Page 50 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
He grabs my wrists, pinning them above my head with one hand. With the other, he reaches down between our bodies, finding my clit.
It’s too much. It’s sensory overload. The fullness of him inside me, the friction of his thumb, the dominant grip on my wrists.
My world narrows down to this. The friction. The heat. This man.
“That’s it, Tess,” he urges in my ear.
I break, cumming hard as my body spasms. I scream his name, arching my back and clamping down on him.
He groans, his control snapping. He releases my wrists and wraps his arms around me, driving into me hard and fast, one, two, three times, before he stiffens.
He grips my hips so hard his fingers dig into my skin, his head snapping back as he finishes deep inside me.
We collapse.
He stays inside me for a long time, his weight pressing me into the mattress, his heart thundering against mine like a war drum.
I run my hands down his sweaty back, tracing the dip of his spine.
My mind is blank. No guilt. No fear. Just the bliss of endorphins and the solid, heavy reality of Owen Branson.
He pulls out and presses a slow, lingering kiss to my mouth.
“Good morning,” he whispers.
I smile, though my body feels like jelly. “Good morning.”
The shower is small, but we make it work.
Owen insists on washing my hair. It’s a tender, intimate gesture that scares me more than the sex. Sex is just bodies. Washing someone’s hair? That’s care. That’s relationships.
We stand under the spray, the steam curling around us. He massages the shampoo into my scalp, his eyes closed, humming a tune I recognize from the lo-fi playlist in the creative studio.
“You realize,” I say, my voice echoing off the tile, “that this complicates everything.”
Owen opens his eyes. Green meets hazel. “Does it?”
“Monday. The office. Ethan will be there.”
“Ethan isn’t the boss of my bedroom,” Owen says, rinsing the suds from my hair. “And he isn’t the boss of yours.”
“He’s the boss of my paycheck.”
“Tessa.” Owen turns off the water. He grabs a towel and wraps it around me, tucking the end in securely. He doesn’t wrap one around himself. He stands there, gloriously naked and unashamed, his dick dangling and dripping water onto the bathmat. “Stop worrying about Monday. It’s Saturday. We have forty-eight hours before we have to be professional.”
Forty-eight hours. The number feels like a countdown.
“Give me the weekend,” he says. “Just the weekend. No titles. No NDAs. Just us.”
It’s a dangerous offer. It’s a cliff edge.
But I’m already falling.
“Okay,” I whisper. “The weekend.”
He grins, that blinding, sunny grin returning. “Great. Now, let’s go get coffee. I make excellent coffee. And then we are going to figure out how to sneak you out of here without Asher seeing it on the satellite feed.”
I’m wearing Owen’s shirt.
