I tuck myself back into my pants and offer him my hand. He takes it, and I pull him up, my limbs still shaking. He’s unsteady on his feet, and I slide an arm around his waist, keeping him upright.
I can’t help it. I kiss him again, tasting myself on his tongue, and my spent cock gives another twitch. It’s filthy and perfect, and I deepen the kiss, pouring everything I can’t say into it.
When we finally break apart, Gabriel’s voice is soft and teasing against my lips. “Marshall, hate to break it to you, but I don’t think you know how being a wingman works.”
9
Gabriel
I expect Marshall to be gone when I wake up the next morning. That’s the natural progression of events after what happened last night, isn’t it? You have a moment of alcohol-fueled insanity with your stepbrother, you both come to your senses afterward, and then one of you—most likely the straight one—panics and flees back to the States on the first available flight. I’ve already scripted the conversation I’ll have with Dad and Claire when they ask why Marshall left early. Heat exhaustion, I’ll say. Or a work emergency. Something that sounds plausible and doesn’t involve the words stepbrother and orgasm in the same sentence.
But when I come downstairs, still damp from my shower, Marshall is in the kitchen.
He’s standing at the stove with his back to me, and the smell of bacon and eggs hits me first. Then coffee, rich and dark. He’s wearing a faded gray t-shirt and jeans that sit low on his hips, and his hair is wet, pushed back from his forehead like he dragged his fingers through it and called it good.
He doesn’t turn around, but his shoulders shift slightly, and I know he heard me. “Morning,” he says, his voice easy.
“Morning,” I manage.
He glances over his shoulder, and there’s no panic in his eyes, just his usual steady calm. “Sit down. Breakfast is almost ready.”
I don’t move. “You’re still here.”
“Yeah.” He turns back to the stove and slides eggs onto two plates. “Where else would I be?”
On a plane. Halfway across the Atlantic. Anywhere but here, making me breakfast. But I don’t say it out loud. I just cross to the table and sit.
Marshall carries the plates over and sets one in front of me. Scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, toast with butter melting into the surface. It smells amazing. I stare at it and wonder if I’m still asleep and this is some weird dream my brain cooked up to avoid dealing with reality.
“Coffee?” he asks.
I look up. “Yeah. Thanks.”
He goes to the espresso machine, and I watch as he works it with confidence. He pulls a shot, steams milk, and pours it into a cup with care. When he sets it in front of me, the foam on top has a little heart design in it.
I blink at the heart.
“YouTube,” Marshall says, sitting down across from me, as if that explains everything. “Figured I should learn how to use it since I’m here for a few weeks. Turns out it’s not that hard.”
I’m still staring at the heart.
“Go ahead and eat,” he says, nodding at my plate. “It’s better hot.”
I pick up my fork. The eggs are fluffy and perfectly seasoned, and the bacon is exactly the right amount of crispy. I eat a bite, then another, and the whole time I’m hyperaware of Marshall sitting across from me, eating his own breakfast like everything’s normal.
I take a sip of coffee, set the cup down, and make myself ask. “Marshall, do you remember last night?”
He doesn’t look up from his plate. “Yeah.”
My stomach clenches. “And you’re not… freaking out?”
Now he looks up, and there’s a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I told you that I wouldn’t regret it.” He leans back in his chair, holding my gaze. “And I don’t. Do you?”
I take another bite of eggs, chewing slowly while I consider my answer. The truth is complicated. What happened was hot, really hot, and it’s been replaying in my head on a loop since I woke up. But we shouldn’t have done it.
“We’re stepbrothers,” I say finally, setting my fork down. “That’s not exactly normal.”
Marshall shrugs. “We’re both adults. We both needed a distraction. We got what we needed.” He picks up his coffee and takes a sip, watching me over the rim of the cup. “Nobody has to know it happened but us.”
