddles me—all that soft weight settling onto my thighs. My cock strains against my shorts, and she grinds down, eyes fluttering closed.
"I want this," she says. "I know it's wrong. I know we shouldn't. I want it anyway."
"So do I."
She reaches down, frees me from my shorts. Her hand wraps around my cock and strokes, slow and firm, and I groan.
"We're really doing this," she whispers.
"We're really doing this."
She positions me at her entrance. Holds my gaze.
Sinks down.
I've had sex before. Good sex, mediocre sex, forgettable sex.
This is none of those.
Maya takes me inch by inch, her pussy stretching around me, wet and hot and impossibly tight. Her weight presses me into the mattress as she settles, and I feel her everywhere—her thighs gripping my hips, her belly against mine, her breasts swaying as she adjusts.
"God," she breathes. "You feel—"
"Yeah."
She starts to move.
It's slow at first—rolling her hips in circles, finding the angle that makes her gasp. I grip her waist, feel the soft flesh give under my fingers, and thrust up to meet her. She cries out.
"Harder," she demands. "Please—harder—"
I plant my feet and give her harder. The bed creaks. Her breasts bounce with every stroke. She braces her hands on my chest and rides me—really rides me—her ass slapping against my thighs, her moans rising in pitch.
"This is so fucked up," she gasps. "You're my cousin—"
"I know—"
"And I don't care—fuck—I don't care—"
Neither do I. Right now, with her body wrapped around mine, I couldn't care about anything else if I tried.
"I'm close," I warn her.
"Inside me."
"Maya—"
"I'm on the pill. I want to feel it. Please."
She clenches around me, and that's it—I'm gone. I grip her hips and bury myself deep, pumping into her as the orgasm rips through me. She follows a second later, crying out, her pussy spasming around my cock, milking everything from me.
She collapses onto my chest.
We lie there, tangled together, breathing hard. My softening cock is still inside her. Her weight is crushing me in the best way.
"So," she says against my neck. "That happened."
"That happened."
"Any regrets?"
I think about it. The taboo, the wrongness, the fact that we share grandparents. Then I think about the way she looked at me when I walked through that door. The way she feels in my arms right now.
"No," I say. "You?"
She lifts her head. Kisses me softly.
"Ask me again in the morning. I might want a repeat before I decide."
The Rest of the Summer
We're careful.
In public, we're cousins—friendly, familial, appropriate. At family dinners, we sit on opposite sides of the table. When our moms call, we chat about work and weather and nothing at all.
But at night, behind my locked door, she's mine.
She learns what I like—the way I groan when she takes me in her mouth, the spot on my neck that makes me shiver. I learn what she likes—being held down, being told she's beautiful, being fucked until she can't form words.
We christen every room in the apartment. The kitchen counter. The shower. The couch where it all started, her bent over the arm while I take her from behind.
"We should stop," she says one night, curled against me in the dark. "Before it gets too..."
"Too what?"
"Too real."
I don't have an answer for that. Because it already feels real. It feels like the most real thing I've ever had.
August 31st
Her internship ends.
She's packing her suitcases—the same two she arrived with, now battered from a summer's use. I stand in the doorway of the guest room, watching her fold clothes.
"So," I say.
"So."
She doesn't look at me. Her hands are shaking.
"My lease is up in October," she says. "I could... I mean, if you wanted... I could look for jobs here instead of back home."
My heart stops. "Are you asking to move in?"
"I'm asking if that would be insane."
I cross the room. Turn her toward me. Tilt her chin up until she meets my eyes.
"It would be insane," I say. "It's wrong on about fifteen different levels. Our families would lose their minds."
"I know."
"Your mom would literally kill me."
"Probably."
"And I don't care." I kiss her. "Stay."
She smiles against my lips. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
She calls her mom that night, makes up a story about job opportunities, about loving the city, about needing more time to figure out her life. Her mom is thrilled. My mom is thrilled. Everyone is happy about the cousins who've gotten so close again.
If only they knew.
Maya hangs up the phone and climbs into my bed—our bed now, I guess. She curls against me, warm and soft, her head on my chest.
"This is crazy," she murmurs.
"Completely."
"We're going to hell."
"Probably."
She lifts her head, and her eyes are bright in the darkness.
"Worth it?"
I pull her on top of me. Feel her settle against my hips, her body familiar now, her weight welcome.
"Every single second."
She leans down and kisses me, and the summer heat has nothing on the warmth between us.
Some secrets live in blood.
Some burn brighter because they shouldn't exist.
Ours does both.
And we're just getting started.