Her Best Friend's Brother

The rain had been falling for three hours straight when Samantha pulled into the driveway of the Henderson family's suburban home. Her windshield wipers slapped against the glass in a frantic rhythm, matching the erratic pounding of her heart. She cut the engine and sat there, staring at the warm yellow glow emanating from the kitchen window, wondering if she should just turn around and drive back to her empty apartment.

Three years. That's how long she'd been best friends with Emily Henderson. And in all that time, she'd managed to avoid being alone with Emily's older brother Marcus. Until tonight.

Samantha checked her phone again. The text from Emily glared up at her: "So sorry, babe! Mom's emergency dental thing ran late. We're stuck at the hotel until morning. Make yourself at home—Marcus is there if you need anything. Love you!"

"Perfect," Samantha muttered, dropping her phone into her purse. "Just perfect."

She hadn't seen Marcus in nearly eight months, not since last Christmas when he'd been home from his construction management job in Denver. He was thirty-two now—eight years older than Samantha and Emily—and he'd always been this mythical figure in her imagination. The golden boy. The football star who'd gone pro for two seasons before injury took him out. The guy who'd filled out every fantasy she'd had since she was nineteen and he'd caught her sunbathing topless by this very pool, his eyes lingering just a second too long before he'd cleared his throat and politely retreated.

That moment had lived rent-free in her head for four years.

The rain intensified, drumming against her car roof like impatient fingers. Samantha grabbed her overnight bag and made a run for the front porch, her thin sundress plastering to her curves within seconds. She was soaked through by the time she reached the doorbell, her dark hair hanging in wet ropes around her shoulders, her nipples pebbled hard against the fabric of her bra from the sudden chill.

She rang the bell and waited, shivering.

The door swung open, and there he was. Marcus Henderson filled the doorway like some kind of pagan god—six-foot-three inches of sculpted muscle wrapped in a white t-shirt that strained against his broad shoulders and faded jeans that hung low on his hips. His dark hair was tousled, longer than she'd seen it before, and he hadn't shaved in what looked like a few days. Stubble shadowed his strong jawline, making him look rugged and slightly dangerous.

"Samantha." His voice was deeper than she remembered, a rich baritone that vibrated somewhere low in her belly. "Emily said you might be stopping by."

"Surprise," she said weakly, offering a tremulous smile. "I hope it's okay. I can go to a hotel if—"

"Don't be ridiculous." He stepped back, opening the door wider. "Get in here before you catch pneumonia."

She stepped across the threshold, and immediately the warmth of the house enveloped her. And so did his scent—something woodsy and masculine, like cedar and clean sweat. It made her mouth water in a way that surprised her.

"You're soaked," Marcus observed, his eyes traveling down her body with an openness that made her breath hitch. He didn't try to hide his gaze. Those hazel eyes traced the outline of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the way her dress clung to her thighs. "Let me get you a towel."

"I'm fine, really—"

But he was already walking toward the linen closet, and Samantha found herself staring at his back. At the way his shoulders moved beneath his shirt, the subtle shift of muscle as he reached for something on a high shelf. His jeans cupped his ass perfectly, and she felt a sudden, traitorous heat bloom between her legs.

Stop it, she told herself firmly. He's your best friend's brother. Off limits. Forbidden territory.

But her body wasn't listening.

Marcus returned with a thick navy towel and handed it to her. Their fingers brushed, and Samantha felt an electric spark shoot up her arm. She snatched her hand back, clutching the towel to her chest.

"Thanks," she mumbled.

"There's wine in the kitchen," he said, his gaze lingering on her lips. "Or whiskey, if you prefer something stronger. You look like you could use a drink."

"Wine would be perfect."

She followed him into the kitchen, her wet sandals squelching against the tile floor. The Henderson house hadn't changed much since she'd first started coming here—same warm oak cabinets, same granite countertops, same massive island where she and Emily had spent countless nights doing homework and gossiping about boys. But everything felt different now. Intimate. Like the walls were watching.

Marcus poured her a generous glass of red wine and leaned against the counter, studying her with an intensity that made her want to squirm.

"So," he said, "Emily mentioned you've been having a rough week."

Samantha took a long sip of wine, letting the alcohol burn down her throat. "That's one way to put it."

"Want to talk about it?"

She laughed, but it came out bitter. "My boyfriend of two years decided to inform me—via text, no less—that he's been sleeping with his paralegal for the last six months. Oh, and that I'm 'too emotionally needy' and 'not adventurous enough in bed.' So there's that."

Marcus's expression darkened. "What an asshole."

"Yeah, well." Samantha shrugged, trying for nonchalance and failing spectacularly. "His loss, right?"

