Seducing My Husband's Brother

No North

PURITY

••••••••••

I remember it like it was yesterday when Marco burst out from beneath the wardrobe floors.

I'd already started having serious doubts about his whereabouts because I saw him walk in and shut the doors after him. Just when I began to doubt my own eyes, he sprung out as if it was completely normal for a wardrobe to be built that way.

He f****d me senseless in the rubbles Ryat left in his wake, and I know it's wrong to center one's self-worth around s*x, but in that moment, I felt desirable.

I felt better than the trash Ryat passed me off to be.

Having slightly escaped death—yet, instead of acting up and avoiding me like any other sane man would, he took me for the umpteenth time in a row—he became, in my eyes, the most fearless man in the world and his s****l appeal doubled real quick.

It's a casual factor to why I feel really safe around him.

That's why the excuse of his disappearance being because of Ryat's presence doesn't quite add up.

He enjoyed the dangerous thrill of our affair just as much as I did. Ryat's presence was supposed to mean great s*x for us, encompassing our lethal kink—why did he have to leave me too?

Am I really that—No!

I slip a finger into my wet cunt, effectively stopping myself from going down that rabbit hole. "f**k!"

All the while, my eyes remain on Ryat, devouring his sorry state.

He's sweating anew, and I'm pretty sure it's not from exercising, it's definitely not from the 'heat' either, because his room is conditioned to numb a reptile—ironic for a man with so many scales on him.

Retracting that finger, I shove it back inside, picturing Marco as I do.

I repeat the action and maintain a calm pace, finger-f*****g my cunt in and out with just a single finger—big enough so I feel the pleasure, but not quite enough to make me c*m anytime soon.

"Ahh..." My hand clamps around my sheathed breast, molding it out of shape.

Ryat shifts uncomfortably where he's seated, his throbbing d**k screaming for attention, but his stubborn head won't give in.

Increasing the intensity of my thrust, my p***y walls tighten around my finger, smearing sweet wetness all over my hand.

"Fuck..." I breathe, the pressure getting unbearable, but I try my best to keep my eyes on Ryat, while his remain glued to my squirming cunt. "Ah-s**t!"

I drag the bra down, tearing its strap in the process, but that doesn't matter. All that matters right now is this sweet feeling building in my core.

Ryat's eyes finally detach from my cunt and find my exposed breasts. His mouth falls open, but I won't invite him. Never.

Using my thumb and index fingers, I pinch my hardened n****e, pressing so hard the pleasure slowly morphs into pain—sweet pain. The type to make goosebumps spread across your skin and make you want more. MORE PAINS.

Slowly, I insert a second finger into my dripping opening and keep the pace up, my cunt tightening and straining around my fingers.

"Uhh. Damn!" My core tightens, pressure gathering, building, raging until it explodes in my hands in a heart-shaking orgasm. "Fuuuckk!"

Slowly, I retract my fingers and fall to the rug, too exhausted to remain sitting.

Though exhausted, I manage to look toward my dear husband.

He looks out of sorts. His chest rises and falls in hard beats, almost as if he were having problems breathing. His hair sticks to his forehead in thick, dark clusters. And, oh my God, the way his d**k holds his pants up—that definitely hurts.

When his eyes finally leave the mold of my breasts and meet mine, his are glazed over, coated with raw desire.

We remain in this pose, the silence stretching before us. While I revel in the aftermath of the orgasm, he, watching from a distance, wishes he was in the position of my fingers.

Finally, he heaves, releasing more than just stress. "So, what was that about?"

"I told you already, weren't you listening?"

He chuckles, the sound dry; unamused. "You really do like selling yourself off cheaply, don't you?"

If only he knew that nothing he says or does in this moment can get to me, he'd stop trying.

Deciding to change the topic to a less grim one, I look to the dark tattoo sitting high on his left chest. "A compass."

His gaze drops to his chest, then he looks back at me. "A compass with no North."

Yeah. It's a special compass, just like the tattoo itself is special.

The design is carefully drawn on with an obvious mastery in craftsmanship.

"I got it when I was nineteen."

That piques my interest.

With my elbow, I support my weight, positioning myself so that I can get a better view of him. He's never told me about his tattoo before. Never.

Paintings on walls might not catch my fancy all that much, but body art definitely does. Whenever I f**k a man, I make it a point of duty to pick out a tat and ask the story behind it. It's how I know the snake around Marco's hand represents survival after betrayal.

All Ryat ever told me whenever I asked questions about his tats was, "It's nothing of importance."

In fact, I can categorically say that the only tattoo of his that I know anything about is the one of our son's name that runs the length of his upper right arm, 'Saint Michelangelo Reigns'. Probably the best tattoo he has on the sea of ink he calls skin.

"If North is always him, then I will erase North." The words come from his chest, not his mouth—sounding more like a reminder, not an explanation.

Patiently, I wait for more context. One second, two, ten, a minute, a couple more minutes—but nothing. As usual, Ryat doesn't disappoint.

Sighing, I fall back on my back, the rough texture of the rug welcoming me, effectively shielding my skin from the chill of the bare floor.

In the absence of anything to do, my hand slowly traces its path back to my chest, fisting my breast. "Humph!"

A light shuffle from where Ryat's sitting draws my attention.

"¿Qué haces?" I spring to my butt, watching in horror as Ryat pulls his pants down.