Chapter 4 Story 3: How-to Steal Your Brother's Boyfriend

I wasn't supposed to come home that weekend.

It was a last-minute decision, born out of exhaustion, homesickness, and a need to escape finals. I didn't tell my brother until I was already on the bus. "Don't worry, I'll just crash in my old room," I texted.

I didn't expect anyone to be there except him. But when I walked into the apartment, suitcase in hand, I heard laughter. And not just his.

Then I saw him.

Leaning casually against the kitchen counter in nothing but gray sweatpants and a black tank, towel draped over his shoulders. Muscles taut, hair damp. I stopped short like I'd hit a wall.

"Hey," he said, and smiled.

It wasn't fair, the way his lips curled. That slow, easy confidence. The heat that pooled in my stomach wasn't fair either.

My brother, Luke, emerged from his room with his usual half-smile. "Didn't think you'd actually come," he said. "This is Aiden."

Of course. Aiden, the boyfriend. The name I'd heard in passing during calls and group texts. The one Luke had finally started dating a few months ago.

"Hi," I said, setting down my bag.

Aiden offered his hand. His palm was warm, grip firm. His gaze lingered just a little too long.

The weekend stretched ahead like a silent dare.

-

We tried to act normal. I stayed in my room most of the time, headphones on, pretending not to notice the quiet hum of laughter from the living room, the occasional clink of glasses, the way Aiden's voice dropped low when he teased Luke.

But the worst part was when I did come out. When I caught Aiden watching me.

Not staring. Not obvious. Just a flicker. A glance. Like he was trying not to look.

At dinner, he passed the mashed potatoes and his fingers brushed mine. Barely a touch, but enough to spark heat.

Later, Luke had a late shift. Aiden stayed behind. I thought he'd disappear into Luke's room, but instead, he made popcorn and queued up an old movie.

"You like thrillers, right?" he asked.

I hesitated. "Luke told you that?"

He shrugged, smiling. "I pay attention."

I shouldn't have sat on the couch. I should've gone back to my room and buried myself in textbooks or sleep.

But I didn't.

I sat next to him. Not touching. But close enough that his leg brushed mine whenever he shifted.

Halfway through the movie, the power flickered and went out. The room plunged into shadow, screen black, just the city light filtering through the window.

"Well," Aiden said. "Guess we'll have to entertain ourselves."

I turned to face him, already regretting it.

Because he was looking at me. Really looking.

His voice was low when he spoke again. "You're not like I expected."

My pulse thudded. "And what did you expect?"

He leaned in just a little. "Innocent. Untouchable. Off-limits."

The last word hung between us like a live wire.

"You're my brother's boyfriend," I whispered.

"I know," he said, voice thick. "That's the problem."

I should've walked away. Should've laughed it off, made some awkward excuse, locked myself in my room and never looked at him again.

But I didn't.

I watched as he reached out, fingers trailing along my jaw like a question.

And when he kissed me-slow, searching, barely-there-I let him.

His lips were warm and tentative at first. Like he expected me to pull away.

I didn't.

The kiss deepened, heat blooming between us like fire through dry grass. His hand slipped into my hair, mine fisting in his shirt.

The guilt came later. Right now, all I felt was need.

"Tell me to stop," he breathed against my mouth.

I didn't say a word.

We stumbled into my room in silence, like we were being hunted. The door clicked shut behind us, and everything changed.

He kissed me like he was starving. Like he'd been holding it in for weeks. Months.

His hands were everywhere-exploring, worshipping, teasing. My shirt came off in seconds. His followed.

He slowed when he realized how still I'd gone.

"You okay?" he asked, voice barely a whisper.

"I've never..." I swallowed. "I'm a virgin."

His eyes flicked to mine, and for a moment, he looked almost torn. But then he cupped my cheek and said, "I got you."

That made it worse, somehow. Because it wasn't just sex. Not with the way he touched me-gentle, reverent, like I was precious. Like I meant something.

His mouth trailed fire down my neck, over my chest, leaving kisses that felt like promises. When his hand slid into my panties, I gasped, hips jerking.

"Shh," he murmured. "I've got you."

And he did.

He kissed me as he worked me open with his fingers, slow and patient, coaxing me to the edge and holding me there until I shattered with a soft cry.

I was panting when he finally pushed my legs apart and settled between them, his own breath ragged.

"Still okay?" he asked.

I nodded. "Yes. God, yes."

He slid in slow-inch by inch-eyes locked on mine, and I felt everything. The stretch. The pressure. The burning sweetness of finally being taken.

It hurt, yes. But not enough to make me stop.

Because when our bodies finally joined, it felt right-in the kind of way that defied reason or morality.

There was a stretch, a slight sting, my breath catching in my throat. But beneath it was this slow-burning pleasure, like something sacred and forbidden unraveling inside me.

He stilled inside me for a moment, his forehead pressed to mine, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. "Breathe," he whispered. "Let me in."

And I did.

His hips rolled forward with aching care, moving in slow, deliberate strokes. It wasn't just sex-it was possession, worship, desperation. He held my gaze the whole time, like he was memorizing the way I fell apart beneath him.

My fingers clawed at his back, nails dragging down skin slick with sweat, as heat began to coil low in my belly again.

He moved like he was scared to break me. Like each thrust was a silent apology for every boundary we'd just shattered. But the way he groaned my name in my ear-deep, raw, needing-it unspooled something wild in me.

I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he cursed under his breath.

"Aiden..." I whispered, voice trembling.

That did something to him. His control cracked just a little, his pace faltering before it quickened, hips snapping forward with more urgency now.

Every inch of me felt alive. Every nerve ending pulsing, exposed, overwhelmed. The bed creaked beneath us. The air was thick with sweat and want and that quiet, awful truth:

We weren't supposed to feel this good.

But God, it was good.

His lips found my throat, my collarbone, my mouth-hungry and relentless. Our moans tangled. My body arched up to meet his, chasing every drop of friction, every gasp and whisper like it might be the last.

The pressure built until it was unbearable. I was clenching around him, dizzy, on the edge of something huge.

"I can't-" I cried out, breathless.

"I've got you," he growled, gripping my hip, driving deeper.

And then I shattered.

My release hit hard-wave after wave crashing through me, stealing my breath. He followed a heartbeat later, his name breaking from my lips as he groaned into my neck, shuddering, collapsing into me.

The world stilled.

And for one brief, reckless moment, it felt like he was mine.

And then it was quiet.

Just our heartbeats, tangled limbs, and the weight of everything we weren't supposed to feel.

I woke up in his arms.

For a second, I let myself believe it was simple. That the warm skin against mine, the soft rise and fall of his chest, the lazy stroke of his thumb on my hip-meant something.

Then I remembered.

And my stomach dropped.

"I should go," he murmured, already reaching for his clothes.

I watched him, silent. Not trusting myself to speak.

At the door, he paused. "I didn't mean for this to happen."

"I know."

He looked at me one last time. "But I don't regret it."

And then he was gone.

Leaving me alone with sheets that still smelled like him... and a heart burning with regrets and guilt.