Lovers In Law 1

Ten years as his sister-in-law. Four years before that as just his younger brother's sweet little girlfriend. That's how long he's been off-limits. Fourteen years of holidays. Birthdays. Family beach trips. Fourteen years of his eyes flicking over me just a second too long. Of lingering hugs. Inside jokes. That fucking nickname, Sissy, that he's called me since the wedding. He has no idea what it does to me. And now I'm sitting across from him at a quiet breakfast spot--just the two of us. My husband's sleeping late. I volunteered to sort out the plans for their mom's retirement party. And Luca showed up late, all stubble and quiet smirks in a fitted black t-shirt that clings to his tattooed biceps. He smells like cigarettes and skin.

I'm trying to focus. I am. But his leg brushes mine under the table. He doesn't move it. And then I make the mistake of filling the silence with the story I shouldn't tell. "Last night," I say, spearing a piece of fruit, "he asked me what my darkest fantasy is." Luca raises a brow, sipping his coffee. "Bold move for my brother." His mouth quirks up. "I'm guessing you gave a PG answer?" I shrug. "I told the truth." He tilts his head, interest sharpening. "Which was?" I glance around. The café is quiet. No one close enough to hear. I lean in. "I said... a threesome. With him." A pause. "And his brother." For a heartbeat, Luca doesn't move. Doesn't even blink. And then everything shifts. The air between us crackles. I can see that I've thrown him off-balance for once. His eyes light up with surprise. His mouth curves, slow and dangerous. Like a lion realizing the cage door's open.

"That's... specific," he says. His voice has dropped half an octave. I take a long sip of my drink. Press my thighs together beneath the table. "Oh, it's just a fantasy," I say, attempting lightness and failing. Luca leans in, forearms on the table, eyes locked on mine. And now I see it--what he's been hiding all these years. That heat. That want. That raw, unspoken ache. "You've always liked teasing me, Sissy," he says, his voice low and velvet-dark. "But now I'm starting to wonder if you've been begging for it." The nickname lands differently now. He says it like a threat. A promise. A claim. And he still doesn't know it makes my panties damp every time he says it. Not yet. But he will.

We don't talk about it again. Not the fantasy. Not the way his voice dropped when he said my name like it was a dare. Not the heat that coiled low in my belly when I realized he wanted me--maybe always had. Instead, we finish our breakfast like two people pretending everything is perfectly normal. He asks about the party guest list. I ask if he still has the old slideshow from their dad's retirement. Our voices are steady. Our faces polite. But our bodies are betraying us. His knee keeps brushing mine under the table. I don't move away. He doesn't either. When we stand up, the air between us feels thick--like it's holding its breath, waiting to see who will break first. We hug goodbye, like we always do. But this time... his hands slide lower on my back than they should. His mouth is right by my ear. And when he murmurs, "See you soon, Sissy," it's not a joke anymore. It's a promise.

[Later that day, texting]

Luca: You caught me off guard this morning

Me: Which part? The waffles or the fantasy?

Luca: The fact that you've been thinking about me like that. For how long?

Me: Would it make you feel cocky if I said... years?

Luca: Sissy. You're gonna make me hard in the middle of a grocery store.

Me: Good. I hope it hurts.

Luca: You're playing with fire. And you know it.

Me: That's what makes it fun.

[The next day]

Luca: I keep thinking about your mouth wrapped around my cock. My brother's sweet, nerdy, sexy little wife on her knees for me.

Me: I've thought about that too. More than I should admit. I'd look up at you while I did it. I'd let you grip my hair and call me a good girl.

Luca: Fuck. You're killing me. Tell me what you want.

Me: I want your hands on me. Rough. Controlling. I want you to pin me down and fuck me so hard I forget I ever said I'd be good.

Luca: You'll beg. You'll cry. You'll say please, big brother, I need it, I can't take it anymore.

Me: I'll say anything you want. Just... take me. Finally.

[Later that night, alone in bed]

I'm soaked. Buzzing with everything we've said, and everything we haven't. He hasn't touched me yet. Not really. But I've never felt more owned in my life. I imagine his hands on my hips. His voice in my ear. That filthy nickname between gritted teeth as he finally slides inside me and makes me his.

My phone buzzes again.

Luca: Tomorrow I want to hear you say it out loud.

***

I catch him alone for just a second--on the back deck, away from the noise. The sliding door between us and the rest of the crowd keeps our secrets safe. He lights a cigarette, the glow catching the edge of his jaw, the sharp tension in his shoulders. He doesn't turn around, just says, "You wore that for me."

