Page 22 of Brother in Law with Benefits

"I've been thinking about you for two days." His hands move to the hem of my sweater — the one I spent four minutes selecting, for the record, time well spent apparently. "Thinking about everything I didn't get to do the first time because we were both so desperate." He pulls it over my head. "This time, I'm taking my time."

He unhooks my bra with the easy confidence of a man who has done this before, many times, in possession of information I apparently haven't had access to, and I file that observation under things to appreciate about the age gap.

He sets me back on the bed. Stands at the foot of it and looks at me — a long, unhurried look that makes me feel more exposed than actually being undressed does, like he's cataloguing me the same way I've been cataloguing him.

"Beautiful," he says. Not a line. Not flattery. Like he's noting a structural fact about the room.

My face gets warm. "You don't have to say—"

"I know I don't have to." He kneels on the bed, hands going to the button on my jeans. "I want to. I'm going to tell you exactly what I've been thinking." He pulls my jeans down. Then my underwear. I'm completely bare and he's fully dressed and the power differential is doing things to me. "Spread your legs for me. Let me see you."

I do.

My face is on fire. I'm also wetter than I've been since the first time, probably since approximately one second after he said thick enough that you can be as loud as you want.

"Perfect," he says softly. "Look how wet you are for me."

"Grant—"

"Shh. I'm going to take care of you."

Then his mouth is on me.

I arch off the bed with a sound that would absolutely carry through less-than-thick walls. His tongue is hot and deliberate — deliberate, always deliberate with him, like he's working from a map of my specific nervous system that he somehow already has — and he explores me with the same focused attention he gives everything else.

He knows exactly what he's doing, I think with startling clarity as his tongue finds my clit. He has been doing this for — however many years he's been doing this — and the math is working very much in my favor right now.

Two fingers inside me and I grip the pillow and make a sound I'll be reviewing later.

"That's it," he murmurs against me. "Let me hear you."

"Patty's—"

"Sleeping." He curls his fingers and I lose the thread of the sentence entirely. "No one here but us."

He builds the pleasure slowly, and every time I get close he backs off — a slow retreat, a shift in pressure, a pause that leaves me chasing him with my hips before I even realize I'm doing it — and I have a complex emotional response to that, somewhere between frustration and gratitude, because the frustration is good, the frustration is building me toward something I can already tell is going to be different than what I've been having access to for the better part of a decade.

"Please," I gasp. "Grant, please—"

"Please what?"

"Let me come—"

"Not yet." He adds a third finger and I whimper, which I've done approximately three times in my life until this week. "You're going to come on my tongue first. Then on my fingers. Then on my cock." His voice is even, almost calm, and that calm while he is doing this to me is deeply, specifically unfair. "We've got all afternoon, baby girl. We're taking our time."

The baby girl again. I thought the first time was a fluke. It's not a fluke. It hits me the same way it did in the apartment, this warm rush from somewhere I didn't know was accessible, and I clench around his fingers involuntarily.

"You like that," he says. Not a question.

"Apparently," I say, a little desperately.

"Good." He finds my clit with his mouth again and I stop being able to form thoughts in complete sentences.

My first orgasm hits me like something breaking loose, rolling through me in waves that seem to start behind my eyes and move all the way down to my curling toes. I say his name at volume. He works me through every second of it, unhurried even now, like watching me fall apart is its own reward and he's got no intention of rushing it.

Before I've fully landed, he's kissing up my body — stomach, ribs, each breast with specific focused attention that makes mesquirm. I want to taste him. I want to do things to him. I want to have the conversation where I have some agency in what's happening here, which I apparently need to negotiate because he's still fully dressed and clearly operating on a schedule.

"Your clothes," I manage.