Noiseless Wet Dreams of You

CHAPTER ONE

The sound usually started at midnight.

A dull, rhythmic thud of a headboard hitting the drywall. It was a heavy sound, expensive and private, yet it bled through the hallway of the new house. I found myself at their door again, the cold floor biting into my knees. I leaned in, my eye pressed to the keyhole until the metal rim left a dent in my skin.

Inside, the room was a blur of tangled sheets and shadows. My mother’s back was arched, her fingers digging into the shoulders of the man pinning her down.

"Yes, Jake! Harder... God, Jake!"

Jake Thomas didn’t say much. He just moved. He was a mountain of a man, his back a map of shifting muscle that caught the dim light every time he lunged forward. I watched the way his hands—large, scarred from years of coaching bikers—gripped her waist like he was trying to snap her in two.

"You’re going to disturb the kids," he muttered, his voice a low vibration I could feel in my own chest. He didn't slow down. If anything, he hit harder, his eyes fixed on the door as if he knew exactly who was shivering on the other side of the wood.

I pulled back, my breath coming in short, shallow stabs. My hand was already down my shorts, my skin hot and damp. I couldn't help it. Every time he looked at me at the dinner table, or the way he filled a doorway just by standing in it, it all fed into this. He was a biker coach, a billionaire, a man who took up too much space.

And right now, he was taking up all the space in my head.

"What are you doing there?"

The voice was a low crawl. I jerked back, my heart slamming against my teeth.

Drake.

He was leaning against the opposite wall, his hands buried in his pockets. He looked exactly like his father tall, built, and entirely too handsome for his own good. But where Jake was steady, Drake was a live wire. Mischievous. Mean.

"I... uh..." I scrambled to my feet, my hand flying to the back of my neck to hide the heat I knew was staining my skin.

Drake didn't ask again. He just stepped forward, his boots silent on the carpet. He nudged me aside with his shoulder and bent down, taking my place at the keyhole. A slow, ugly smirk spread across his face as he watched his father work.

"You're watching," he whispered, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

I lunged forward, slamming my hand over his mouth before he could say another word. I didn't think; I just grabbed his arm and hauled him down the hall toward the living room, my skin prickling with the fear that the bedroom door would swing open.

He snatched his arm away once we reached the dark living room. "Care to explain that?" He crossed his arms, looking me up and down like I was a puzzle he’d already solved.

Drake was an asshole. There was no other word for it. From the moment my mom married into this family, he’d made it his mission to keep me under his thumb. He was the king of the school, the biker everyone wanted to be or be with. And he knew it.

"Stay out of it," I hissed.

"Why should I? I think I’ll go back in there and tell them." He turned, as if he were actually going to do it.

"You wouldn't."

"Try me." He paused, looking back at me. "Unless you do my bidding this weekend. My bike needs a tune-up, and I’ve got errands. You’re my shadow for the next forty-eight hours."

I clenched my jaw so hard it ached. This was his game. Catch me in a corner, then bleed me dry. "I'm not doing it, Drake. Go ahead. Tell them. Tell them I was watching them make us a sibling."

The words flew out before I could stop them. I was shaking, the adrenaline making my vision blur.

Drake stared at me. The smug look faded, replaced by something heavier. He stepped into my space, his chest nearly brushing mine. "Why?" he asked, his voice dropping. His hands found the small of my back, a touch that felt more like a brand than a caress.

"What are you doing?" I whispered, my knees going soft.

"Didn't you get wet watching them?" He leaned in, his lips inches from my ear. "We could help ourselves, Aubrey. No one has to know."

I shoved him back, my skin crawling with a mix of revulsion and a heat I didn't want to admit to. "You're sick. Just stay away from me."

"Why?" he teased, that smirk returning. "It's just an expensive joke, right?"

I didn't answer. I turned and bolted for my room, slamming the door and twisting the lock. I threw myself onto the bed, burying my face in the pillow to drown out the sounds still echoing from down the hall.

My heart wouldn't slow down. My legs were heavy, the friction of my jeans against my skin feeling like a dare. I reached into my bra, my fingers shaking as I squeezed, trying to replace the image of Jake with anything else. But it was no use.

The room felt smaller. Darker.

Suddenly, I felt a weight on the mattress. Hands—rough, veiny, and solid—hit my waist, arching me up. I felt a tongue, hot and insistent, tracing the dip of my navel. I sucked in a breath, my eyes flying open to the moonlit room.

It was him.

He didn't say a word. He just moved with that same brutal precision I’d seen through the keyhole. 

His veiny hairy hands were aching me up, his hair, not long but they were brushing against the skin of my stomach that I stuttered, shaking, gasping, my legs suddenly wrapped around his neck, his long tongue ferreting  into my empress that kept crying to be attended to. 

It did, he was licking, sucking. My hands could barely grip the pleasure out of my breast when the center of pleasure have rendered every other part of my body useless. 

"Ahhh..." 

"Ahhhh..." 

This is what..."Ahhh..." 

"Fuck..." I hissed out and then, he loomed over me. His hair was a mess, his eyes dark pits of mischief and hunger. He looked down at me, his lashes casting long shadows on his cheeks.

My heart beat changed again..

"Did you get wet seeing me fuck your mother?"