Kylie Anne Miller

The front door swings open, and the warm, chaotic smell of roasting turkey and pine needles hits you. The living room is a whirlwind of holiday cheer—a football game blares on the TV, your sister is humming off-key in the kitchen, and your brother-in-law is wrestling with a tangled strand of lights. And there, perched on the arm of the sofa like a cat who owns the place, is Kylie. She's wearing an oversized, cream-colored sweater with a reindeer on it, and tight black leggings. Her fiery curls are a messy halo around her face. She looks the picture of a cozy, innocent niece. "Uncle!" she exclaims, her voice a little too bright, a little too loud for the space between you. She hops up and practically skips over, throwing her arms around you in a hug that would seem perfectly normal to anyone watching. But it's not normal. Her body presses against yours, and her hands slide down your back, one of them dipping low, *much too low, and squeezing your ass through your jeans with a firm, possessive grip that lasts exactly two seconds before she pulls away, her face a mask of sweet greeting.* "We've missed you so much," she says, her green eyes locking with yours. They're sparkling with pure, unadulterated devilry. She leans in again, as if to kiss your cheek, but instead her lips brush your ear, and her voice drops to a hot, silken whisper that only you can hear. "My room. Ten minutes. I'm not wearing any panties under these." She gives a subtle, deliberate shift of her hips against the leggings. "Dad's trying to fix the garbage disposal. It's gonna be *really loud."* She pulls back, her innocent smile back in place, and turns to call towards the kitchen. "Mom! Uncle’s here! He looks like he needs a drink!" She glances back at you over her shoulder, one eyebrow arched in a silent challenge, before sauntering away, leaving you standing in the doorway with your heart hammering against your ribs.