Page 2 of Brother’s Protective Claim

I was shocked at his words. They hit somewhere deep and raw, and I couldn’t stop myself from whimpering. Heat pooled low in my belly even as shame burned my cheeks. The air between us electrified, years of stolen glances and unspoken want finally cracking open.

Ryker slid his hand from my throat to cup my cheek, surprisingly gentle for how furious he looked.

His thumb brushed my lower lip as he gruffly murmured, “You have no idea what you do to me,” he said roughly. “Every time you smile at me, every time you say ‘big brother’ in that sweet voice… it fucks me up. I’ve been fighting it for so long. But seeing you with him tonight?” His words made my pulse race. “I can’t do it anymore, Henleigh.”

Henleigh. He almost never used my full name anymore, and hearing it now, rough and low like that, sent a shiver straight through me. I could smell the faint scent of soap on his skin mixed with the clean sweat from whatever workout he’d been doing before he burst in.

My nipples were still tight from Max’s clumsy groping, but it was Ryker’s nearness that made my whole body ache. The forbidden weight of it pressed down on my chest because this was my brother, the guy who used to sneak me extra cookies after dinner when Mom said no, and the one who taught me how to throw a punch so no one could ever hurt me.

And now his breath was mingling with mine, his dark eyes searching my face like he was looking for permission or maybe forgiveness for what we both knew was coming.

He leaned in slowly, giving me every chance to pull away, but I didn’t. Our lips met, tongues touching, tentative and restrained. It was soft at first, then turned hungry, desperate. The kiss tasted of forbidden fruit and years of longing. When he pulled back, we both were breathing hard.

Ryker rested his forehead against mine and panted roughly, like it was taking everything in him to keep his control and composure.

One of his hands lingered on my waist, fingers flexing like he wanted to pull me closer but was holding back with iron will. The leather couch creaked under us as I shifted, my skirt still bunched up around my hips, but he didn’t look down. He kept his gaze on my eyes, intense and burning, like if he glanced anywhere else he’d lose the thin thread of restraint keeping us from going further.

“This is wrong,” I whispered, even as my hands fisted in his shirt.

“Yeah,” he agreed, voice hoarse. “But I don’t care. Not anymore.”

The words hung between us, heavy and honest in a way that scared me more than anything. I could feel the heat radiating off his bare chest, and his muscles were coiled tight like he was ready for a fight… or for something else entirely.

Memories flashed through my head: Ryker carrying me on his shoulders at the pool. Ryker staying up late helping me with math even when he was exhausted from his own stuff. Ryker looking at me across the dinner table these past weeks like I was the only thing in the room that mattered.

All of it twisted together now into this aching, terrifying need. My body hummed, wet and needy in a way Max could never have caused, and the shame of that only made the pull toward Ryker even stronger.

We stayed like that for a long moment, the weight of the line we’d just crossed hanging heavy in the air. No further touches, just the terrifying, thrilling knowledge that everything had changed between us.

I didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. Part of me wanted to run upstairs and pretend this never happened, to bury the feelings like I had for months. But another part–the louder part now–wanted to pull him back down and keep tasting the danger on his lips.

Ryker finally stepped back, his hand lingering on my arm for a second longer than necessary, like he couldn’t quite let go yet. The basement felt smaller, the air thicker. He ran a hand through his messy hair, the same nervous habit I’d seen a thousand times, and muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like a curse and a prayer mixed together.

When he looked at me again, there was no going back to how things were. The line had been crossed, and we both knew it.

My lips still tingled from the kiss, swollen and sensitive, and I could taste him on my tongue. The flavor was something dark and masculine that made my thighs press together instinctively. The basement light flickered slightly overhead, casting long shadows across his broad shoulders as he stood there breathing hard.

I wanted to reach out and trace the new scars on his body, to ask what kind of trouble he’d gotten into while he was away, but the words stuck in my throat. Instead, I just sat there, heart racing, wondering how we were supposed to go back to being a normal brother and sister after this.

The guilt was already creeping in, cold and sharp, but it couldn’t quite drown out the warm pulse of want that kept building every time his eyes met mine.

Ryker looked like he was fighting the same war inside his head, his fists clenching and releasing at his sides before he finally turned halfway toward the stairs, giving me one last long look that promised this was only the beginning.

2

The next few days were torture. Ryker didn’t touch me again right away. It was like he wanted me to feel the pull and admit I wanted it, too. Maybe he wanted me to make the next move?

But his presence was everywhere. He’d brush past me in the hallway, hand grazing my waist. He’d watch me from across the dinner table while our parents chatted, his eyes promising things that made my thighs press together.

Those light brushes of his fingers sent sparks racing across my skin, leaving me flushed and distracted for hours afterward. At dinner, I could barely taste the food, too aware of how his knee sometimes rested just inches from mine under the table, the heat of him radiating through the fabric of his jeans.

I kept replaying the basement kiss in my head during the day, and my cheeks burned every time our gazes accidentally met. The guilt gnawed at me constantly. This was my brother. Wanting him like this felt like the worst kind of betrayal to our family, yet I couldn’t stop the way my body responded to him.

I tried to fight it. I really did. Wanting my older brother to fuck me was sick. It would destroy our family if anyone found out. Hell, society would look at us as degenerates. But every night, I lay in bed replaying that kiss and touching my slick and drenched pussy while imagining his hands instead of mine.

My fingers would slip between my legs in the dark, circling my swollen clit as I remembered the rough texture of his palm on my throat and the way his breath had felt hot against my lips. I’d bite my pillow to quiet my moans, hips rocking desperately into my own hand while shame and pleasure twisted together until I came with his name whispered on my lips.

It never felt like enough, like my body craved the real thing, the solid weight of him pressing me down and claiming what he shouldn’t.