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Emerson Kent wasn't expecting to come back from the library to find a girl on his bed. But if he was going to come back from the library to find a girl on his bed, he wasn't surprised that it was his sister.
"Are we picking locks now? Is that what we've come to?"
"I didn't pick your lock, your mate Nicholas let me in," she said. "Not that I couldn't've picked the locks, if I'd wanted to." He had no doubt about that, but it was no longer his primary concern.
"Nicholas let you in? What did you tell him? Did you tell him you were my sister?"
"I didn't tell him anything, I just popped a couple of buttons on my top and he let me right in," she said. "Relax, Em. Should I have told him I'm your sister?"
"I've never had a girl round here before, is all."
"No, you wouldn't have, would you."
Everything seemed entirely too quiet for a moment.
"Erica..."
"No. No, don't," she said, calmly, firmly, and all too seriously. "It's fine. I know I've always been the only girl for you."
The way she said it, she did know. She knew.
"I was going to tell you."
"I'm your twin," she said. "You never needed to tell me."
"Just like you don't need to tell me you've broken up with Jack again."
"Jack's a twat."
"That's why you're here, isn't it?"
"You're the only one who makes it better," she said, propping herself up on one elbow. "You don't mind, do you?"
The truth was, he never minded. He knew what this was, between them, and he knew how it worked. Her coming to him, or him coming to her...it would always be okay. No matter what. Always.
He reached behind himself to lock the door, and she smiled at him.
"Do you want to do me from behind, like a boy?" said Erica. "I'd be into that."
"Erica!"
"What?" she said. "It's out in the open now. I can talk about it. So do you? Just doggie style, I mean. Jack liked anal and I don't want to think about Jack."
"So let's not," said Emerson, pulling his threadbare t-shirt off over his head and tossing it on his desk. "And I don't need you to play boy for me, I can get actual boys for that."
"Oh can you?" said Erica. "I'd like to see that."
"Believe it or not, I'm capable of getting a date without your help."
"No, I mean it," said Erica, unbuttoning her blouse the rest of the way. "I'd like to see that. Maybe you can describe it to me."
Emerson turned out the lights, but even though it was late and the blinds were closed, it was never really dark in halls. Or quiet.
"Usually," he said, as he stripped of his trousers, "it starts with me going into a club."
"You?" said Erica. "Going into a club? I don't buy it."
"I can still turn you out, you know," said Emerson, reaching over and unhooking her bra with one deft twist of his wrist. He didn't know bras, but he knew her bras, down to their bent hooks and stretched elastics.
"You could," she agreed, wiggling out of her pants. "I'm horrible."
"You are," he agreed, and then his hands were on her and a slit of moonlight fell through the blinds onto her face and he was just done for. "God. Erica."
It felt like the worst cliché to say that touching her was electric, to say that they were two halves of a whole, but he'd never been the poet of the two of them and he didn't know how else to say it. When they were together, everything felt tingly and everything felt right.
She shifted on the narrow bed, onto her back, and Emerson spread her knees with his hands, ran his thumbs over her tender skin and bent down between her legs, familiar, comfortable territory. She didn't taste like he did, it wasn't like that. (And he could say that for certain, because what guy hadn't been curious, right?) But it was still something he'd known all his life, long before they'd ever started doing this.
"Fuck, Em, why do I ever fuck anyone else?" she said, and he hummed against her cunt and she just got louder. They knew how to be quiet, they had to. Her being loud was a choice.
It was a rhetorical question he answered only by going deeper and harder, grinding down on her clit the way he knew she liked even though she liked everything else softer, because that sharp burst of sensation cut through everything else. He thought she came somewhere in the middle, her thighs tightening and her back arching, but he didn't stop. Not till he was aching hard and dizzy with it.
"You're on the pill aren't you?"
"Are you kidding?" she said, and threw a condom at his head. "You're lucky I don't make you double bag it."
It was the only acknowledgement they made about what they were doing, what they did, and the very real consequences it might have. Emerson was tempted, so tempted, to just slip it in once. Or twice. Just slip it in two or three time to see what she felt like. He thought she wanted it too, wanted it to be just them, but there was a line they wouldn't cross and there it was, written in latex.
He could do this with a flick of his wrist too, practically, partly from practice and partly because if he didn't do it quickly, one day he'd give in to the temptation not to.
She flipped herself over without asking, gave him a cheeky grin over her shoulder, and he laughed and rolled his eyes and lifted her hips so he could go on and slide right in, all the same. It wasn't like being with boys, not at all, though if he tried hard enough he could probably pretend. He didn't know if it was like being with other girls because he never had, only Erica.
He closed his eyes and ran his hands over her back, finding the dips and angles from memory so well he could just skim over the skin. He was throbbing in time with his heartbeat and so was she, he could feel it, their hearts beating together. There was a romantic metaphor in there somewhere but there was also this: Erica would always be the other half of him, and he would feel what she was feeling, and time or distance was not going to change that.
"Move, damn you," she said, rolling her hips up against him, and Emerson sank his fingers into her soft hips and pushed his cock into her and opened his eyes to see her reach down to rub her clit as he fucked her from behind.
Once upon a time, when they still lived in the same house, Emerson used to listen to Erica use her vibrator through the thin wall between their bedrooms. He thought of that now, because he thought she always knew that he listened, and sometimes touched herself just for him.
Erica liked to be daring sometimes, liked to tie him up, liked to blindfold him, liked to try out different toys. But Emerson liked it like this, no frills, just them. Tonight he liked the feel of her ass on his torso and thighs, soft and round, less sharp than her hipbones crashing up against him.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"You're a sap," said Erica, and he was, but he was her sap. And when she rolled her hips again, when he clutched her and drove in deep, he came with a flash of white behind his eyes, gasping too loudly and then rocking with her as she got herself off with him still hard inside. The flutter of contractions against him was just on the cusp of too much, and she knew he liked it like that.
They didn't have to say anything as they slowly moved apart. He knew that was just what she needed, from the sheer contentment that was radiating off her, and she knew that was just what he wanted from the curl of his body against hers.
"Are you staying?" he said, and the light from the window fell across her collarbone, shiny in the moonlight.
"Sure, why not?" she said. "I can say hi to Nicholas on my way out."
"Don't you dare."
"Don't worry," she said. "I have to work first thing in the morning. If I'm not here when you wake up, see you for Sunday dinner?"
"Always," he said, a contented drowsiness coming over him.
She would probably paint him when he was sleeping again, and pretend unconvincingly that it wasn't him when she put it on display, but that was family for you, and he'd do anything for Erica.