Filed to story: Addicted To My Hockey Stepbrother
“You’re not what I expected,” I said.
“What did you expect?”
“Someone simpler.”
“Disappointed?”
I shook my head. Slowly. Honestly. Terrifyingly.
Something shifted in his expression. The last wall – the smirk, the deflection, the armour of not caring – came down. And underneath it was just a boy sitting in his kitchen with bandaged knuckles and a bruised jaw looking at me like I was the green light and he already knew what reaching for me would cost him.
“This is a terrible idea,” I said.
“The worst.”
“We have rules. I wrote them down. You signed them.”
“I did.”
“Rule three. No physical contact in private. I underlined it twice.”
“You did.”
“If we do this-” My voice caught. I started again. “If we do this, it’s not the bar. It’s not anonymous. It’s not something we can pretend didn’t happen.”
“I know.”
“You’re going to be my stepbrother.”
“I know that too.”
“And you still want to-“
“Naomi.” My name. Quiet. Certain. “I wanted you before I knew your name. I wanted you when you were a stranger crying in a bar. I wanted you when you were across the dinner table with both our parents between us. I want you now, in this kitchen, knowing exactly how stupid this is.” He stood up. Slowly. Came around the table. Stood in front of me. “The question isn’t whether I want to. The question is whether you’re going to keep pretending you don’t.”
I looked up at him. Bruised jaw. Split knuckles. Tattoos trailing down his arms – the date, the constellation, the handwriting I still hadn’t asked about. Grey eyes that saw everything I tried to hide and wanted it anyway.
I stood up and kissed him gently.
This time was different.
Not the bar. Not frantic, not desperate, not two strangers burning through each other in the dark. This was slow. Deliberate. Terrifying in the way that only conscious choices can be – eyes open, names known, stakes clear, choosing it anyway.
He walked me backward down the hallway. Not rushing. Kissing me like he had all the time in the world and intended to use every second. His hand on the back of my neck. My fingers tracing the tattoo on his wrist – the date I didn’t know the story behind, the ink warm under my touch.
His bedroom was sparse. Another motorcycle helmet on the dresser. Books stacked on the floor. A bed that was just a mattress and sheets – simple, clean, nothing extra. He laid me down like I was something that could break and then kissed me like I couldn’t.
He took his time.
Every piece of clothing removed slowly. His mouth following his hands – my collarbone, the space between my breasts, the curve of my waist. He mapped me with his lips like he was memorizing geography he planned to revisit.
“You’re the most dangerous thing that’s ever happened to me,” he murmured against my stomach. His breath warm on my skin. “And I’ve been hit in the face professionally.”
I laughed. He looked up. Smiled – a real smile, the first one I’d ever seen, and it was so devastating I almost told him to stop because I couldn’t handle knowing what his face looked like when he was happy.
When he finally pushed inside me, it was slow. One inch at a time. Forehead pressed to mine. Eyes open. No hiding.
“Still with me?” he breathed.
“Yes.”
“Tell me if-“
“Rhys. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
He moved slowly. Deep. Rolling his hips in a way that made every nerve ending in my body light up simultaneously. No dirty talk this time – just my name, repeated like a prayer, and the sound of his breathing going ragged when I arched into him.
I wrapped my legs around him. Pulled him deeper. His hand found mine and pinned it above my head – not rough, just anchoring. Fingers interlaced. Holding on.
“Look at me,” he said. “I want to see you when you-“
I was already there. The orgasm built slowly – not a detonation this time but a tide, rising, rising, inevitable – and when it broke I kept my eyes on his and let him watch every second of it. My body clenching around him, my mouth open, his name falling out of me like something I couldn’t hold back.
He followed. Hips stuttering, grip tightening on my hand, burying his face in my neck with a sound that was equal parts wrecked and reverent.
Silence.
His weight on me. Our hands still intertwined above my head. His breath against my throat, slowing down.
He didn’t pull away. Didn’t roll over. Didn’t reach for his phone or crack a joke or do any of the things that would have made this easier to categorize and dismiss.
He stayed.
