Brother’s Girlfriend: Part 2

I lasted forty minutes in Marcus’s bed before I gave up on sleep.

The apartment was too quiet. Every small sound carried—the refrigerator cycling on, a car passing outside, the faint creak of the building settling. Damien’s door stayed closed, but knowing he was on the other side of it made the darkness feel charged. I kept replaying the way his eyes had moved over me in the living room. The brief, uncontrolled pass over my bare legs and the thin T-shirt. The way he had looked away like it cost him something.

I got up.

The T-shirt still hit mid-thigh. I didn’t bother with anything underneath. The hallway was dark. A thin line of light showed under Damien’s door, but it was late enough that I assumed he had fallen asleep with the lamp on. I padded to the kitchen for water, the hardwood cool under my feet.

I didn’t hear him come out.

When I turned from the sink he was already standing in the kitchen doorway, still in the dark jeans and T-shirt he had worn home, arms loosely crossed. The only light came from the under-cabinet strip I had switched on. It left most of his face in shadow.

“Couldn’t sleep either,” he said.

My pulse jumped. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t. Was already up.”

He stepped into the kitchen. The space suddenly felt smaller. I became aware all over again of how little I had on—the way the T-shirt clung to my braless chest, the cool air moving against my bare thighs, the fact that one deep breath would show everything. Damien’s gaze flicked downward once, the same brief, heavy glance as earlier, before he locked it back on my face.

“Marcus know you’re walking around like that?” he asked. His voice was quiet. Rough around the edges.

“He’s not here.”

“I noticed.”

Silence stretched. I should have taken my water and gone back to the bedroom. Instead I stayed where I was, hip against the counter, and watched him watch me. The air between us felt thick enough to touch.

Damien walked closer to open the cabinet above my head for a glass. The movement brought his body within inches of mine. I caught the clean scent of his skin and the faint trace of whatever soap he used. When he reached up, the hem of his T-shirt lifted just enough to show a strip of stomach. I looked away too late. He noticed.

He filled the glass slowly, deliberately, and didn’t step back when he was done. We stood close enough that I had to tip my head to meet his eyes. My nipples had tightened against the soft cotton. There was no hiding it in this light.

“You’re staring,” I said, softer than I intended.

“So are you.”

He set the glass down without drinking. One of his hands came to rest on the counter beside my hip, not quite touching me, but close enough that the heat of his skin reached mine. The position caged me in lightly against the cabinets. My heart beat hard enough that I was sure he could see it in my throat.

“This is a bad idea,” I whispered.

“What is?”

“Whatever you’re thinking right now.”

Damien’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “You don’t know what I’m thinking.”

“I can guess.”

“Can you.”

His eyes dropped again—slowly this time, with full intent—over the rise of my breasts under the T-shirt, the bare stretch of my thighs, the place where the hem stopped. When he looked back up, the restraint in his expression had thinned.

“Marcus is my brother,” he said, voice low. “You’re his girlfriend. I should walk back to my room and lock the door.”

“You should.”

“Tell me to.”

The words hung between us. I opened my mouth. The refusal I was supposed to give didn’t come out. Instead I heard myself breathe, unsteady and too loud in the quiet kitchen.

Damien’s hand left the counter and settled lightly on my waist, fingers spreading over the thin cotton. The touch was testing. When I didn’t pull away, his thumb stroked once along the curve of my hip, slow and deliberate. A soft, involuntary sound left my throat.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

He leaned in. For a second I thought he would kiss me. Instead his mouth stopped near my ear, close enough that I felt the warmth of his breath.

“You’re not wearing anything under this, are you?”

“No.”

A rough exhale left him. His hand slid lower, over the outside of my thigh, then slowly up under the hem of the T-shirt. His palm met bare skin. He kept going until his fingers brushed the curve of my ass with nothing between them. My whole body tensed. Heat flooded between my legs so fast it made me dizzy.

“Damien—”

“Tell me to stop.”

I didn’t.

His hand cupped me more firmly, squeezing once, then slid around to the front. The first brush of his fingers against my bare cunt made my knees weak. I was already wet. He felt it immediately. A low, almost pained sound left his chest as he stroked through the slickness, slow and exploratory, like he was giving me every chance to push him away.

I gripped the edge of the counter instead.

“You’re soaked,” he said against my temple. “How long have you been like this?”

“Since you walked in the door.”

That broke something.

Damien’s mouth finally found mine—hungry, controlled only by force of will. I opened for him with a soft sound and his tongue slid against mine at the same time two fingers pressed inside me. The stretch pulled a broken moan from my throat that he swallowed. He worked his fingers in short, precise strokes while his thumb circled my clit, backing me harder against the counter until I had nowhere else to go.

The kiss turned rougher. His free hand fisted in the back of my T-shirt, holding me in place while he fingered me in the open kitchen of the apartment I shared with his brother on the nights I stayed over. The wrongness of it only made the pleasure sharper. My hips moved against his hand without permission. I was already close, tension coiling tight and fast.

Damien pulled his mouth away just far enough to speak.

“Couch,” he said, voice rough. “Now.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He withdrew his hand, turned me, and walked me out of the kitchen with his body close behind mine, fingers still glistening. The living room was dark except for the city light through the blinds. When we reached the couch he sat and pulled me down to straddle him in one motion. The T-shirt rode up around my waist. His jeans were rough against my bare thighs. I could feel how hard he was underneath them.

He looked up at me, eyes dark, jaw tight, the last thin thread of restraint visible in the way his hands gripped my hips.

“Last chance,” he said quietly. “You get off me right now and we pretend this didn’t happen.”

I answered by reaching between us and popping the button of his jeans.

His control snapped.