Shared Bed Sins 1

The house had never felt smaller.

Relatives from out of town had flooded in for the weekend—uncles, aunts, cousins, the whole chaotic extended family—and every spare corner was claimed. The guest room was double-booked, the couch was taken, and the air mattress in the living room was already occupied by snoring in-laws.

Which left only one solution.

Mom had said it so casually over dinner, like it wasn’t a bomb:

“Brielle, you and Adrian can share your room tonight. It’s just one night. You’re both adults now, right? The bed’s big enough.”

Brielle, eighteen and still trying to act cool about everything, had frozen with her fork halfway to her mouth. Adrian—her stepbrother since she was twelve and he was thirteen, back when their parents got married—leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, that familiar cocky grin spreading slow across his face.

“Share a bed?” he echoed, voice dripping with mock horror. “With her? Mom, you serious? I’d rather sleep on the roof.”

Brielle shot him a glare. “Excuse me? What’s that supposed to mean?”

He laughed, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “Come on, you know exactly what I mean. You still roll around like a tornado in your sleep. Remember when we were kids and you’d push me clean off the couch during movie nights? I’d wake up on the floor with your foot in my face.”

The cousins snickered. An aunt raised an eyebrow, amused.

Brielle’s cheeks heated. “That was one time! And you snore like a chainsaw anyway.”

“I do not snore,” he fired back, grinning wider. “You’re the one who makes those little wheezy noises. Like a kitten with asthma.”

“Shut up,” she muttered, kicking him lightly under the table. “You’re just scared I’ll steal all the blankets.”

“Scared?” He snorted. “Nah. I’m just not trying to wake up with your elbow in my ribs again. Or your cold feet on my back. You’re like a human ice pack.”

Their mom sighed, half-laughing. “You two are worse than toddlers. It’s one night. Deal with it. And behave.”

Adrian rolled his eyes dramatically. “Fine. But if she pushes me off the bed, I’m sleeping in the hallway.”

Brielle stuck her tongue out at him. “Good luck fitting your big head out there.”

The table erupted in light laughter, but under the teasing, Brielle felt that familiar spark—his eyes lingering on her a beat too long, the way his voice dropped when he said her name. She ignored it. Or tried to.

Now it was past midnight.

The house was finally quiet except for the low hum of the ceiling fan and the distant murmur of crickets outside her window.

Adrian had showered first in his room down the hall. He came into Brielle’s bedroom wearing nothing but loose gray basketball shorts and a white tank that clung to his still-damp chest and shoulders. His hair was messy, dark strands falling into his eyes, and he smelled like cedarwood body wash and clean skin. He tossed his towel over the chair, dropped his phone on the nightstand, and climbed onto the far side of the bed like this was normal.

Like sharing a bed with his little stepsister wasn’t making his pulse hammer.

Brielle stood in the doorway of her attached bathroom, clutching her towel and a change of clothes to her chest. She could feel his eyes on her even without looking.

“I’m gonna shower real quick,” she said, voice a little higher than usual. “Don’t hog all the blankets.”

He chuckled low. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She shut the bathroom door behind her, locked it, and exhaled hard.

The water came on hot. Steam filled the small space quickly. Brielle stripped out of her clothes and stepped under the spray, letting it pound against her shoulders. It had been a long, restless week—school stress, hormones raging, that low, insistent ache between her legs that wouldn’t quit. She wasn’t thinking about anyone specific tonight; she was just… horny. Plain and simple. The kind of horny that made her thighs press together every time she moved.

She leaned against the cool tile wall, eyes closing as her hand drifted down. Fingers circled her clit slowly at first, teasing, building the pressure. She bit her lip, stifling a soft moan as the heat coiled tighter. Her other hand cupped her breast, thumb brushing over a stiff nipple, sending sparks straight to her core. She imagined nothing concrete—just sensation: the slide of wet skin, the pulse of need, the way her body would clench around something thick and hard.

She reached into the little basket on the shelf—the one hidden behind shampoo bottles—and pulled out her favorite toy: small, curved, purple silicone, always charged. She pressed the vibrator against her clit, turning it to a low buzz. The vibration hummed through her, making her hips jerk forward instinctively. She slid it lower, easing the tip inside, then deeper, fucking herself slowly while the water rained down her back.

Her breaths came faster, shallower. She rocked against her hand, the toy hitting just the right spot inside, clit grinding against her palm. The tension built fast—too fast—until she shattered, thighs shaking, a muffled cry swallowed by the steam. Waves of pleasure rolled through her, leaving her boneless against the wall, panting.

Afterward she rinsed quickly, heart still racing, cheeks flushed. She dried off just enough that her skin stayed damp, then slipped into an oversized white tee that barely skimmed her thighs. No bra. No panties. The thin cotton immediately clung to her wet curves—nipples hard and visible through the fabric, the outline of her full breasts unmistakable, her waist tiny and hips flaring in a way that made the shirt ride up dangerously.

She stepped out of the bathroom.

Adrian was on his back, one arm behind his head, phone in his other hand. The screen was dark now—he’d just flicked it off the second the door opened. His shorts were tented obviously, the thick ridge of his erection straining against the gray fabric. He shifted, trying to play it casual, but it was too late.

Brielle’s eyes dropped straight to it.

She smirked, slow and wicked.

“Wow,” she said, voice teasing as she padded closer to the bed. “You dropped your phone like it burned you. What were you looking at, big brother?”

He cleared his throat. “Nothing. Just… scrolling.”

“Uh-huh.” She climbed onto the mattress on her knees, crawling toward him like a cat. “You sure? Looked like you were chatting with someone pretty hot.”

“Nah.” His voice was rougher now, eyes locked on the way her wet shirt clung to every inch of her—nipples pebbled, the shadow between her thighs barely hidden by the hem.

She reached for his phone playfully. “Lemme see.”

He snatched it away, laughing low. “No chance.”

“Oh come on—” She lunged, giggling, and they wrestled for it. Her body pressed against his—soft breasts squishing against his chest, damp thighs sliding over his, her hair falling like a curtain around their faces.

He flipped her easily, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand. The phone clattered forgotten to the floor.

Their breathing synced. Heavy. Close.

She could feel every hard inch of him pressed against her inner thigh through his shorts. Hot. Thick. Throbbing.

His eyes darkened as they dropped to her mouth, then lower—to the way her tee had ridden up, exposing the smooth curve of her hip and the bare skin between her legs.

“You’re not wearing anything under that,” he murmured, voice gravel.

Brielle’s pulse thundered in her ears.

She arched just enough to brush her nipples against his chest through the thin fabric.

“Maybe I’m not,” she whispered back. “What are you gonna do about it, Adrian?”

His grip on her wrists tightened.

His hips shifted—once, slow, deliberate—grinding that thick length right against her bare, still-sensitive core.

The friction made her gasp.

He leaned down until his mouth hovered over hers, breath hot against her lips.

“Keep teasing me like that, little sis,” he said quietly, dangerously, “and I’m not gonna stop at just grinding.”

Brielle’s thighs clenched around him instinctively.

Her voice came out shaky, needy.

“Then don’t.”

The room went silent except for their breathing—and the faint creak of the bed as he pressed himself harder against her, right at the edge of giving in.