One

"Mom, look at them! They're teasing me again!" Sahara stomped her foot, glaring at the three men standing in front of her.

Seriously. Did they have nothing better to do? She crossed her arms and shot them her best annoyed look, but her brothers only grinned back. It has always been like this growing up with them.

Sancho, Slye, and Stryker stood side by side like bodyguards guarding a celebrity instead of a twenty-year-old woman.

"Mom!" she called again, louder this time.

The three of them didn't budge.

If anything, they looked even more amused.

Growing up with three overprotective brothers was exhausting. The only thing they seemed to enjoy more than breathing was teasing her.

"Mom!" she calls again, her voice pitching higher, laced with the specific kind of frustration that only siblings can provoke.

Sancho, the eldest, leans a shoulder against the doorframe, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Can you just get out of my face?!" Sahara snaps, stepping forward to poke a finger into Slye’s chest.

Instead of retreating or looking guilty, the three men only smile. It’s a shared, knowing look—the kind of grin that says they already have her cornered. They enjoy the flush rising on her cheeks, the way her chest heaves with irritation.

"No, you’re not allowed to accept suitors, princess. You’re still our baby," Sancho says, his voice dropping an octave. The warning is serious, his eyes narrowing as he looms over her. Twelve years her senior, he still treats her as if she’s wearing diapers and clutching a teddy bear.

"Any man who comes near you will get beaten up by us," Slye adds, flashing a grin that belongs on a villain in a cheap action movie. He cracks his knuckles for emphasis, the sound echoing in the large hall.

"No one will court you without going through the three of us first," Stryker chimes in, puffing out his chest. He stands with his legs spread, chin raised, daring any imaginary suitor to step forward and challenge the gauntlet.

"I hate you guys!" Sahara shouts, the words tearing from her throat. She spins on her heel, intending to storm away, but the sound of their laughter stops her. It’s a deep, resonant sound that bounces off the high ceilings. They aren't angry; they are amused. This has been the rhythm of their lives for a decade. Since she was ten years old, they have been the gatekeepers of her life. Now she is twenty, a university graduate with a degree in business management, yet to them, she remains a fragile doll in need of protection.

"Boys, stop teasing your sister."

The voice cuts through the masculine posturing like a warm knife. Viviene Cooper sweeps into the room, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. She doesn't shout, but the mere presence of the matriarch shifts the air. The brothers straighten up, their smirks fading into sheepish grins. Sahara exhales, the tightness in her chest loosening Meanwhile,ther steps between them.

Viviene turns to her daughter, brushing a stray hair from Sahara’s forehead.

"Are you okay, sweetheart?"

Sahara nods, offering a bright, relieved smile.

"I'm fine, Mom."

"Good. Come help me in the kitchen," Viviene says, linking her arm through Sahara’s and steering her away from the wall of testosterone. "I need you to bake the cheesecake again. The Morgan family will be visiting this evening."

The mention of the name hits Sahara like a physical blow. Her steps falter, her breath hitching in her throat. The Morgans. It means he will be coming.

Leaf Morgan.

He is Sancho’s best friend, a constant presence in their home for years, and the man who has starred in every single one of Sahara’s filthy, late-night fantasies since she understood what desire was. She swallows hard, trying to dislodge the lump of nervous anticipation that lodges itself there.

In the kitchen, Sahara throws herself into the task with manic energy. She cracks eggs, beats cream cheese, and crushes graham crackers with a focus that borders on aggressive. She wants everything to be perfect. Not just for the guests, but for him.

She pictures Leaf without meaning to.

Just him sitting there, casually lifting a fork to his mouth, like he doesn’t know what kind of effect he has on people. The way his lips would close around it absent-mindedly and the small movement of his jaw as he tasted whatever she made. And then that little moment—when a crumb lingers at the corner of his mouth and he brushes it away with his tongue without thinking twice.

It’s such a simple thing.

And yet her mind clings to it.

Sahara blinks hard, like that might reset her thoughts.

