Inhibitions
Author: Mystic Dodo
Published: January 2013
Warnings: rated M for sexual material and Debra's foul-mouthed language.
Personally, I don't want to love him. I don't want to think about him or see him or even be with him. But regardless of what I do and don't want, I do see him. I do love him. I think about him more often than not and in our professional lives we work together, standing side by side, the heat of his body making me yearn for him.
My brother.
It is wrong, it is so mother-fucking wrong to desire him the way that I do. He isn't just my brother but he's a murderer, a serial killer, goddamn it all to hell, and everything about us is so wrong. I'm a detective, I'm his sister, he's my very first memory, he's always been there and –
Fuck.
It's so messed up. Every time I think about him guilt pools at the pit of my stomach, heavy and heated, and it never takes me long to realise that arousal is also a cause of these sensations. He knows; he's more perceptive than I ever realised and whenever my smouldering eyes make a brief connection with his, I know that he knows about the thoughts crashing through my head. But yet he never backs down from my heated gaze, that soft smile tilting the corner of his lips, the way his eyes remain steady and clear and, on my worst days, almost patronizing; it's okay. I understand. Everything is okay. We're okay. Nobody knows. It's okay. It's okay. It's okay.
And each time, every single fucking time without fail, that he looks at me like that, the heat spreads like a wildfire through my traitorous body and flames linger over the bridge of my nose and it's wrong but somehow, whenever we pass each other and his fingers graze the small of my back and leaves me shaking, it feels right.
But then the guilt settles and the disgust leaves me feeling sick to my stomach. When he comes to me at night, or perhaps when I make my way to his, the anti-anxiety meds leaves me almost feeling intoxicated (or perhaps that is his effect on me) and I forget that he's my brother. I forget about the facts, the logic, the order of things and let go of my poor attempt at control, yanking his head down to my aching breasts and moaning when his fingers methodologically glide in and out of my impatient sex before near screaming as he then thrusts into me and fills me up.
We fuck like wild animals, clawing at each others skin and gripping each others hair. I scream and bite and scratch, my hips bucking angrily against his and his sweat slicked body responds readily to the harshness and even when he orgasms he doesn't lose the perfect façade of control. He keeps it, always sure that I'm tipping the edge just seconds before he does and afterwards, as we pay panting and sore and messed up, he gives me that casual smile and the feral atmosphere melts. We cuddle like lovers would, if you could fucking believe it!
It annoys the shit out of me, how caring he could be afterwards. Almost human. Almost like he loves me back. Almost like everything about this, about us, isn't wrong in the ethical and moral and spiritual sense. That's when the guilt makes my eyes sting again so I pop another pill, drink some beer and we go for another rough round two, a casual round three, sometimes a tender round four and I'm floating above it all, not giving a goddamn fuck so long as he's moving and he's responding and he's willing and he's with me. Because he is. No matter where I am or what I do, Dexter is there.
And I hate that I love that.