Filed to story: Addicted To My Hockey Stepbrother
“Rhys – I need-“
“I know what you need.” He slid two fingers inside me while his tongue kept working my clit. Slow. Deep. Curling against the spot that made my legs clamp around his head. He groaned against me – the vibration radiating through my core – and I realized he was hard, pressed against the mattress, grinding into it slightly while he ate me out like he’d been starving for it.
He pulled back before I could cum. I actually whined – a desperate, embarrassing sound that I’d deny later – and he climbed back up my body, shucking his shirt and jeans as he went. When he settled between my legs I could feel him – thick, hard, the head of his cock sliding through my wetness without pushing in. Teasing. Both of us slick and trembling.
“Look at me,” he said.
I looked.
Those grey eyes – wrecked, raw, every wall demolished. He wasn’t performing. Wasn’t commanding. He was asking.
He pushed inside me slowly. So slowly it was almost cruel – inch by inch, stretching me open, his forehead dropping to mine, his breath ragged, his eyes locked on mine because this time neither of us was hiding. I felt every inch of him and my mouth fell open and no sound came out because the fullness was overwhelming – not just physical, but everything. The truth in the doorway. The shaking hands. The vulnerability of a man who’d let me see the worst thing that had ever happened to him and was now inside me asking with his body if I was going to stay.
“Naomi.” He said it like a prayer he didn’t know the words to.
I wrapped my arms around his neck. Pulled him closer – deeper – until there was nothing between us. He started to move. Long, deep strokes that I felt in my spine, in my teeth, in the backs of my eyes. No urgency. No performance. Just his cock dragging against my walls with a slowness that made every nerve ending catch fire.
His face dropped to my neck. Buried there. His breath hot and ragged against my skin while he thrust into me with a rhythm that was less about fucking and more about holding on. Like I was the only solid thing in a life that had been pulling the ground out from under him since he was old enough to notice.
I held him back. Fingers in his hair. Legs around his waist. Hips rising to meet every stroke, taking him deeper each time until he was bottoming out and both of us were gasping. Every point of contact a promise – I see you. I know what you did. I know why you did it. And I’m still here.
The orgasm built like a tide – slow, inevitable, rising from somewhere deeper than my body. When it hit, I didn’t scream. Didn’t bite down. Just gasped his name against his ear and let it shatter me, my whole body arching into his, clenching around his cock, pulling him impossibly deeper while wave after wave rolled through me and left me shaking and boneless and unable to do anything but hold on.
He came hard seconds later. Hips shaking, rhythm breaking, burying himself to the deepest point and spilling inside me with a sound so raw and unguarded it made my eyes sting. Not a moan. Not a groan. Something closer to relief – the sound of a man who’d been carrying something impossibly heavy for a very long time and had finally been allowed to set it down.
He didn’t pull out afterward. Stayed buried in me, stayed pressed against me, his face in my neck and his arms wrapped around me and his breathing slowly, slowly evening out while I felt him softening inside me. I ran my fingers through his hair and stared at the ceiling and felt the weight of what had just happened settle over both of us like something permanent.
We lay there for a long time. His head on my chest. My fingers tracing idle patterns on his skin – the tattoos I’d been memorizing in pieces since the bar. The constellation on his forearm. The handwriting on his inner bicep that I now knew was his mother’s – he’d told me that much, in fragments, in the dark.
My fingers found the date on his ribs. Elegant script. Numbers I didn’t recognize.
“What’s this one?”
His body stiffened. Subtle – a tension that ran through him like a current, there and gone, except it wasn’t gone. It was held.
His jaw tightened.
“The day my mother left.”
We lay there for a long time after.
Not talking. Not moving. Just breathing in the dark with his head on my chest and my fingers in his hair and the tattoo – the day my mother left – still warm under my fingertips. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind that happens when two people have run out of walls to hide behind and are sitting in the rubble deciding what to build next.
He started talking without preamble. No lead-in, no transition. Just his voice against my skin, quiet and stripped bare.
“Elena. My mother. Married my dad at twenty-two. Had me at twenty-four. Left at thirty-four.” A pause. “Packed a bag while I was at school. Drove away. Didn’t come back.”
I kept my fingers moving through his hair. Didn’t stop. Didn’t tense. Just listened.
“No note. No custody fight. Nothing. Came home and her closet was empty and my dad was at the kitchen table with a scotch. Looked at me and said she’s gone. Same tone he’d use to tell me it was raining.”
His voice didn’t crack. That was the worst part – how steady it was. How practiced. Like he’d told this story to himself so many times that the edges had worn smooth and the pain had calcified into something he could hold without flinching.
“Waited for her. Every day after school. Sat on the porch watching the driveway like an idiot. Weeks. Months.” A breath. “Christmas morning I was up at five. Sat by the window because I thought – actually believed – she’d come back for Christmas. What mother doesn’t come back for Christmas?”
I pressed my lips to the top of his head. He kept going.
“She didn’t. Not for Christmas. Not for birthdays. Not when I broke my arm at fourteen or made captain at sixteen or got expelled and everything went to shit. Not once.”
“And Richard?”
“Work. Money. Women who looked like her but weren’t.” Short. Clipped. The way he talked when something cost him. “He’d surface every few months. Write a check. Ask about grades. Tell me to keep my head down. That was it. That was the whole father-son thing. Checkbook and bullshit.”
He shifted. Propped himself on his elbow. Looked at me in the half-light – really looked, with those grey eyes that had just shown me every room in a house he kept locked to everyone else.
“You’re the first person I’ve told. All of it. Not the abbreviated version – the real thing.”
I reached up. Touched his face. Traced the scar through his eyebrow – the one I’d been staring at since a bar on Valentine’s night. He leaned into my hand like a reflex he couldn’t control.
“Thank you for telling me,” I said.
He kissed my palm. Then my wrist. Then he lowered himself back down and pressed his mouth to mine – slow, unhurried, a kiss that wasn’t leading anywhere. Just existing. The two of us in his bed in the dark, trading slow kisses that tasted like honesty and salt and something neither of us was ready to call by its name.
We stayed like that for a while. His thumb tracing circles on my hip. My fingers mapping the tattoos I was slowly learning – the constellation that I now understood was Orion, the handwriting on his bicep that matched a birthday card Elena had sent when he was six, the only thing he’d kept. He told me that between kisses. Small things. Fragments offered like gifts – the colour of Elena’s car. The song on the kitchen radio. How Richard’s hand shook pouring the scotch but his voice stayed flat. All of it delivered in that short, blunt way of his – no decoration, no softening, just the raw facts laid out like he was daring them to hurt him and they couldn’t anymore.
None of it was performed. None of it was trying to be anything. It was just two people lying in a bed sharing the things they’d never said out loud, and it was more intimate than any sex we’d had. More naked than naked. The kind of closeness that doesn’t come from taking clothes off but from taking everything else off – the armour, the jokes, the carefully constructed versions of ourselves we showed the world.
I left when the light through his window turned gold. He walked me to the door. Kissed me once – forehead, soft, the kind of kiss that meant something neither of us said.
“Goodnight, Naomi.”
“Goodnight.”