My dress. Thin. Low in the back. No bra.

"You think I didn't notice?" he asks. "You think I didn't watch your nipples get hard every time I said your name across the table?"

I bite my lip. Step closer. Still no touching. We can't. But I want to. God, I want to.

"You looked," I whisper.

He laughs--quiet, low, dangerous. "Sissy," he says. Growls it. And I throb between my legs.

"You have no fucking idea what you're doing to me."

He finally turns. We're inches apart. His eyes are wild with heat. His breath is unsteady. His free hand twitches at his side like he's barely holding himself back.

"You know the second I get you alone," he says, voice rough with restraint, "I'm going to destroy you, right?"

I nod, breathless.

"Say it," he murmurs, his eyes flicking to my mouth. "Say you want to be ruined."

"I do," I breathe. "By you."

That's when it happens.

He drops the cigarette. Crushes it underfoot. And then he's kissing me.

Fierce. Desperate. Like he's starving and I'm the only thing that's ever fed him. His hand tangles in my hair, the other gripping my waist, pulling me flush against him. I gasp against his mouth and he swallows the sound, devouring it. Devouring me.

The kiss is everything we've been pretending not to feel. It's ten years of longing unleashed in one blinding, electric moment. It's reckless and wrong and so fucking perfect I could cry.

And just as suddenly as it started, it stops.

Someone calls my name from inside.

We break apart, panting, stunned. My lips are swollen. His pupils blown wide. The air between us vibrates.

We don't speak.

We step apart. Back into the lie. Back into the family we're still pretending to belong to.

But now we both know: we've crossed the line.

And nothing will stop us next time.

***

I'm supposed to be at work. I told them I had a headache. It wasn't entirely a lie. The ache is real. It's low in my belly. Deep between my thighs. And only he can fix it. Luca.

I pull into his driveway, palms sweating on the steering wheel. The sun is sharp through the windshield, but I'm cold. My whole body humming with anticipation and nerves and heat that's been building for over a decade. I text him: "I'm here."

The front door opens before I even put my phone down. He stands there barefoot, in a faded black t-shirt and low-slung jeans. His hair messy. His expression unreadable. But his eyes... God, his eyes. He looks like he's barely holding himself together. I step inside, and the door closes behind me. It's quiet. Dim. Empty. I glance around. Boxes stacked near the wall. Pictures missing from the shelves. No bed in sight.

"She took it," he says, reading my mind. "The ex."

I nod. "Just the couch, then?"

He steps closer. "It'll do."

And suddenly he's on me. Mouth hot, hands rough, starving. Kissing me like he's making up for every year he's had to pretend. I moan against him, arms wrapping around his shoulders, nails dragging down his back. He walks me backward until my knees hit the couch. We fall together, mouths still locked. His hands are everywhere--thighs, waist, under my blouse. I arch into him, gasping as he finds my bra clasp and pops it with one practiced flick.

"I've imagined this so many times," he growls, lips on my neck. "Pulling your shirt up. Feeling these tits in my hands. Sucking on them until you beg me to stop." I whimper. He's already got his hand under my skirt, fingers dragging along my soaked panties. "Already wet?" he murmurs. "Such a filthy little thing, Sissy. You've been thinking about this all day, haven't you?" I nod. Breathless. Panting. Drenched. "Say it," he demands.

"I've been thinking about your cock," I whisper. "How big it is. How hard. How badly I want it inside me." He groans deeply and yanks my panties down. "Turn around," he growls. "Hands on the cushions. Knees on the floor." I obey, heart slamming in my chest. I hear the sound of his zipper. The rustle of his jeans dropping. The rustle of him stroking his cock behind me. Then the head of it brushes between my folds.

"You ready?" he says, suddenly gentle.

"Yes," I whisper. "Please." He thrusts in -- deep, rough, perfect. I scream in pleasure. He holds my hips, slamming into me, the sound of skin on skin echoing off bare walls. "Sissy," he growls. I cry out again -- louder, needier. The couch rocks beneath us. His hand slides around to my clit, rubs in fast, ruthless circles. I fall apart, clenching around him, coming again and again. He fucks me through it. Doesn't stop. Just grips tighter and keeps going.

"Whose pussy is this?" he growls. "Say it."

"Yours," I gasp. "Only yours."

