《Rough Hands(20 gay steamy Encounters)》全部章節：第 91 章 - 第 100 章

Saturday morning the house woke up slowly.I lay in bed longer than usual, cataloguing the familiar ache and the faint sticky shift of everything Ryan had left inside me the night before. Downstairs I could already hear Mom’s voice and the clink of coffee mugs. Dad’s low laugh. Sarah asking someone to pass the cream. Ordinary sounds that somehow made the secret heavier.When I finally came downstairs Ryan was at the stove making eggs. He glanced over his shoulder, eyes dragging down my body for half a second, then turned back to the pan like nothing was wrong. I took the empty stool at the island. His bare foot found mine under the cabinet and pressed down hard.Breakfast was pure performance. Mom wanted to know how the thesis was progressing. Dad asked if I’d thought about what I was wearing to the wedding. Sarah scrolled through her phone and showed us a picture of the final cake design. I answered everything with a calm voice and a straight face while Ryan’s cum slowly leaked into

Monday morning the house finally emptied in a way that felt like exhaling.My parents left at 8:10 for the long drive home. Sarah left for work at 8:25. Ryan had blocked the entire day off under the excuse of “wedding logistics.” By 8:40 the front door was locked and the silence in the house was thick and deliberate.He found me in the kitchen still holding a half-finished cup of coffee. He took it out of my hand, set it on the counter, and kissed me like he’d been waiting all weekend to do it properly. No rush. No hand over my mouth. Just deep, hungry, open-mouthed kissing while his hands shoved my clothes out of the way.“All day,” he said against my lips. “No parents. No sister until at least six. I’m going to keep you full until she walks through that door.”He bent me over the counter first—familiar now, almost ritual. Lube from the junk drawer. Two fingers, then three, working me open with slow, thorough patience. I was still soft from the night before; the stretch was easy and

One week until the wedding.The house had become a war zone of floral samples, place-card drafts, and last-minute vendor calls. Sarah moved through it like a general. Ryan played the perfect fiancé in public and the man who couldn’t stop breeding her brother in private. The windows were shorter now, the risks sharper, and the hunger between us had stopped pretending it would burn out after the ceremony.Monday morning she left early for a final cake tasting with the bridesmaids. Ryan watched her car disappear down the street, then locked the door and found me still in the kitchen with a half-finished cup of coffee.“Forty-five minutes,” he said. “I’m using all of them.”He bent me over the counter, yanked my sweatpants down, and pushed two slick fingers into me without preamble. I was still soft from the night before; they slid in easy. He worked me open just enough, then replaced them with his cock in one long thrust. The sudden fullness dragged a moan out of me that I didn’t bother

Three months after the wedding the secret had only grown heavier and more necessary.Ryan and Sarah had moved into a light-filled apartment across town with big windows and a guest room that almost never got used for guests. I still lived in my parents’ house, finishing the last stretch of the thesis. On paper everything looked exactly as it should: the newlyweds settling into married life, the younger brother still grinding through grad school, family dinners once a week that were warm and ordinary on the surface.Underneath, nothing had stopped.Ryan found reasons to stop by the house when Sarah was at work or out with friends. Sometimes it was a tool he needed to return. Sometimes it was a question about the thesis he already knew the answer to. Sometimes there was no excuse at all—just his car in the driveway and the front door unlocking with the spare key he still had. Every time, the pattern was the same. Locked doors. Quiet urgency. The familiar stretch and burn of him pushing

He started at my feet again, the same way he had on my back, as if resetting the entire session. Warm oil pooled in his palms first; I heard the soft click of the bottle, the quiet rub of skin against skin as he heated it. Then his hands closed around my right foot. Firm pressure along the arch, thumbs sliding from heel to the ball of my foot in long, deliberate strokes. It should have been ordinary. Professional. Instead every point of contact felt charged, like the air in the room had thickened.He worked the sole thoroughly, then moved to my toes, rolling each one between oiled fingers. When he switched to the left foot I was already breathing differently. My cock lay heavy against my stomach under the sheet, half-hard from the earlier touches on my back and still sensitive. I kept my eyes closed and tried to focus on the pressure, the heat, the slow rhythm of his hands. It didn’t help.He moved up my calves with long, sweeping strokes. Oil glistened on my skin under the low lamps.