Page 90 of Falling For My Ex's Older Brother

"Fuck, Sutton," I mutter, the words strained, my hands tightening in her hair. Her cheeks hollow as she sucks hard, bobbing up and down as her hand jerks my cock, her tongue working against me, driving me mad.

I grip her head tighter, the primal need taking over. My hips thrust forward, pushing deeper as I fuck her mouth. She gags, her eyes watering, but she doesn’t stop. Her nails dig into my thighs as she takes me, her saliva dripping down her chin, glistening in the dim light.

"I’m close," I warn, my voice ragged, barely holding onto coherence. My core tightens, the tension coiling, ready to snap. Watching her like this—on her knees, devouring me—it’s too much.

I grip the edge of the counter, knuckles whitening, as her lips continue to work me over with unrelenting fervor. She sucks me like she’s starving, her hands digging into my thighs, pinning me in place. My breath stutters, hips jerking involuntarily. She’s relentless, her mouth a vise, her tongue stroking with maddening precision.

"Sutton," I rasp, a warning laced with desperation, but she doesn’t stop—doesn’t even falter. My body tenses, rigid as the pressure builds and snaps. A guttural groan tears from my throat as I cum in her mouth, trembling asshe milks every ounce from me, her tongue lingering, slow and deliberate.

When she finally releases me, her eyes are locked on mine, dark and blazing as she stands, casually reaching for her glass of wine. She sips it, unhurried, as she swallows the alcohol with my seed, her gaze smoldering as if daring me to take the lead.

The challenge ignites something primal. I grab her by the waist, spinning her around with a force that draws a gasp from her lips. My fingers find the straps of her panties, tugging them down in one fluid motion. The fabric pools at her feet, and she steps out of it.

I sink to my knees behind her, trailing my hands up the smooth curve of her thighs, spreading them just enough to tease. My breath fans against her heated skin, and she shivers under my touch, as I pull her panties down, and remove them off of her, tossing them to the side. I tilt my head up, my tongue sliding against her clit with a slow, deliberate pace. Her taste is intoxicating, and I groan, pulling her closer as I slide two fingers inside her pussy, curling them to match the rhythm of my tongue.

Her moans grow louder, her body trembling as she grips the counter for support. When she comes undone, her cry is raw, visceral, and her juices coat my lips. I stand, wiping my mouth as I meet her gaze—her lips parted, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

I don’t wait. I lift her onto the island, her legs instinctively wrapping around me. My dick is rock-hard again, and I slide into her in one smooth thrust, burying myself so deep, that I can feel her guts. Her walls clencharound me, the heat unbearable, electrifying. My hands grip her neck, firm but gentle, as I drive into her with precision, each thrust a claim, a declaration.

Her cries mix with my guttural groans, the sound of our bodies colliding echoing in the kitchen. I’m losing control, teetering on the edge as her body tightens around me, drawing me deeper. With one final thrust, I release, my cum spurting inside of her as her nails dig into my shoulders.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of our ragged breaths and the way her body feels pressed against mine. Raw. Consuming. Perfect.

The air feels heavy, charged with the aftermath of everything we just shared. I’m leaning against her, my breath still uneven, as Sutton lays back on the island. Her skin is flushed, her chest rising and falling with each labored inhale. I glance down at her face, her lips slightly parted, her hair wild. I don’t pull out just yet, as I marinate inside of her warmth for as long as I can.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Sutton

One month can change everything.

A month ago I was sitting at Logan's dining table eating steak and telling him about my past and watching him listen with the kind of attention that makes you feel like the most important person in any room. A month ago he had a key made for me without ceremony and I started keeping a spare change of clothes at his place without discussion. A month ago everything that had been complicated and undefined and private became something real and solid and mine. A month is also enough time to watch something crack.

It starts at the Drake Industries quarterly investor reception. I'm there in my new capacity — a month into my role at Clara Reeves' firm, representing her portfolio team at an event that, six months ago, I would have attended as Logan's executive assistant. The transition out of Drake Industries had been handled cleanly andprofessionally. Logan and I had agreed on that. Whatever we are to each other privately, we were both determined that my departure from the company would be handled with integrity.

But the investor reception is different. This is Logan's event, his room, his donors and board members and the specific constellation of people who have watched him build Drake Industries into what it is. I'm there as Clara Reeves' representative — she couldn't attend and sent me in her place, which is a professional vote of confidence that I didn't take lightly.

The problem announces itself at 8:15.

Richard Harmon — board member, old money, the kind of man who has opinions about everything and the social weight to deliver them without consequence — finds me near the bar. He's in good spirits. He's also had two drinks. He claps a hand on the shoulder of the man beside him and says, loudly enough for the surrounding cluster of people to hear:

"You know Sutton Kane — Logan's girl. She's been doing remarkable work for Clara Reeves. Logan always did have exceptional taste."

Logan's girl.

The words land in the room. Several heads turn. I smile. I redirect the conversation with the smooth efficiency of someone who has been handling these rooms for months. I make it a non-event in real time. But I feel it. The way the air changes. The way two or three sets of eyes find Logan across the room and then find me. The way the professional distanceI've been so careful to maintain publicly just collapsed in a single careless sentence from a man who meant it as a compliment.

I glance at Logan. He's across the room in conversation. His expression hasn't changed. His posture hasn't changed. But his eyes have found me — and what I see in them in that two-second window is not the warm directness I've come to know in private. It is something controlled and shuttered and gone before I can fully read it. I turn back to Harmon. I finish the conversation. I work the rest of the room with everything I have.

On the way out Logan is brief. Efficient. Professional in the clipped way he was professional in my first weeks at Drake Industries. I tell myself it's the event. The public nature of it. The unexpected exposure. I give it a week.

***

The week passes and Logan doesn't come back. Not physically — he's present. We have dinner twice. I go to his apartment once. But there is a quality of absence underneath all of it that I feel the way you feel a change in temperature before you can name the cause. Something is different. The warmth that had become the texture of our evenings has been replaced by something more managed. More careful. His sentences are shorter. His silences are longer. When I reach for him in bed he responds but he doesn't initiate and there is a difference — a specific, unmistakable difference — between a man who wants to be touched and a man who is performing wanting to be touched.

By the second week I stop pretending I don't see it. I ask him on a Wednesday evening. We're at his place. He's at his desk reviewing something on his laptop and I'm on the couch. The apartment has the specific quality of two people existing in parallel rather than together.

"Logan." I close my book.