Page 11 of Baby for My Ex's Brother

Instead, I roll her onto her back and plunge deep. I pin her hands to the bed, and she play-struggles in my grasp for just a moment, then grins.

“Babydoll, you’re too fucking much.”

She bites her lower lip, so I move in for another kiss and do it for her while I fuck her into the mattress. Her moans rattle my brain, and I let go of her hands just to see what she’ll do with them.

To my surprise, she strokes my cheek. I pause and look at her to check in. She’s studying me as much as I’m studying her—those bright green eyes tracing lines all over my face. When she realizes I’m looking at her, she pulls me down for another kiss, and we begin again.

We’re moving together now. It should be awkward, shouldn’t it?

But it’s not. It’s anything but that.

When her soft body goes rigid beneath me, I know she’s close. So, I slow my thrusts. I want her to fucking work for it.

And she does, tilting herself to receive more of me with every pass. Her little hands grab at my back as if she could pull me down if I didn’t want to go there.

But I do. I wanted to make her work for it, but I can’t hold out any longer. I need to feel her come on my cock. My balls tighten when I speed back up, and she shatters on me, crying out. I pour myself into her, joining her on the other side as I kiss that pouty mouth of hers.

Not a kiss so much as a feast.

When we separate, she barely makes it to the bathroom without stumbling, and when she returns and crawls into the sheets, her yawn is impressive.

I kiss her forehead. “Sleep. No need to rush out of here.”

“That’s good,” she mumbles into the pillow.

She’s asleep before I finish dressing.

When I go to make coffee, I find Darya is already here. “Good morning.”

“I imagine it was,” she says with no small amount of judgment.

Our arrangement is inconvenient to hosting overnight guests, but since that’s a rare occurrence, it’s not generally an issue. I’ve never determined exactly when she arrives or how she moves through the penthouse without making sound, and I stopped trying to work it out years ago.

She’s at the counter with her back to me, doing something efficient with the bread maker, and she does not turn around when I come in, which means she already knows everything she needs to know about the morning.

“Do you plan to start in on me this early?”

“There’s a bra on your living room floor,” she says to the bread maker.

“That’s odd. Are you sure?”

All I get is a side-eye glare. She says nothing further on the subject. She pours my coffee, sets it in front of my morning spot at the kitchen table, and picks up the small stack of correspondence she’s sorted from whatever arrived last night.

I take the coffee and the correspondence and sit, while Darya moves through the kitchen making messes, cleaning them, then presents me with the outcome. A plate with fresh bread, fruit, bacon burnt black, and far too many eggs for normal people.

“Should I have made a second plate?”

“And a third.”

That statement lifts her gray brow. “You had two overnight guests?”

I smirk. “Just the one, actually, but I was a busy boy last night, and I have quite the appetite this morning.”

The next thing I see is a kitchen towel flying toward my face. I don’t bother to catch it. I let her win this one. The perfectly burnt bacon makes up for a little indignation.

Darya has opinions. She always has opinions. She expresses them the way she expresses everything—sidelong, to no one in particular, in the tone of a woman making an observation about the weather.

“I put the good cups out. I thought you might want to impress your lady friend,” she says, setting two of them on the counter. Not the everyday ones. The better ones, the pair she reserves for what she privately considers worthy occasions, the existence of which she has never directly acknowledged to me.