Brother’s Girlfriend: Part 4

Marcus’s next late night came nine days later.

He texted from the office just after six. Client dinner ran long. Don’t wait up. Stay at yours or crash at the apartment if you want—Damien said he’ll be around.

I stared at the message longer than I needed to.

Then I got dressed, left my place, and used the spare key I had never given back.

The apartment was quiet when I stepped inside. Only the under-cabinet lights in the kitchen were on. Damien was at the counter in a dark T-shirt and jeans, a glass of water in his hand. He looked up when the door closed. No surprise this time. Just a slow, dark recognition that settled in his eyes as they moved over me.

“He’s working late,” I said.

“I know.” Damien set the glass down. “He texted me too.”

Silence stretched. I dropped my bag by the couch—the same couch—and stood there in the soft light, waiting to see if he would be the one to end this. Damien pushed off the counter and walked toward me without hurry. When he reached me he stopped close enough that I had to tip my head back.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he said quietly.

“You could have told me not to.”

“I should have.”

His hand came up and brushed my hair behind my ear. The touch lingered. Then he kissed me—slow at first, then deeper, the same controlled hunger from the first night. I opened for him immediately. His hands slid under my shirt, warm against bare skin, and any pretense that either of us was going to stop disappeared.

We didn’t make it to a bedroom.

Damien walked me backward to the couch, pulled my shirt off, and had my jeans open by the time I sat. He shoved them down my legs along with my underwear, dropped to his knees between my thighs, and put his mouth on me without preamble. The first long stroke of his tongue pulled a broken sound from my throat. He licked and sucked with focused, relentless pressure, two fingers sliding inside me while he worked my clit, until I came hard against his mouth with my hands fisted in his hair.

He didn’t give me time to recover.

He stood, opened his jeans, and pulled me to the edge of the cushion. One thrust and he was buried inside me again. The stretch felt familiar now—thick, deep, exactly as good as I remembered. He fucked me in steady, powerful strokes, one hand braced on the back of the couch, the other gripping my hip hard enough to bruise. The wet sound of it filled the quiet apartment. I wrapped my legs around him and met every thrust, already building toward a second orgasm.

“This is the last time,” he muttered against my neck, even as he drove into me harder.

“You said that last time.”

A rough, almost unwilling sound left him. He reached between us and rubbed my clit in tight circles. I shattered again with a sharp cry, body clamping down around him. He followed a few strokes later, burying himself deep and coming with a low groan, flooding me in thick pulses that I felt in my bones.

We stayed joined for a long moment afterward, breathing hard. Damien’s forehead rested against mine. When he finally pulled out, the slow slide of his come leaving me felt like a claim neither of us was ready to talk about.

He fixed his clothes first. I stayed sprawled on the couch, jeans still tangled around one ankle, body marked and aching. Damien looked at me in the half-dark, expression unreadable again.

“Marcus will be home in two hours,” he said.

“I know.”

“You should clean up and be gone before then.”

“I know.”

He dragged a hand over his face, then met my eyes directly.

“Text me the next time he’s working late,” he said, voice quiet and rough. “Don’t just show up. Let me decide if I’m going to be here or not.”

The words should have felt like a boundary. They felt like an invitation.

“All right.”

He nodded once, as if that settled the rules of whatever this had become, and walked toward his room. At the hallway he paused without looking back.

“Lock the door when you leave.”

Then he was gone.

I sat on the couch for another few minutes, thighs sticky, the scent of sex still thick in the air, before I finally stood and cleaned up as best I could. I put my clothes back on, ran my fingers through my hair, and checked my reflection in the dark window. I looked freshly fucked and tried not to. It would have to be enough.

I left before Marcus’s key could turn in the lock.

In the elevator I opened my messages, stared at Damien’s number for a long second, and saved it under a name that wouldn’t raise questions. Then I typed three words and hit send before I could change my mind.

Next Thursday. Late.

The reply came before I reached the ground floor.

I’ll be here.

I slipped the phone into my pocket, stepped out into the night, and already started counting the days until my boyfriend worked late again—and his brother would be waiting on the other side of the door.