It was raining when I opened the door.
He stood there, soaked through, hoodie clinging to his chest, hands in his pockets like they weren’t fists.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I said.
“I know.”
“You can’t be here.”
“Then close the door.”
But I didn’t.
Behind me, my apartment was a mess—wine bottle half-empty, suitcase on the floor, engagement ring in the sink. I was still wearing the dress I’d planned to break up in—tight, black, defiant.
He looked at me like I was a problem he’d been dying to solve.
“Eli,” I whispered. “You’re my best friend’s brother.”
“You think I give a fuck right now?”
His voice was low. Grounded. Dangerous.
“I’m not a rebound,” he said. “I’m the one you’ve been trying not to look at for years.”
I laughed, bitter and breathless. “So what, you think you’re my consolation prize?”
“No,” he said, stepping closer. “I think you’re mine.”
I should’ve said no.
I wanted to.
But when I turned to shut the door—he didn’t move.
So I grabbed his hoodie and yanked him inside.
We didn’t speak. He slammed the door behind him, and suddenly we were on each other.
His mouth crashed into mine, wet and hungry, tasting like rain and months of frustration. He pressed me against the wall, thigh between mine, hand already on my waist like he owned it.
“You’re soaked,” I gasped.
“Fix me, then.”
I pulled his hoodie over his head and he stripped my dress off like it offended him. No bra. Just damp skin and goosebumps.
He groaned. Bit my shoulder. His hands were all over me—rough, needing, memorizing every inch like he might never get another chance.
I shoved him onto the couch.
He let me.
I straddled him, grinding slow, teasing, dragging my fingers down his chest. I felt his cock hard against his jeans, twitching with every roll of my hips.
“You’re playing with fire,” he warned.
“I want to burn.”
He gripped my hips, flipped me under him in one move.
“You’re gonna fucking ruin me.”
He dragged his fingers between my legs. I was soaked.
“No panties?” he asked.
“Didn’t think I’d need them.”
He growled—actually growled—and yanked his jeans down just enough. When I saw him, thick and ready, I arched my hips toward him.
“Beg,” he said.
I looked him dead in the eye. “Make me.”
He slid inside me in one brutal thrust. I gasped—head back, eyes fluttering.
He didn’t move.
He stayed buried, hands gripping my thighs, watching me come undone just from the stretch.
Then he started to fuck me—slow and deep, then harder. The couch creaked. My moans turned to cries. He bent over, whispered filth into my ear as he pounded into me like he wanted to erase every man I’d ever touched.
“You’ve always been mine,” he said. “You just didn’t know it.”
I came first. Shaking. Crying his name into the couch cushions.
He followed—pulling out last second, finishing across my stomach with a broken groan.
When I caught my breath, I looked at him.
“You’re still her brother,” I whispered.
“Not tonight,” he said. “Tonight I’m yours.”