It doesn’t.

A strange heat rises in her chest, quick and unwanted. She tightens her grip on the counter, trying to ground herself in something real—something that isn’t him.

“What is wrong with you? "She mutters under her breath, more to herself than anything else.

She turns back to the mixer, letting the sound fill the kitchen again. Eggs. Sugar. Cream. The steady rhythm helps—for a second.

But her mind doesn’t stay quiet.

It keeps drifting back to him.

To the way Leaf always feels too present, even when he’s not doing anything at all. Like he takes up space without trying. Like he’s always just…there, in the background of her thoughts, whether she wants him to be or not.

Sahara exhales slowly and presses her lips together.

“Focus,” she tells herself, softer this time.

She keeps mixing.

Because it’s easier than admitting she’s been thinking about him for far too long already.

Hours later, the shower steam has faded, and Sahara stands before the full-length mirror in her bedroom. She wears a pink sweetheart cocktail dress, a gift from her aunt that she had been saving for a special occasion. The fabric hugs her curves with an insistence that can’t be ignored. The neckline dips low, showcasing the swell of her breasts, pushing them up until they look ready to spill out. The waist nips in tight before flaring over her hips, accentuating the hourglass figure she used to hide under baggy jeans and oversized hoodies.

She turns and looks down the line of her body. For the first time she doesn't see a string bean or a little sister. She sees a woman. A woman needing, aching, a wet pussy, and a hunger to be seen. She ran her hands down the silk at her sides. Imagine Leaf’s hands doing likewise.

She takes a deep breath to steady her thumping heart, then opens her bedroom door and steps into the hall. Her heels click rhythmically on the stairs, deliberately. As she descends, she feels the weight of her own intent. She’s not just going out to dinner; she’s walking onto a stage.

She reaches the foot of the stairs, and a shrill whistle cuts the air.

Her heart is hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She turns. Leaf and Sancho are near the entrance. Leaf's dark suit fits his broad shoulders like a glove; his hair is slicked back to reveal sharp, angular features. His eyes are large in surprise and focused on her.

“Wow…I didn’t recognize you at first, doll. You look beautiful," Leaf says. His voice is deeper than she remembers, rougher around the edges.

The compliment sends a jolt of electricity straight to her core. Her pussy clenches, heat flooding her veins. She notices the way his gaze drags over her, lingering on the exposed skin of her chest, tracing the line of her waist. It isn't the polite look of a brother’s friend. It’s heavy, appreciative, and hungry.

"Hi, Leaf!" she says, breathier than she intends. She leans in, invading his personal space slightly.

Leaf straightens, jaw clenching. Leaf straightens, jaw clenched. He corrects her firmly, in a tone that allows no argument.

“It’s Big Brother Leaf. There's a ten-year difference. Have some respect.”

The word hangs between them, a barrier he is trying to rebuild. Sahara bristles, the heat in her blood changing from arousal to defiance. She lifts her chin, eye to eye with him directly.

"I'm not a kid anymore, Leaf. I don't have to call you Big Brother," she says, voice dipping, taking on a sultry edge. "I graduated. I am over 18."

"You're still a kid to us, Sahara,” he says, but his eyes dart down to her lips again. There’s a wordless tension buzzing in the air around them. They playfully argue, but it’s risibly intense. Every word a caress, every denial a challenge. She huffs and turns on her heel to head to the dining room, ending the stalemate.

But as she moves, she feels the sensation of his gaze burning into her back. It’s a physical weight, tracing the curve of her ass and the swing of her hips.

She pauses near the archway, unable to resist the pull. She turns her head, looking back over her shoulder.

Leaf is still standing there. He hasn’t moved. He isn't looking at Sancho; he isn't looking at the door. He is staring straight at her.

The look in his eyes is different. It is not the friendly, dismissing glance of the past. It’s dark, possessive, and raw, dripping with a naked need that matches her own. The mask has slipped. Something has changed between them, and in that quiet, tense moment, Sahara knows nothing will ever be the same again.