Forbidden Stepbrother Heat
The wet heat of his mouth closes over me and I forget how to breathe. His tongue drags flat and slow against my sex, then flicks faster, the slick of it sliding through me with a pressure that makes my standing knee buckle. Teeth scrape raw along the inside of my thigh, a sharp drag of enamel that pulls a sound out of me I have to bite back. His mouth is everywhere wet, sucking, working me with a hunger that doesn’t let up.
Then I feel the wall behind me. Cold flat plaster against my bare shoulder blades, my spine pressed hard into it. We’d stripped each other down the second his door clicked shut — my shirt off over my head, his shoved off his shoulders, the rest kicked away in a pile somewhere by his feet. Now there’s nothing between us. Shane has me pinned standing, one of my legs hooked over his shoulder, and he’s on his knees in front of me with his face buried between my thighs. The bed is right there beside us, the mattress edge against my hip. Below us the house is dead quiet. Our parents are asleep one floor down. That fact sits in my chest like a stone and does nothing to stop me from grinding myself against his mouth.
His hands clamp around my hips and hold me open, fingers digging into the meat of my ass, and that grip is the only thing keeping me up. One foot on the floor, one leg over his shoulder, my back dragging against the plaster — he’s carrying my whole weight on his hands and the wall, holding me spread for him whether I want it or not. His tongue pushes inside me and I gasp, the sound too loud, and I slap a hand over my own mouth to kill it. He doesn’t slow. He drags his tongue up to my clit and seals his lips around it and sucks, hard, and the wet suction of it fills the room. I can hear myself. I can hear how soaked I am every time he pulls back and dives in again, the slick obscene noise of his mouth working me open.
My free hand shoves into his hair and grips. I’m riding his face now, hips rolling against the flat of his tongue, the plaster scraping my back with every push. He groans into me and the vibration of it hits something deep. I’m leaking down his chin. I can feel the wet sliding down my own thigh where his cheek presses. My leg over his shoulder starts to shake. The heat builds low and tight and mean, coiling, and I press my head back into the wall. The hand over my mouth isn’t enough, so I let go of his hair and bite down on my own knuckle to keep from making it worse.
“Look at you,” he breathes against me, lips still moving on my skin. “Soaked. All for me.” Then his mouth is back on me before I can answer, harder, faster, and I lose the thread of every coherent thought I had left.
I’m close. Too close, too fast. I grab his hair again and yank to pull him off, because if he finishes me like this I’ll scream and wake the whole house. He resists for a second, sucking one last time, and the loss of his mouth leaves me throbbing and empty and furious for more.
He surges up off his knees and we move at the same time. He grabs me, I grab him, and we go down. Not gracefully. We slide down the wall together and hit the floor in a tangle right at the bed’s edge, his back dropping against the side of the mattress, me dragged down into his lap. My knees split wide and plant on the carpet on either side of his hips, my shins flat to the floor behind me. The carpet bites at them. His cock is right there, hard and slick against me, trapped between our bellies, and I reach down and line him up myself because I can’t wait another second.
The first push of him spreads me open slow. I sink down and the stretch of it pulls a long shaking breath out of me, inch by inch, my body adjusting around the thickness as I take him. He’s gripping my hips again, guiding me down, his forehead dropping to my collarbone. When I’m fully seated, when he’s buried to the root and I can feel him pressing deep, we both go still for one second. Skin to skin everywhere. The heat of his chest sticking to mine. His heart hammering against my breast.
Then I start to move. I grind down, rolling my hips, dragging myself along the length of him, and the friction is wet and tight and perfect. The slick noise of it gets louder as I find the rhythm, my body lifting and dropping in the short space the floor allows, the slap of my ass landing against his thighs starting soft and building. He braces his back against the mattress, plants his feet flat, and starts thrusting up to meet me, the bend of his knees giving him just enough drive to slam up from below. The impact gets sharper. Skin meeting skin, harder each time, a wet rhythmic smack that fills the dark room.
