A Summer me Enjoying my cousin rough way

The summer heat clung to everything that year — the porch boards, the old swing, my skin. I was twenty-one, back home from college for two months, already restless. My cousin Leah had just turned nineteen a week earlier. She’d always been the quiet one in our sprawling family: long legs, dark hair that never quite behaved, eyes that seemed to hold secrets even when she was laughing.

We’d grown up running through the same fields, skinny-dipping in the same creek behind the barn, sharing the same secrets until puberty split us into different orbits. Then college happened. Then distance. Then this summer, when she showed up at the farm with a duffel bag and a new, slower way of walking — like she’d finally figured out exactly what her hips were for.

The first few days were innocent enough. Late-night talks on the porch steps, fireflies, her bare feet brushing mine by accident. Then not by accident.

It was the third Saturday in July when everything tilted.

The house was empty — parents at an auction two counties over, aunts and uncles scattered at the county fair. Just the two of us, the cicadas screaming, and a bottle of cheap peach schnapps someone had left in the pantry since last Christmas.

We ended up in the hayloft because that’s where teenagers still go when they want to pretend they’re being spontaneous. The air smelled like dry grass and old wood and the faintest trace of motor oil. Moonlight came through the slats in silver bars across the bales.

She was wearing one of those thin cotton sundresses — pale yellow, straps already slipping off her shoulders. I remember thinking how unfair it was that the same body I’d seen a thousand times climbing trees could suddenly look like sin wrapped in cotton.

“You ever think about it?” she asked, voice low, passing me the bottle.

“About what?”

She didn’t answer with words. Just leaned forward and kissed me — slow at first, testing, then deeper when I didn’t pull away. Her mouth tasted like peaches and nervous courage.

I should’ve stopped it. I knew that even while my hands were already sliding up the backs of her thighs, bunching the dress, finding skin that felt fever-hot under my palms. She made a small, surprised sound when my fingers slipped under the edge of her panties — not shock, more like *finally*.

She pushed me down onto the hay, straw poking through my shirt. Her knees bracketed my hips. The dress came off in one impatient movement; her bra followed. Moonlight painted her collarbones, the gentle swell of her breasts, the dark triangle between her legs when she finally kicked the cotton aside.

I watched her face the whole time I worked her open with my fingers — the way her lips parted, the way her eyes fluttered shut then snapped open again like she was afraid she’d miss something. She was so wet it was almost obscene; every slide made a soft, slick sound that echoed in the quiet loft.

When she finally sank down onto me, slow and deliberate, we both stopped breathing for a second.

“Fuck,” she whispered, more prayer than curse.

She didn’t move right away — just sat there, full of me, letting herself adjust. Then she started to roll her hips in these small, devastating circles. I gripped her waist hard enough I knew I’d leave marks. She didn’t care. She liked it — I could tell by the way she arched harder when my thumbs pressed bruises into her skin.

It turned rougher than either of us expected.

She rode me like she was trying to outrun something — fast, desperate, nails digging half-moons into my shoulders. I thrust up to meet her, hard enough that the hay bales shifted under us. Every time she came down the wet slap of skin on skin was louder than the cicadas.

I flipped us without really thinking — wanted to see her under me, wanted to watch her fall apart. Her legs hooked around my waist instantly, heels digging into my ass, urging me deeper. I fucked into her with long, punishing strokes, the kind that made her gasp every time I bottomed out.

“Harder,” she breathed against my neck. “Please—fuck—*harder*.”

I gave it to her.

Her hands were everywhere — in my hair, on my back, clawing at my ass like she needed more even when there wasn’t any more to give. When she came the first time she went rigid, thighs clamping my hips, a broken little cry tearing out of her throat. I didn’t stop. Kept driving into her through the aftershocks until she was trembling, oversensitive, begging and cursing at the same time.

The second time she came she dragged me over the edge with her.

I buried my face in her neck, groaned her name like a curse, and spilled deep inside her while her cunt fluttered and squeezed like it was trying to keep every drop.

Afterward we just lay there, sweaty, sticky, breathing hard. Hay in her hair. Hay on my back. The smell of sex thick in the warm dark.

She laughed once — soft, shaky — then whispered against my collarbone:

“Don’t tell anyone.”

I kissed the top of her head.

“Never.”

We never did.

But every summer after that, whenever the family gathered at the farm, our eyes would find each other across the yard.

And we’d both remember the hayloft.

And the way the moonlight looked on her skin when she finally let go.