He pulls out just long enough to flip me onto my back. Lifts my legs over his shoulders. Slides back in and fucks me even deeper. I feel everything. And when he comes -- thick and hard, buried deep inside of me -- he collapses on top of me. Breathless. Shaking. Ruined. The couch creaks beneath us. His lips find mine again, softer now. We tremble against one another as our skin cools.

***

The next time is riskier. Quieter. We meet in a parking lot an hour outside the city and check into a cheap roadside motel. No IDs. No paper trail. The kind of place where no one asks questions. I don't let him kiss me right away. I push him onto the edge of the bed, drop to my knees, and tell him to keep his hands at his sides. He looks down at me, eyes wide, lips parted. His cock is already hard beneath his jeans. I unfasten him slowly, deliberately, dragging his pants and boxers down just enough to free him. His cock springs forward -- thick, heavy, straining. I stroke him once, twice, just to feel the weight of him in my palm. Then I lick the head -- slow, teasing. He groans.

I take him into my mouth inch by inch, keeping eye contact the entire time. My tongue traces the vein on the underside as I suck him deeper. He's panting now, trying to stay still like I told him, but his hips twitch. I pull back with a pop, then swirl my tongue around the head again before plunging back down.

My fingers drift lower, to his balls. I cup them gently, massaging while I work his cock with my mouth. Then I go lower. I drag my nails behind them and press against that sensitive spot beneath. He gasps. "Sissy..." I hum around him, the vibration making him shudder. I lick and suck and tease until he's a wreck above me, barely holding it together.

And then I go further. I drag my finger lower, slow and deliberate. When I reach the rim of his asshole, I circle it lightly once. He stiffens, breath catching.

"You can tell me to stop," I murmur between licks. He shakes his head, breathless. "Don't."

I lick the base of his cock, take him deep again, and press my fingertip in slowly. He chokes on a groan. "Fuck, Sissy... fuck, that's--" He can't finish. His thighs are shaking. His knuckles are white around the bedsheets gripped in his fists.

I ease in deeper, crooking my finger just so. He gasps and I suck harder, hollowing my cheeks, stroking him with my mouth as I press inside him. His hips rise off the bed, trying not to thrust, trying not to lose it, but he's gone. Completely undone.

"Sissy--please--fuck, I'm gonna--" I press deeper and suck harder and that's all it takes.

He explodes with a growl, pouring into my throat. I swallow everything, not breaking eye contact. His body convulses as he comes, his voice wrecked, moaning my name like a prayer and a curse.

When he's done, I ease my finger out, kiss the head of his cock, and crawl into his lap. He pulls me close--one hand buried in my hair, the other trembling against my back. "You're mine now," I whisper into his ear.

He doesn't argue. He just kisses me--deep and dirty and full of everything we can't say--and whispers, "I already was."

***

We can't do this again. The risks are too great, the fallout too terrible. So we made a rule: No touching.

We said it like it meant something. Like words would be enough to hold back a tidal wave. And now we're here on opposite ends of his couch. Too far to be touching. Too close to breathe.

I curl my legs under me, wearing the only armor I brought: an oversized sweater, nothing beneath. Not even panties. It was a mistake, or maybe a challenge I'd already decided to lose. I glance over at him. His jaw is tense. His hands are fists on his thighs. He's trying so hard to be good.

So, in true "little sister" style, I push a little. Lean back. Let my sweater fall just enough to reveal the slope of my thigh.

His eyes rake over me. Hungry. Heavy.

"You okay over there?" I ask, voice low, teasing.

He groans--already undone. And I can feel how wet I am just from that sound. We sit in silence for another beat too long. The air between us pulses.

"We said no touching," I murmur. "But we never said we couldn't watch."

His eyes flick to mine, wide, dark. "What are you saying?"

I slide my hand beneath the hem of my sweater. Just a slow glide of fingers down my belly--then lower.

"I'm saying I'm soaking wet." My fingers slip between my legs. I'm not exaggerating. I'm already swollen, already throbbing. "And you're already hard."

He stares, jaw tight. Then his hand goes to his waistband. "Fuck it," he whispers.

I moan softly as my fingers find my clit, circling. Slow, deliberate. The pressure sends sparks through my thighs.

I rub in small, steady circles, hips tilting to meet my own touch. I'm so turned on--just from the fact that he's watching me, hand wrapped tight around his cock, eyes glued to the way my fingers disappear between my folds.

I press harder on my clit. It pulses under my touch, swollen and slick. I slide a finger inside myself. Then two. Tight, hot, perfect. I curl them gently, stroke that place I've only ever touched thinking of him. My other hand stays on my clit, doubling the sensation. My breath catches in my throat. He groans again, deeper this time, like he's about to lose it.

