Brother’s Girlfriend: Part 3

Damien’s control broke the second my fingers worked his zipper down.

He lifted his hips just enough to shove his jeans and boxers lower. His cock sprang free—thick, hard, already leaking at the tip. I wrapped my hand around him and stroked once, feeling the heat and the weight of him. A rough sound left his throat. Then his hands were on my waist, lifting me, positioning me, and guiding me down onto him in one slow, relentless slide.

The stretch forced the air from my lungs.

I sank down until he was buried completely inside me, my bare thighs flush against his. For a second we both stayed still, breathing hard, the reality of what we were doing settling between us like a third presence. Marcus’s couch. Marcus’s apartment. Marcus’s brother buried to the hilt in his girlfriend while he was out of town.

Damien’s hands tightened on my hips.

“Move,” he said, voice low and strained.

I did.

I started slow, rolling my hips, feeling every inch of him drag inside me. The T-shirt still hung loose around my waist. Damien pushed it higher so he could watch where we were joined. His eyes were dark, focused, almost angry with how much he wanted it. One of his hands slid up under the shirt and cupped my breast, thumb dragging over the tight nipple. The other stayed on my hip, guiding the rhythm, urging me to take him deeper.

“Fuck—you feel better than I thought you would,” he muttered.

I braced my hands on his shoulders and rode him harder. The wet sound of it filled the quiet living room. Every downward motion made my clit grind against him. Pleasure built fast and sharp, sharpened further by the wrongness of it—by the fact that the couch still smelled faintly of Marcus’s cologne, that his bedroom was twenty feet away, that I was going to have to look his brother in the eye tomorrow morning.

Damien thrust up to meet me, controlled power in every movement. The angle changed and a broken moan escaped my throat. He liked that. I felt him throb inside me. He pulled me down harder, forcing me to take all of him, and kept me there while he rolled his hips in short, deep strokes that hit the exact spot that made my thighs shake.

“Quiet,” he said against my collarbone, even though there was no one else in the apartment. “Or don’t. I don’t give a fuck right now.”

I stopped trying to stay quiet. The soft, helpless sounds left me freely as he fucked up into me. His mouth closed over my nipple through the thin cotton, then tugged the shirt higher and sucked the bare peak hard enough to sting. The dual sensation shoved me closer to the edge. My rhythm faltered. Damien took over completely, gripping both hips and driving into me from below in steady, powerful thrusts.

“Come on,” he ordered, voice rough. “Let me feel it.”

I shattered with a sharp cry, body clamping down around him in hard, rhythmic pulses. The orgasm rolled through me in waves strong enough that I had to drop my forehead to his shoulder to stay upright. He fucked me through it without slowing, drawing every last tremor out of me until I was shaking and oversensitive in his lap.

Only then did he move.

He lifted me off him—still hard, slick with me—and turned me so I was on my knees on the couch, facing the back cushions. He pushed the T-shirt up to my shoulders, gripped my hips, and thrust back into me from behind in one smooth stroke that made me fist the upholstery. This angle was deeper. Rougher. He set a steady, relentless pace, the wet sound of skin meeting skin filling the room.

One of his hands slid around to rub my clit in tight circles. The other pressed between my shoulder blades, keeping me arched the way he wanted. I was already building again, too sensitive, too full. The second orgasm hit faster than the first—sudden and intense, a broken moan muffled against the couch cushions as my body locked up around him.

Damien’s rhythm broke.

He drove into me harder, chasing his own release, and came with a low, guttural sound, burying himself deep and spilling into me in thick, hot pulses. I felt every one of them. The sensation prolonged my own aftershocks until my arms gave out and I sagged forward against the back of the couch.

We stayed like that for a long moment, joined, breathing hard. His hand stroked once down my spine, almost careful. Then he pulled out. I felt the immediate slow slide of his come leaving me and running down my inner thighs.

The living room was quiet again except for our breathing and the distant city noise through the window. Damien sat back against the cushions. I stayed where I was for another few seconds before shifting to sit beside him, the oversized T-shirt falling back down around my hips, doing nothing to hide what we had just done.

He looked at me in the half-dark, expression unreadable, jaw still tight.

“That can’t happen again,” he said quietly.

I wiped the inside of one thigh with the hem of the T-shirt and met his eyes.

“I know.”

Neither of us sounded like we believed it.

Damien dragged a hand over his face, then stood and fixed his jeans. He didn’t look at me while he did it. At the edge of the living room he paused, back still turned.

“Marcus gets back Tuesday,” he said.

“I know.”

“You should sleep in his room.”

“I will.”

He nodded once, as if that settled something, and walked down the hall. His bedroom door closed with a soft click.

I sat alone on the couch that still smelled like sex and his skin, thighs sticky, body aching in the best and worst way, and already knew I was going to be back on this exact cushion the next time Marcus worked late.

The only question was whether Damien would stop me.

Or whether he would already be waiting.