"Damn right it is." Marcus pushed off the counter and moved closer, close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes. "Any man who can't see how incredible you are doesn't deserve you, Samantha."

Her breath caught. "You don't have to say that."

"I'm not saying it because I have to." He reached out and tucked a wet strand of hair behind her ear, his fingertips grazing her cheekbone with a gentleness that made her want to lean into his touch. "I've been watching you for years, you know. Wondering when you'd notice that I exist."

Samantha's heart hammered against her ribs. "I noticed," she whispered. "I just... Emily. The friend code. It's complicated."

"Emily's not here," Marcus said, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. "And I'm tired of pretending I don't want you."

He was so close now. She could feel the heat radiating off his body, could smell that intoxicating scent of his skin. Her wine glass trembled in her hand.

"Marcus..."

"Tell me to stop," he challenged, his eyes searching hers. "Tell me to back off, and I will. I'll be a perfect gentleman. I'll sleep in the guest room and make you pancakes in the morning, and we'll never speak of this again."

Samantha swallowed hard. She should tell him to stop. She knew she should. This was Emily's brother. This was the man who'd taught her how to throw a football in this very backyard, who'd driven her and Emily to their senior prom when their dates bailed, who'd been a fixture in her life as long as she'd known his sister.

But she didn't want him to stop. She wanted him to keep looking at her like she was the only thing in the world worth seeing.

"Don't stop," she breathed.

Marcus's mouth crashed against hers.

The kiss was electric—hot and demanding and nothing like the fumbling, tentative kisses she'd shared with her ex. Marcus knew exactly what he was doing. His lips moved against hers with confident precision, his tongue sweeping into her mouth to taste her, to claim her. Samantha moaned against him, her wine glass forgotten on the counter, her hands finding their way to his chest.

He was all hard muscle beneath her palms, warm and solid and real. She could feel his heart pounding, matching the frantic rhythm of her own.

"Fuck," Marcus groaned against her mouth, his hands sliding down to grip her hips. "Do you know how long I've wanted to do this? Since that summer you turned twenty. You were wearing that yellow bikini by the pool, and I had to jerk off three times that day just to get through it."

Samantha gasped, shocked and aroused by his crude honesty. "You remember that?"

"I've jerked off to that memory a thousand times," he admitted, his teeth grazing her lower lip. "To the thought of peeling that bikini off you. Of spreading your legs and tasting you right there where anyone could see."

"Oh god," she whimpered, her knees actually weak. She'd never had a man talk to her like this—so filthy, so direct. Her ex had treated sex like a chore to be completed efficiently, never lingering, never exploring.

But Marcus was different. She could feel it in the way he touched her, like he was memorizing every curve, every tremor.

He kissed his way down her neck, his stubble scratching deliciously against her sensitive skin. "I want to make you forget that asshole ever existed," he murmured against her collarbone. "I want to show you what you deserve. What your body was made for."

"Yes," she breathed, arching into him. "Please, Marcus. Show me."

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes dark with desire. "Not here. Come with me."

He took her hand and led her through the house, past the living room and down the hallway toward his bedroom. Samantha's heart raced with a mixture of anticipation and nerves. She'd only had three sexual partners in her life, and none of them had been particularly memorable. She was about to sleep with her best friend's brother—a man who undoubtedly had more experience in a month than she'd had in her entire life.

What if she disappointed him?

Marcus must have sensed her hesitation because he paused at his bedroom door and turned to face her. He cupped her face in his big hands, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones.

"We don't have to do this," he said softly. "If you're not ready, or if you're having second thoughts, we stop. No questions asked. No hard feelings."

Samantha looked up at him—at this beautiful, patient, devastatingly sexy man who'd wanted her for years without her knowing. She thought about her ex's parting words. Not adventurous enough. Too vanilla. Boring in bed.

She wasn't boring. She was just never with anyone who'd inspired her to be wild.

"I want this," she said firmly. "I want you, Marcus. I want you to fuck me until I can't remember my own name."

Something predatory flashed in his eyes. "Careful what you wish for, sweetheart."

He pushed open the bedroom door and pulled her inside.

The room was spacious and masculine—dark wood furniture, navy sheets, a massive king-sized bed that suddenly seemed to dominate the space. Marcus didn't give her time to look around. He backed her against the door, his body pressing flush against hers, and kissed her again with a hunger that made her dizzy.

His hands roamed over her body, mapping her curves through the wet fabric of her dress. When he found her breasts, he groaned into her mouth, his thumbs brushing over her hardened nipples.