"I want to be inside you so bad," he says, voice raw.

"I know," I breathe. "Me too. But don't touch me."

We inch closer. Barely. Inches feel like miles when you're desperate. I stay on my back, legs parted. He moves until he's kneeling between them, cock in hand, stroking slow. His eyes are locked on mine. My fingers are soaked.

I circle my clit harder now, faster. I'm so close.

His cock is right there. Hovering. The head flushed and slick, poised just above my clit. The backs of my fingers nearly brush his as we continue working our aching sexes.

He doesn't touch. Doesn't press in. But he holds himself just over me, stroking fast, the head of his cock bobbing millimeters from where I'm trembling for him.

I keep rubbing. Moaning. He's watching every twitch of my hips, every gasp. His breathing gets ragged.

Then he groans--deep, guttural--and he comes. Thick, hot ropes land across my clit, my pussy, my thighs. I feel the heat of it, see the shine, and it pushes me over the edge.

I cry out, coming hard, legs shaking as I rub through it, his cum slick under my fingers, my body pulsing with the weight of him on my skin.

I lie back, panting, thighs still open, his release cooling against me. He watches, temporarily sated. "Well... we didn't touch," I grin.

***

We try to stop. We swear we will. We promise each other it was the last time. That we'll be good. That we'll be smart. But two days later, I'm in his car, parked behind the old warehouse where no one ever goes. It's dark. Quiet. Rain taps on the windshield. My hands are shaking.

"We shouldn't be here," I whisper.

"I know."

"This is insane."

"I know."

But then his hand slides behind my neck, pulling me in. His kiss is rough, urgent, full of all the things we're not saying. My body melts into his before my brain can stop it.

"I can't stop thinking about you," he growls against my mouth. "It's like you're under my skin. Driving me fucking crazy."

His hand is already on my thigh, pushing up my skirt. I moan when his fingers find how wet I am. "You were hoping this would happen," he accuses, voice low.

"No," I breathe. "Yes. I don't know."

"I do."

He yanks my panties down just enough to expose me, and I gasp as the cold air hits my skin. He doesn't undress me. Doesn't undress himself. Just opens his jeans and pulls his cock free -- hard, leaking precum, swollen with need.

"Turn around," he says.

I do. I lean forward over the console, face against the seat, hips up.

"Tell me to stop," he growls.

I stay silent.

"Say it, Sissy."

"I can't."

He growls again and slides into me in one long, brutal thrust. I bite my arm to keep from screaming. It's fast. Desperate. The car rocks with every stroke. He fucks me like he's trying to forget me and memorize me at the same time.

"Every time I close my eyes, I see you," he grits out. "Bent over. Begging. Mine."

He finishes with a broken groan, spilling inside me, then rests his forehead to my back, breathing hard.

"We can't keep doing this," I whisper.

"I know."

But we stay there. Tangled. Silent. Still needing.

***

The unraveling starts over dinner.

It's a family night--loud, crowded, full of laughter that feels just a little too brittle around the edges. I'm seated across from Luca, close enough to see the way he won't meet my eyes. He's quieter than usual. Tense. Like there's something heavy in his chest he's about to drop.

And then he does.

He raises his glass. Taps the rim with a spoon. Everyone quiets. He looks at his brother--my husband--then at their parents. "I, uh... I have some news," he says, trying for a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

I feel it before he says it. A chill. A crack.

"She said yes," he announces. "I asked her to marry me. And she said yes."

There's an eruption of cheers. Clapping. Shouting. Hugs passed around the table.

Except I'm frozen. Staring.

Because I know what we did just hours ago. What he whispered in my ear while he was still inside me. The things we said. The things we meant.

And now this. He won't look at me. Not when my husband toasts him. Not when their mom wipes a tear. Not when his fiancée joins the table late and kisses him, full of idiotic glee.

Not even when I excuse myself and flee to the bathroom, hand pressed over my mouth to keep from breaking open. This is what it looks like when a fantasy collapses and the real world comes rushing back in.

Of course I knew this couldn't last. I can't leave my husband, and even if I did it couldn't be for him -- it would blow apart an entire family. But to have proposed to her without telling me... it feels like I've been punched in the gut. She's 20 years his junior, blonde and empty-headed. I don't hate her, because there just isn't anything there to hate. She's a placeholder. She doesn't come close to matching his intellect. How can he marry her?