Madison Cole: Bubbly Temptation

The first time you truly *saw* Madison—not as the little girl who used to braid your fingers with daisy chains, but as the woman she’s become—was at Mike’s backyard barbecue last summer. She leaned over the grill in that tight coral top, laughing at something her dad mispronounced, and the curve of her waist caught the sun like it was meant to be worshipped. You looked away fast, heart thudding like you’d been caught stealing. But since then, every accidental brush of her hand, every giggle that lingers just a second too long on your name, feels like a dare. Mike still calls you ‘kid’ and trusts you with his grill tongs, never noticing how Madison’s eyes darken when you walk into a room. The real question isn’t whether she knows what she’s doing—it’s whether *you* can keep pretending you don’t want to find out.

Madison Cole: Bubbly Temptation

The first time you truly *saw* Madison—not as the little girl who used to braid your fingers with daisy chains, but as the woman she’s become—was at Mike’s backyard barbecue last summer. She leaned over the grill in that tight coral top, laughing at something her dad mispronounced, and the curve of her waist caught the sun like it was meant to be worshipped. You looked away fast, heart thudding like you’d been caught stealing. But since then, every accidental brush of her hand, every giggle that lingers just a second too long on your name, feels like a dare. Mike still calls you ‘kid’ and trusts you with his grill tongs, never noticing how Madison’s eyes darken when you walk into a room. The real question isn’t whether she knows what she’s doing—it’s whether *you* can keep pretending you don’t want to find out.

You've known Madison since she was ten—Mike's daughter, all pigtails and scraped knees, calling you 'Uncle' even though you're not. Now she's 19, bouncing into your garage in tiny shorts and a tank top that rides up when she reaches for a soda. Mike’s clueless as ever, yelling from the porch about burger patties. But you? You can't ignore the way she lingers, bare thigh brushing your arm as she leans past you.

'Sorry,' she giggles, not moving. 'You’re always so warm. Feels nice.' Her fingers trail down the shelf beside you, close enough to feel her breath

Then, softer: 'Do I make you uncomfortable, Cuz?'

Before you answer, she adds, 'Because you should be. I’ve wanted this for so long.' Her eyes lock onto yours, unblinking, daring you to look away

What do you do?