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Camilo won’t say it out loud at risk of being scolded by his mamá for playing favorites, but Mirabel has always been his most favorite cousin. She’s the sweetest, she’s the kindest, she’s the funniest (next to him, obviously) and she’s definitely the prettiest. They’ve been attached at the hip since birth, best friends since they knew what best friends were. When Mirabel had been denied a gift, Camilo held her as she cried and cried, and his heart broke for her. Throughout the years, he’s done his best to make her feel as special as he knows she is. Because of this, despite his trickster persona, he’s never been anything but honest with her.
But there is one thing he cannot ever share with her, or anyone.
And look, he knows it’s wrong. Perverse. Normal people do not fall in love with their cousins. True, Camilo’s never prided himself on being normal, but this is something else entirely. No one would ever look at him again if they found out. Especially not Mirabel, and to lose her would be more than he could stand.
But he’s impulsive, and he’s a young man, and the longing has become too much to bear, and so his nerves are on fire as he stands in front of one of the many mirrors of his room, staring into the sweet face of his prima.
He’s been considering this for months, honestly, and it’s only out of the respect he has for Mirabel that he hasn’t done anything like it yet. It feels like a violation, a betrayal of her trust. So he’s held off, even as his dreams of her got more frequent and left him aching. But today he had made her laugh until she was nearly crying, and in her hysteria she’d leaned against his shoulder and the warm press of her bare arm against his was just enough to break him.
He’d waited until everyone else was asleep, then shifted into her form. Nothing he hasn’t done before, of course, but it takes on an entirely new meaning now, knowing what he’s about to do.
It’s wrong. It’s thrilling. It’s impossible to avoid it anymore.
He runs his hands over the detailed embroidery of her skirt—she’s so talented, his Mirabel—and takes a deep breath.
If he’s doing this, he’s got to just go for it.
Slowly, so slowly, he slides one sleeve of her blouse off his shoulder, then the other. The sight of her bare skin, tan and smooth, is enough to make him shiver, even though he’s barely gotten started. Mirabel’s not quite a skinny girl; her usual outfits allow for the slightest glimpse of the healthy curves Camilo knows are there. His mouth waters at just the thought of seeing more of her.
It takes another moment of summoning all the courage he has before he’s able to pull the blouse down further, and when he finally exposes her breasts he bites at his lip (her lip, soft and fuller than his own) and lets go of the fabric that has become bunched in his hands, reaching up to grasp at one, nearly moaning when he feels how plush and supple it is in his palm. He rubs a thumb over her nipple, holding back a desperate whine as it hardens under his touch. He wishes he could be louder, wishes he could hear what she really sounds like when she’s being pleasured, but he’s already playing a dangerous game with Dolores just a door over. He’s praying she’s not awake, because if she is she’s likely already heard a bit, but hopefully she’ll just assume he’s getting off as he’s done before—sue him, he’s an eighteen year old boy.
(Deep down, though, he knows that he won’t be able to keep entirely silent, and when she hears Mirabel’s gasps and sighs coming from his room so late at night, there won’t be any more hiding the truth.)
In any case, he’s come too far to stop now. He can feel her growing damp, down where he really wants to touch. But he forces himself to go slow, to savor every moment. He keeps massaging one breast with his left hand as he uses the other to hook his fingers into the waistband of her skirt and pull, wiggling a bit in order to get it down past her hips. Dios, her hips. He remembers the first time he’d really taken notice of them, back when they were fifteen. She’d been in the kitchen with Tia Julieta, swaying to the beat of a song she was humming, and Camilo had been struck by the sudden urge to lift her up and spin her around, hands firmly on her developing curves. It was the first time his brain had begun to associate her with being a woman, not just his cousin and best friend.
Eventually it gets a little difficult to maneuver the skirt with just one hand, so he sacrifices his hold on her breast in order to get it all the way off. He doesn’t bother picking it up off the floor—it’ll turn back into his own clothes once he switches back to himself, and he doesn’t care if those get wrinkled. The blouse, which at this point had only been held up by the skirt, is easy enough to get off as well. Now when he looks in the mirror, Mirabel is only in her undergarments, and everything has suddenly become so much more real.
This time, he doesn’t bother to move things along slowly. It only takes one quick movement to rid himself of that last piece of clothing, and then, for the very first time, he sees Mirabel in her entirety. He takes a moment just to stare, mapping out her body, in awe of just how beautiful she is. Even though this can’t compare to the real thing, it’s enough just to see her, to imagine what it would be like to actually stand across from her as she bares herself to him.
At last he allows himself to slip a hand between his legs, sliding a finger along her folds, feeling the already impressive amount of wetness. He wonders if it’s just because he’s incredibly excited, or if she always gets this aroused so quickly. Dios, he wishes he could find out.
It won’t happen. It can’t happen. But oh, it’s wonderful to think about.
When he slips a finger inside he can’t hold back the cry that leaves him, and he slaps his other hand over his mouth in order to muffle himself, too late to do any good. But at least he’s able to stifle the next string of incomprehensible whines that escape him in her gorgeous voice, though he sorely wishes he could hear her unrestrained. He pumps his finger in and out slowly, eyes rolling back when he feels more of her arousal drip down the inside of her plush thigh. It doesn’t take long before he’s adding another finger, spreading them wide and moaning at the sensation.
It’s getting difficult to stand, but Camilo can’t bear to look away from the mirror, not even for a moment. He’s memorizing every expression on Mirabel’s face, the tremble in her legs, the desperate sounds spilling from her mouth.
With one last curl of his fingers, he comes (she comes) with a shuddering gasp, and it is so easy to picture him doing this to her, the real her, laying her out on his bed and using his hands, his mouth, worshiping every inch of her. Would she cry out like this? Would she call his name? He hopes she would.
He comes down from the high slowly, removing his fingers and bringing them to his mouth, relishing her taste. His eyes flutter closed briefly, orgasm having gotten rid of the last of his shame. Once he’s cleaned his fingers of her release, he looks back into the reflection that he would give anything to be made real.
“I love you, Camilo,” mirror-Mirabel says.
Love you too, he thinks in response, knowing the illusion will shatter if he says it aloud. Love you more than you’ll ever realize.
Still a little out of breath, he makes his way over to his bed and collapses into it, still in her body and not bothering to get redressed. She’s sweatier than him, especially when she’s exerted so much energy, and it’s beginning to dry, giving him a chill. He pulls the sheets up around himself in order to get warm, loving how different they feel against her skin. He runs a hand across her waist, down her hip and thigh. It’s comforting, feeling her. Knowing her. Just for tonight, he’ll stay like this.
Mirabel can’t be his. But he can at least have this, no harm done, and she never needs to know.