I lay here as he gets up and sneaks out into the hall. The things he said, or rather, the last thing he said, rings out in my head. He didn’t finish the thought, but my * twitched, knowing where he was going. The primal level thoughts.
Fuck, was he really thinking like that? Breeding? Making me pregnant?
One day, he said.
But why does him wanting that, even one day, turn me on?
Avoiding Brayden is easy when he’s at work, and I’ve even managed to avoid him at night, thanks to my girls. Early Friday morning I found him in his room, dressed for work and packing up some clothes to head back to Columbus for the weekend.
I lean on the door frame as he strips his bed, the sheets still stained from the other day.
“Laundry?” I watch as he stuffs the sheet into a bag and not into his laundry basket.
“Nope.”
“Then what are you doing?” I ask.
He smirks at me and turns it to show the large spot. “Souvenir.”
“That’s gross.”
He smirks and walks up to me. He leans down, so close that his lips are millimeters away from my own. “Keep telling yourself that, baby. I know you want to make another one.”
I mash my teeth together and step back. “Cocky asshole.”
The next few days passed without contact from him. Didn’t even text or call. Well, he did send another devastating picture of his fuck-hot body.
This morning he returned.
What is with Brayden and these three-day cycles? Three days gone, three home, and three gone again before coming back.
I know he’s working and trying to get his apartment set up, but there’s just something about it that grates on me.
The problem is admitting why it bothers me.
When he’s here I want him, while at the same time I want him to leave.
With him gone, I thought the anxiety would lessen, but instead, with each hour that passed the itch, the anticipation of the next time, increased.
I hate this. I hate that all he has to do is walk in the door and my legs are ready to spread willingly for him.
He got home an hour ago. and I’m trapped all alone with him. Our parents are at work, and while Ryan did come home this past weekend, he left yesterday.
The little shit even revealed to me why I haven’t seen his brotherly ass around—he’s giving his best friend space to defile his sister.
I’m not sure I love my brother anymore.
One day, big bro . . . Payback is a bitch.
With the knowledge of Brayden returning today, Mom left a list of chores for each of us to do. There wasn’t much on them, but enough to keep us from going at it the moment he walked in. Especially since I was teasing him over text yesterday.
I got him back with a pic of me in my bikini.
I’ve been dusting this table for way too long. The surface is so shiny I can see my reflection.
All that I’m doing is moving my hand back and forth across the wood, because I’m glued to the scene happening outside the window beside the table.
Brayden shirtless as he mows the backyard.
He’s got a hat on—a rarity for him—and his headphones as he cuts path after path through the grass.
The only sounds I hear are the racing beats of my heart and the loud buzz of the mower.
It’s hot and sunny, and I can’t tear my eyes away from the sweat rolling down his naked chest. I want to lick it up, lick him all over.
Fuck.
He wasn’t working five minutes outside when his shirt came off. Now I’m hypnotized by him again, watching his shiny muscles strain, pushing the mower around. I’m so entranced I don’t even notice when he turns it off.
I jump as he walks toward the house. Frantic energy buzzes through me as I search for something to help me look busy.
As I stare down at the cloth in one of my hands and the Pledge in the other, I want to slam my head against the wall.
I take a calming breath and look back out. He’s taken his hat and headphones off, and drops them along with his phone, onto one of the lounge chairs.
I’m drawn in again, watching with rapt attention as he pulls his shoes and socks off. I half expect him to keep stripping, but he leaves his jeans on. They sit so low on his waist, showcasing that perfect V of his that I want to lick and nibble on.
Two large steps and his arms draw above his head as his body launches forward, arching into the pool. When he surfaces, he shakes his head, flinging water around. He seems to struggle in the water for something before holding up a wad of dark blue and tossing it onto the concrete.
Fuck.
That’s his jeans, which means . . .
Look away! Look away! I yell at myself.
It doesn’t work. I should have done that twenty minutes ago. Now is too late. I’m aroused past rational thought.
What was I saying about wanting him to leave? No, I want him to come.
Inside me.
All over me.
Give me the soul-shattering pleasure only he can.
I drop the can of Pledge onto the floor and press my fingers between my legs.
He swims a couple of laps, then stands in the shallow end.