Seducing My Hot Brother In-Law

SERAPHINA The first time I let my brother-in-law fvck me, I was still a virgin. He split me open on their marble island until I bled and begged for more. The second time, Elena was upstairs in hospice, morphine-dosed and fading, while he railed me against the same headboard she used to sleep against. Today she’s knocked out from chemo. I stand in their kitchen doorway at 12:17 p.m., watching Dominic pour single-malt scotch into a crystal tumbler like it’s holy water. All I can think about is how his fingers felt wrapped around my throat three days ago—squeezing just enough to make my vision sparkle while he whispered, “Your p***y feels so good around my cock.” My name is Seraphina, and I’m not the tragic little sister. I’m the greedy, c**k-hungry slut who’s been counting the hours until I can get my brother-in-law’s d**k inside me again. Dominic Ashcroft is forty-three. Twenty-two years older than me. Silver threads his dark hair like he’s been carved from sin and bespoke tailoring. Today it’s charcoal, always charcoal, hugging shoulders that could pin me without breaking a sweat. Jaw sharp enough to cut glass. Eyes the color of storm clouds right before lightning. He knows I’m staring. “You’re drinking before lunch,” I say, voice low, pushing off the doorframe. My sundress, thin white cotton, no bra, no panties, rides up my thighs as I walk toward him. He doesn’t turn. Just brings the glass to his lips, throat working on the swallow. “And you’re dripping before noon. Seems fair.” The words land like a slap to the c**t. My breath catches. He finally turns, and f**k, he looks wrecked in the best way. Tired shadows under those eyes, but the hunger in them is razor-sharp. They rake down my body: bare legs, n*****s stabbing the fabric, the damp spot already darkening between my thighs. “Elena’s out cold,” he says. It was a warning or maybe an invitation. “I dosed her myself.” I step closer. “She’ll sleep through anything short of an explosion. Or me screaming your name.” His jaw locks so hard I hear the grind. He sets the glass down slowly, the clink too loud in the quiet kitchen. “You need to stop.” “Stop what?” I’m close enough now to smell him: scotch, cedar cologne, the faint musk of arousal already leaking through. “Stop wanting the c**k that took my virginity right here?” I pat the counter beside me. “Or stop reminding you how good I felt clenching around you while you came inside me bare?” He exhales through his nose like a bull ready to charge. “You’re twenty-one.” “Is that what you tell yourself? That I’m too young to know what I want?” “You don’t know what you want.” “But I know enough to know you’re hard as f**k under that suit.” I reach out, palm flat against the thick ridge straining his zipper. He hisses but doesn’t pull away. “Tell me you haven’t jerked off thinking about how tight I was. How wet. How I bled a little the first time and still begged you to go harder.” His hand snaps up, fingers wrapping my wrist in an iron grip. “Do you think I’m playing? You need to f*****g stop…” His voice drops, edged with the command that always pools heat low in my belly. “Looking at me like that. Saying things like that. Being here.” “This is my sister’s house. Where else would I be?” “You moved into the guest room.” He steps forward; I refuse to retreat. “You dropped out of school. You gave up your apartment.” “Elena needs help.” “Elena needs her sister.” Another step. We’re inches apart now. “Not whatever the f**k this is.” The anger in his voice should scare me. Instead, it thrills me, because beneath it burns something else. Something he won’t name but I see every time his eyes find mine. Desire. Raw. Desperate. Damning. “Then tell me to leave,” I whisper, tilting my chin to meet his gaze. “Tell me to go back to school. Tell me you don’t want me here. Tell me you haven’t thought about it, about me. Tell me when you close your eyes at night, it’s only Elena you see.” “Stop.” The word comes out strangled. “Make me.” Wrong thing to say. Or exactly the right one. His control fractures. His hand shoots out again, this time wrapping my wrist, firm enough to send electricity racing up my arm. “You think this is a game?” His voice is deadly quiet now, the stillness before a storm. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” “What am I doing, Dominic?” He yanks me closer. His other hand grips my chin, forcing my eyes to his. “You’re playing with fire. And you’re going to get burned.” “Maybe I want to burn.” I hold his gaze, watching the war rage behind it. “Or maybe I just want you to f**k me again. Like you did the day you took my virginity right here on this countertop.” His fingers tighten on my chin, the last thread of restraint fraying. “Shut up.” The command only makes me bolder. I lean in until my breath ghosts his lips. “Why? You hate hearing it?” I challenge. “Which part exactly? That you were the first man inside me? Or that you kissed your precious wife with the same mouth that tasted me?” “I said shut the f**k up.” The growl rips from his throat, pure animal. His hand slides from my chin to fist the back of my neck, fingers threading hard through my hair. “Shut your sinful mouth.” Then his lips crash onto mine, hungry, punishing, desperate. No gentleness, only consuming fire and barely-leashed violence. His teeth catch my bottom lip as he claims my mouth like he owns it. Like he owns me. The thick bulge in his pants presses hard against my stomach, dragging a moan from my throat. I’m soaked. My core throbs violently, clenching around nothing. He breaks the kiss just long enough to lift me effortlessly, hands gripping my thighs, spreading them as he sets me on the counter. The cold granite bites my skin, a sharp contrast to the furnace of his body as he steps between my legs, caging me in. “Is this what you want?” His voice is rough, wrecked. His hand slides up my thigh, stopping torturously short of where I’m aching. “You want me to lose control? To forget your sister is upstairs dying while I f**k your pretty little cunt right here on this kitchen counter?”