Craving My Sister’s Hot Husband

Seraphina

I’m not supposed to want him. The man I’m staring at pouring scotch into a crystal at noon in the kitchen should be off limits. A line I shouldn’t cross, but here I am, leaning against the doorframe, already wet for him.

He’s my brother-in-law. My sister’s husband. The man who sits at her bedside while she fights through another round of chemo. Who holds her when she cries. Who whispers promises neither of them believes anymore.

He’s also the man who had me bent over his desk three days ago, one hand fisted in my hair and the other covering my mouth to muffle the sounds I made while he fucked me so hard I couldn’t walk straight for hours.

The memory makes heat pool low in my belly. Makes my thighs clench. Makes me ache in ways I didn’t know were possible until Dominic Ashcroft took my virginity on this very kitchen counter two months ago and ruined me for anyone else.

Upstairs, Elena is sleeping off her latest treatment. The medication I gave her thirty minutes ago ensures she’ll be out for hours. I calculated the dosage carefully. Made sure she took it with food. Tucked her in with the tenderness of a devoted sister.

Then I came downstairs to watch her husband self-destruct in expensive suits and afternoon whiskey.

“You’re staring.” His voice cuts through my thoughts, low and rough. He doesn’t turn around, just brings the glass to his lips.

“You’re drinking before lunch,” I counter, pushing off the doorframe. “Seems fair.”

Now he turns, and even exhausted and morally compromised, Dominic Ashcroft takes my breath away. All controlled power and devastating authority wrapped in a charcoal suit that probably costs more than most people’s rent. Sharp jaw. Silver threading through his dark hair. Eyes that assess and command and promise things that would make a good girl blush.

But I’m not a good girl.

I stopped being a good girl the moment I realized I wanted him more than I wanted to be decent.

His eyes travel down my body and linger on my exposed thighs, before he drags them up to my face like it’s hard for him to do. I feel it like a physical touch. I’m wearing one of his old dress shirts I stole from the laundry. The hem hits mid-thigh. The sleeves are rolled to my elbows. No panties, no bra, just the shirt.

From the way his jaw tightens, he knows exactly whose shirt it is.

“Elena’s sleeping,” he says, and I can’t tell if it’s a statement or an invitation.

“I know.” I step closer, watching that muscle in his jaw tick. “I gave her the medication. She’ll be out for hours.”

He sets down his glass with deliberate precision, the kind of control that tells me he’s barely holding onto it. “You need to stop doing that.”

“Doing what?” I’m close enough now to smell his cologne, that expensive woody scent I breathe in every night when I sleep in his shirts. “Taking care of my sister?”

“You know exactly what.” His voice drops lower, taking on that edge of command that makes me wet. “Looking at me like that. Saying things like that. Wearing my clothes.”

“This old thing?” I pluck at the shirt. “I found it in the laundry.”

“Liar.” He takes a step toward me and I refuse to back away. “You took it from my closet. I can smell my cologne mixed with your perfume.”

Heat floods through me. “Maybe I like the way you smell.”

“You moved into the guest room.” Another step. We’re inches apart now. “You dropped out of school. You gave up your apartment.”

“Elena needs help.”

“Elena needs her sister.” His hand comes up, stopping just short of my face. “Not whatever the fuck this is.”

“Then tell me to leave.” I tilt my chin up, meeting his gaze. “Tell me to go back to school. Tell me you don’t want me here.”

His hand curls into a fist at his side. “You’re twenty-one years old.”

“Is that what you tell yourself when you can’t sleep? That I’m too young to know what I want?” I reach out, my fingers grazing his wrist. He goes absolutely still. “Tell me you haven’t thought about it. About me. Tell me when you close your eyes at night, it’s only Elena you see.”

“Stop.”

“Make me.”

The control he’s been clinging to fractures. His hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my wrist, firm enough to send electricity racing up my arm.

“You think this is a game?” His voice is deadly quiet. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”

“What am I doing, Dominic?”

He pulls me closer, his other hand coming up to grip my chin, forcing me to hold his gaze. “You’re playing with fire. And you’re going to get burned.”

“Maybe I want to burn.” I hold his stare. “Maybe I want you to fuck me again. Like you did the first time. Right here on this counter.”

His grip on my chin tightens. “Shut up.”

“Why?” I lean closer, my breath ghosting across his lips. “Does it bother you? Remembering how tight I was? How I bled on your cock because you were my first?”

“Stop talking.”

“Or what?” My free hand slides down his chest. “You’ll punish me? Bend me over and fuck me quiet? We both know that’s what you want.”

“You don’t know what I want.”

“Don’t I?” I press my palm against the bulge in his pants. “This says otherwise.”

He makes a sound low in his throat, somewhere between a groan and a growl. “You’re going to regret pushing me.”

“I never regret anything with you.” I stroke him through the fabric. “The only thing I regret is that we’re not doing it right now.”

His control snaps.

“Shut your fucking mouth.” His hand slides from my chin to grip the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair. “Shut your sinful mouth.”

Then his lips crash down on mine.

There’s nothing gentle about this kiss. It’s all-consuming fire and barely restrained violence, his teeth catching my bottom lip as he claims my mouth. The bulge in his pants presses hard against my stomach and I moan, my arousal already sticky on my inner thighs.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to lift me effortlessly, his hands gripping my thighs as he sets me on the counter. The cool granite against my skin makes me gasp but then he’s between my legs, caging me in, and nothing else matters.

“Is this what you want?” His voice is rough, wrecked. His hand slides up my thigh, stopping just before where I’m aching for him. “You want me to lose control? To forget that your sister is upstairs while I fuck your pretty little cunt on this kitchen counter?”

“Yes.” There’s no shame in my voice. “That’s exactly what I want.”

His hand moves higher, fingers brushing against my bare, wet pussy. We both groan.

“You’re already soaking for me,” he says, dark satisfaction in his tone. “How long have you been wet, Seraphina?”

“Since I woke up.” The admission comes out breathless. “Since I remembered what you did to me three days ago.”

“What I did?” His thumb presses against my clit. “Or what you begged me to do?”

“Both.” I’m not above begging now. “Dominic, please.”

“Please what?” He’s not moving his thumb, just keeping that maddening pressure. “Use your words. Tell me what you need.”

“Touch me. Fuck me. Anything.”