Page 90 of Marrying My Ex's Brother
I unfasten my trousers. My cock is heavy in my hand, painfully hard, already slick at the tip. I close my fist around myself and the first stroke almost makes my knees weaken.
I think of her exactly as she was. Spread open on my bed. Tits bare. Nipples hard. Thighs shaking. Her fingers in my hair while she tried to pretend she wasn’t grinding against my mouth.
I stroke harder.
My jaw tightens.
I think of the sound she made when my tongue found her clit. The way she tried to close her legs and then opened them wider. The way she grabbed my wrist but didn’t push me away. The way she came for me, shocked and helpless, hips lifting like her body had been waiting all her life to learn that one thing.
My breath turns harsh.
I imagine taking her after that.
In my head, I’m back in that room. I’m over her. Her knees are spread around my hips. Her hands are twisted in the sheets. She’s looking up at me with those wide, furious eyes as I line my cock up against her.
She says my name like she knows no one else’s. Like she already knows there’s no way out of wanting it.
I stroke faster.
My free hand tightens on the sink.
I imagine the first push into her. The resistance. The heat. The way her breath would catch, how her body would fight me for a second before taking me in. I would go slow enough not to break her, but not gentle enough to let her pretend this is anything less than possession.
I come hard, teeth clenched, one hand braced against the sink as the release tears through me. For several seconds, I can’t move. My breath comes rough and uneven, my body still locked around the image of her beneath me.
Then the silence returns.
Cold tile. Running water.
My own reflection staring back at me like a stranger.
I clean myself up, wash my hands, and splash cold water on my face.
It doesn’t help.
Nothing helps. Only she can. But I don’t want to corrupt her with my darkness.
I pour a drink, but I don’t finish it. I sit in the chair behind my desk, still in my wrinkled shirt, and stare at nothing until the fire burns down. Sometime before dawn, exhaustion finally drags me under.
When I wake, the room is gray. My neck hurts. The study is cold.
For a moment, I don’t remember falling asleep. Then I shift and feel the stiffness in my back, the dried blood on my knuckles, the ache in my body that has nothing to do with sleep.
Anya.
I stand immediately.
The house is quiet, but not in the peaceful way. It’s the early morning quiet of servants not yet moving and guards changing shifts outside. I leave the study and head for the stairs.
Halfway across the main hall, I stop.
She’s on the staircase. Curled awkwardly on the wide landing between the first and second floors, one arm under her head, her nightdress covered by a robe someone must have left in my room. Her bare feet are tucked beneath the hem. A half-empty glass sits on the step beside her.
For a second, something cold and sharp cuts through me.
I move quickly. “Anya.”
She doesn’t wake.