My breath comes in ragged pulls. His does too, hot against my throat, panting, ugly with how much he needs it. I clamp my hand over his mouth this time to keep him quiet and he bites my palm, fucking up into me faster. The angle in his lap has him grinding against my clit on every downstroke and I feel the heat flooding back, building higher than before. I’m dripping down his cock, down his thighs, the friction loud and obscene between us. There’s nothing in my head but the slap and grind and the thick stretch of him hitting deep.
“Quiet,” he hisses against my hand. “You have to stay quiet.” His hips snap up. “Fuck — just like that.”
I’m getting loud. I can’t help it. Every slam of him up into me knocks a sound out of me and they’re piling up, too many, too sharp in the silent house. He feels me losing it. His arms wrap tight around me and he leans forward off the bed, taking me with him, rolling us off his lap until he’s the one over me and I land flat on my back on the carpet. He grips my hips hard enough to bruise and pulls free for one breath, just long enough to shove me down into the position he wants.
The drop knocks the air out of me. Before I can recover he’s between my thighs, hauling my legs up, hooking them high over his shoulders one at a time until I’m folded nearly in half under him. The strain pulls tight down the backs of my thighs, my knees up by my ears, everything spread and open and exposed. Then he drives in.
This angle is brutal. He sinks in so much deeper now, hitting a spot that punches a strangled noise out of my throat, and he doesn’t ease into it. He pulls almost all the way out and slams home, and the slap of his hips against my thighs cracks loud and wet. I feel every inch of the drag on the way out, every inch of the stretch on the way back in. He’s so deep it borders on too much, the head of him driving against something that lights me up from the inside on every thrust.
The slapping turns violent. Skin against skin, fast and hard and soaked, the wet sound of it slapping up off the walls. His weight bears down through my legs, folding me tighter, and each thrust grinds him impossibly deeper. I’m gasping with no rhythm to it, words breaking apart, my hands clawing at the carpet for anything to hold. He’s panting open-mouthed above me, sweat dripping off his chest onto mine, his hips a blur. The heat tightens, snaps tight, the edge rushing up so fast I can’t stop it.
“You’re gonna come,” he pants. “I can feel it. Come on — give it to me.”
I open my mouth to warn him I’m going to be loud and he drops down onto me, unhooking my legs from his shoulders as he comes, letting them fall so I can wrap them around his waist instead. The shift drops his chest flush against mine, skin sealing wet and hot the whole length of us, and he crushes his mouth over mine. The kiss is airless. Bruising. He shoves his tongue in and seals every sound inside, swallowing it, and the climax tears through me with nowhere to go. My whole body convulses around him, clenching tight, my heels digging into the small of his back, and the scream I would have torn loose pours straight into his mouth instead — trapped, vibrating against his teeth, muffled to nothing. I can’t breathe. He won’t let me. He keeps the kiss locked tight and fucks me through it, the pulses of release hitting in waves while his hips keep slamming home.
He follows me over a few thrusts later. I feel him jerk deep, feel the heat of him spill, his groan dumped straight into my mouth and swallowed the same way mine was. He grinds in to the hilt and holds there, shaking, both of us breathing hard through the same kiss because neither of us trusts the other to stay quiet.
Finally he pulls back. We’re both panting, sweat-slick, my legs still locked around his waist. Below us the floor creaks. We freeze. A long beat of silence, then nothing — the house still asleep, our parents still downstairs, none the wiser. My thighs ease their grip and slide off his hips, dropping flat to the floor, and the blood rushing back through them stings.
“They didn’t hear,” he says quietly, more to himself than me.
Neither of us moves to put distance between us. I should. He’s my stepbrother and we’re naked on his bedroom floor and there’s no version of this that isn’t a problem. But I’m still throbbing around him, and he’s still hard inside me, and when his hand slides back up my thigh I don’t stop him.