Incest Forbidden Glances at Nicki

[marcjstn]

The bus swerved around a corner, and the crowd reshuffled like water finding a new path. Nicki shifted her stance, turning slightly to angle herself against the pole near the window. The movement brought her side flush against my front—and suddenly, her breasts were right there, inches from my chest, visible in profile through the thin yellow cotton. The fabric stretched taut across the full curve of them, and I could see the faint outline of her bra strap cutting across her back, the soft swell of flesh rising and falling with each breath.

I tried to look away. I tried to focus on the stained ceiling of the bus, the back of some stranger's head, anything. But my gaze drifted back like a compass needle finding north. The curve of her breast from the side—the way it pushed against the fabric, full and round and impossibly perky—made my mouth go dry.

And then the bus hit another bump, and her thigh pressed directly against my cock.

Not a graze. Not a passing brush. A full, deliberate-feeling press of her smooth thigh against the hard length straining through my trousers. The warmth of her skin, even through the denim of her jeans, seared into me. I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted copper.

*Does she feel it?* The question screamed through my skull. *She has to feel it. It's right there, pressed against her leg like a steel rod.*

But Nicki showed no sign of recognition. No stiffening, no sharp intake of breath, no sudden shift away. She just... stood there. Humming softly, one hand gripping the overhead rail, the other resting casually on the pole. As if the most obvious erection in the history of public transportation wasn't pressed against her thigh.

*Is she ignoring it? Or is she—*

I couldn't finish the thought. I didn't dare.

She turned her head toward me, and suddenly her mouth was *right there*—inches from my chin, her lips parted, breath warm and sweet against my neck. I could see the fine downy hair along her jaw, the way her ponytail had loosened, stray strands curling against her temple. Her eyes sparkled with that particular mischief of someone about to share gossip.

"Uncle, you won't believe what happened at college yesterday," she said, her voice pitched low enough to be intimate beneath the rumble of the bus engine. "This boy—Rohan, from the commerce section—he actually tried to hit on me. Can you imagine?"

I swallowed. My throat felt like sandpaper. "What... what did he do?"

"He came up to me near the canteen, right? And he said—" She paused, her face scrunching into an exaggerated imitation of what she apparently found ridiculous, "—he said, 'Nicki, you're like the moon. Beautiful from far, but far from beautiful up close.' Can you believe that? That's not even a proper line!"

She laughed. That same musical, carefree laugh that had haunted me since the family gathering. And when she laughed, her whole body moved—her shoulders shook, her stomach contracted, and her breasts pressed forward, firm and warm, directly against my arm.

The contact was devastating. Soft, heavy, real. I could feel the weight of them through my shirt, the subtle give of flesh beneath fabric. My cock twitched violently in my pants, and I clenched every muscle in my body to keep from groaning out loud.

"He's an idiot," I said, my voice coming out strangled. "That line makes no sense."

"I know!" She was still laughing, still pressed against me, apparently oblivious to the fact that her breasts were mashed against my arm and her thigh was still brushing my erection with every micro-movement of the bus. "And then he had the nerve to ask for my number. I just walked away. Like—bye, Rohan. Try again in another lifetime."

She demonstrated by flipping her hand in a dismissive wave, and the motion made her torso twist, dragging her breasts across my arm in a slow, agonizing sweep. I felt my nipple tighten. My hands ached—*ached*—to move. To slide down from where one gripped the overhead rail and the other hovered uselessly at my side. To cup those breasts. To feel their weight. To thumb those nipples I'd imagined a hundred times—pink, perfect, pebbled under my touch.

*Stop. Stop it. She's your niece. She trusts you.*

But the warmth of her body was a drug, and I was drowning in it. The vanilla scent of her lotion. The softness of her bare arm brushing mine. The way her t-shirt rode up slightly with her movement, revealing a sliver of milky white skin above her waistband. The curve of her hip. The swell of her ass visible in my peripheral vision.

"Uncle, are you even listening?" She tilted her head, pouting playfully. Her lower lip jutted out, full and pink and utterly kissable, and I wanted to bite it. I wanted to pull her against me by the waist and crush my mouth to hers right there in the crowded bus, consequences be damned.

"Listening," I rasped. "Rohan. Bad lines. No number. Got it."

She grinned, pleased. "Good. You'd better not let anyone use bad lines on your niece, right? You'd protect me."

*Protect you.* The irony was a knife in my chest. I was the danger. I was the one she needed protection from, and here she was, pressed against me, trusting me completely, while I fought a war inside my own skull between the man I was supposed to be and the animal clawing at my restraint.

The bus shuddered. Her thigh pressed harder. My cock throbbed. And Nicki, my sweet, trusting, maddeningly beautiful niece, just smiled up at me with those sexy eyes, completely unaware of the fire raging behind mine.