I was close.
Oh my God, I could feel it building—tight, consuming, seconds away from crashing over me.
But just as I was about to fall, he pulled his fingers away.
The sudden emptiness made me gasp, my body aching from the denial.
I opened my eyes, dazed and breathless, staring up at him in disbelief.
He just smirked. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.
He pressed down on me with another one of those deep, consuming kisses—his mouth stealing the sound of my gasp as his fingers returned to the heat between my thighs.
This time, he pushed them in.
The sudden fullness made me arch against him, breath tangled with his, heartbeat thundering in my ears.
He didn't stop kissing me.
And I didn't stop him.
His fingers moved in and out with a rhythm so precise, so maddeningly beautiful, it stole the breath right from my lungs.
Each stroke sent waves of pleasure through me, my body responding before my mind could catch up.
I clung to him, to the sheets, to anything that would keep me grounded—because I was unraveling, fast and completely.
Then—he stopped.
Again.
I let out a soft, frustrated whimper, my body trembling from the sudden absence. My hands gripped his arms instinctively, eyes wide and dazed.
"Why… why do you keep stopping?" I whispered, my voice barely steady.
He leaned in, brushing his lips against my ear.
"Because I like watching you fall apart," he murmured, smug and wicked.
I hated how much I wanted him to do it again.
He came closer again, his body pressed firmly against mine. This time, there was no teasing, no pause—just a slow, deliberate push as he entered me.
I gasped, my fingers digging into his back, every breath catching in my throat as he filled me completely.
It was overwhelming.
Wrong.
Intoxicating.
My mind screamed at me to stop, but my body—my traitorous, aching body—moved with him like it had been waiting for this all along.
He pressed his forehead against mine, our breaths tangling in the small space between us as his hips moved with steady, deliberate precision.
Each thrust sent a jolt through me, and I could feel the tension ripple through his body.
His face tightened with pleasure, eyes half-lidded, jaw clenched—completely lost in the moment.
I didn't know whether to cry or hold on tighter.
So I did both.
I bit down on my lip, desperate to hold back the moan clawing its way up—but he kissed me before I could.
"Let it out," he whispered against my mouth, voice thick with desire. "I want to hear you."
And that was all the permission I needed.
The moan tore free, raw and unfiltered, as the pleasure surged through me. My body arched, overwhelmed, and just when I thought I couldn't take any more, he quickened his pace—driving me over the edge in a rush that stole the last of my breath.
His touches burned into my skin, each one leaving a trail of fire that I couldn't escape.
His kisses were maddening—deep, consuming—tipping me further over the edge until I was nothing but sensation.
And his presence… God, his presence.
It wrapped around me, heavy and electric, making the tiny hairs on my body rise with every movement he made.
He was everywhere, and for a terrifying, breathtaking moment… I wanted him to stay.
I gasped, the sound sharp and breathless as the wave crashed over me—intense, all-consuming.
His grip tightened, and with a low, guttural sound, he followed—releasing inside me as our bodies trembled in unison.
For a moment, there was only the sound of our breathing—heavy, tangled, and too close.
And then the silence that followed was louder than everything.
He kissed me again—deep, slow, like he was savoring something he didn't want to end.
Then he pulled back just enough to look into my eyes.
"This… it was different. You were different," he said softly. "I loved it."
My heart skipped, betraying me.
And just like that, my brain forgot everything it was supposed to remember—my sister, the lie, the consequences.
All of it slipped away in the warmth of his gaze.
I started to sit up, ready to escape to the bathroom—if only to breathe, to gather my thoughts—but before I could make it far, his hand caught mine.
"Wait," he said gently, and disappeared into the bathroom.
Moments later, he returned with a warm, damp cloth and knelt beside the bed.
Without a word, he began to clean me up—careful, quiet, like I was something fragile.
The gesture stole the air from my lungs, I didn't know whether to cry or run.
God, I was falling for him.
And it terrified me.
Because no matter how gentle his hands were or how tender his eyes looked into mine, he wasn't mine to fall for.
He was my sister's husband.
And I was just the lie she left behind.
When he was done, he stood without a word, took the cloth back to the bathroom, and disappeared behind the door.
All I could do was watch him go.
My heart thudded against my ribs, loud and confused, and I lay there—wrapped in sheets and guilt—wondering how something so wrong could feel this disarmingly gentle.
I lay there, eyes fixed on the bathroom door, thoughts spiraling.
When he finally returned and slipped into bed beside me, I didn't resist. He pulled me into his arms, and I rested my head on his chest, letting the steady rhythm of his heartbeat calm the storm inside me.
His fingers ran slowly through my hair, soothing and tender.
I wish…
I wish things were different.
I wish I hadn't said yes.
I wish this didn't feel like home.
But I didn't say any of that.
Instead, I let sleep take me—wrapped in a warmth that wasn't mine to claim.