"These tits," he muttered, squeezing them possessively. "I've dreamed about these tits. About fucking them, sucking them, watching them bounce while I pound into you."

"Marcus," she gasped, her head falling back against the door. "Please..."

"Please what? Tell me what you want, Samantha. Use your words."

"I want..." She flushed, embarrassed by her own inexperience. "I want you to touch me. Everywhere."

"Good girl," he praised, and the approval in his voice sent a rush of wetness to her core. "But first, I need to see you. All of you."

He reached for the zipper of her dress and slowly drew it down her back. The wet fabric peeled away from her skin, and Samantha shivered as the cool air hit her heated flesh. Marcus pushed the straps off her shoulders, letting the dress pool at her feet, leaving her standing before him in nothing but her bra and panties.

His breath hitched audibly. "Jesus, Samantha. You're fucking perfect."

She blushed, crossing her arms over her stomach. "I'm not. I'm too curvy, my thighs—"

"Are spectacular," he interrupted, dropping to his knees in front of her. He pressed kisses to her stomach, her hips, the tops of her thighs. "Your body is a masterpiece. Soft in all the right places. Made to be touched, to be worshipped." He looked up at her, his eyes dark and sincere. "Let me worship you, Samantha. Let me show you how beautiful you are."

She nodded, unable to speak, and Marcus reached behind her to unclasp her bra. He slid it down her arms slowly, his gaze locked on her breasts as they were revealed to him. Her nipples were tight and aching, and when he finally took them in his hands, she let out a shuddering breath.

"So responsive," he murmured, rolling her nipples between his fingers. "I bet you're wet right now, aren't you? Just from me touching your tits."

"Yes," she admitted, her face burning.

"Let's find out."

He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her panties and dragged them down her legs, helping her step out of them. Then he pushed her thighs apart and looked at her—really looked at her—with an expression of pure reverence.

"Fuck," he breathed. "Look at this pretty pussy. So pink and wet and perfect."

Samantha had never felt so exposed, so vulnerable. But Marcus's obvious appreciation made her feel powerful. Desired. Sexy in a way she'd never experienced before.

He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her inner thigh, then another, working his way higher. Samantha could feel his breath hot against her most intimate place, and she trembled with anticipation.

"Marcus..."

"Tell me what you want," he repeated, his voice muffled against her skin.

"I want your mouth on me," she whispered, shocking herself with her boldness. "Please. Lick me. Make me come."

"With pleasure."

He buried his face between her thighs, and Samantha cried out at the first touch of his tongue against her slit. He licked her slowly, thoroughly, like he was savoring every drop of her arousal. His tongue found her clit and circled it with devastating precision, making her knees buckle.

"Steady," he murmured, gripping her hips to hold her in place. "I've got you. Just feel."

He went back to work, alternating between soft, teasing licks and firm pressure that made her see stars. Samantha had never been eaten out like this—so attentively, so enthusiastically. Her ex had treated oral sex as a necessary evil, something to be rushed through before the "main event." But Marcus was clearly enjoying himself, groaning against her pussy like she was the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted.

"You're so sweet," he groaned, sliding two fingers inside her. "So tight and wet. I can't wait to feel this around my cock."

"Oh god, Marcus, I'm close—"

"Come for me, Samantha. Let me taste you."

He sucked her clit into his mouth and flicked his tongue over it rapidly, his fingers curling to hit that perfect spot inside her. Samantha shattered, her orgasm crashing through her with an intensity that made her scream. She grabbed fistfuls of his hair, holding him against her as wave after wave of pleasure radiated from her core.

Marcus licked her through it, gentling his touch as she came down, then pressing soft kisses to her trembling thighs.

"Beautiful," he said, looking up at her with his lips glistening. "Absolutely beautiful."

Samantha slid down the door until she was sitting on the floor, her legs too shaky to support her. Marcus gathered her in his arms and lifted her effortlessly, carrying her to the bed and laying her down on the soft sheets.

"My turn," she said, reaching for his shirt. "I want to see you too."

Marcus grinned and pulled his shirt over his head, revealing a torso that made Samantha's mouth water. He was sculpted perfection—broad shoulders, defined pecs, a six-pack that she wanted to trace with her tongue. A trail of dark hair led from his navel down into his jeans, and Samantha followed it with her eyes, eager to see what lay beneath.

"Take them off," she commanded, surprising herself again.

Marcus raised an eyebrow, amused by her newfound confidence. "Yes, ma'am."

He unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them down, along with his boxer briefs, and Samantha gasped. His cock was magnificent—thick and long and already hard, curving up toward his stomach with a bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip. He was bigger than any man she'd been with, and a flutter of nervousness mixed with her arousal.