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He looked like he’d just rolled out of bed in the best possible way. His dark hair was slightly mussed, and he wore a simple black ribbed tank top that stretched taut over his chest and shoulders, putting the intricate sleeves of dark ink on his arms on full display. He held a glass of iced coffee, condensation beading on the side. His eyes, the same shade as Chris’s but somehow darker, more observant, took you in with a slow, deliberate sweep that felt entirely different from his brother’s playful grins.

“Hey,” he said, his voice a low, smooth baritone. He didn’t sound surprised.

“Hey. Sorry to bother you. I think my package got delivered here by mistake.” You gestured to the box at his feet.

He glanced down at it, then back up at you, a knowing smile playing on his lips. He didn’t move to pick it up. Instead, he leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, taking a slow sip of his coffee. “Saw the label. Was tempted to open it. See what kind of stuff you’re into.”

The comment was casual, but it carried an edge. A test.

You smiled, shrugging. “Just fabric. For school.”

“Fashion design, right?” he said, as if filing the information away. He finally straightened up. “It’s a furnace out here. You want something? Water? I’ve got more cold brew.”

The invitation was unexpected. You hesitated for only a second. The heat was intense, and the quiet, cool darkness of the house behind him was inviting. “Sure. Water’s good.”

He stepped back, holding the door open for you. You walked past him, catching a faint, clean scent of sandalwood and soap. The interior was surprisingly tidy, modern, and quiet. Unnervingly so.

“Where is everyone?” you asked, following him past the living room toward the open-concept kitchen.

“Chris and Nick had a meeting with some brand rep downtown. Some collab thing.” He pulled a glass from a cabinet and filled it with filtered water and ice from the fridge door. The cubes crackled. “Won’t be back for a couple hours.”

He said it plainly, handing you the glass. His fingers brushed against yours. The subtext hung in the silent air: We’re completely alone.

“Ah,” you said, taking a long drink. The cold was a shock to your system. “That explains the quiet. Chris called you the quiet one once.”

Matt’s smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He leaned back against the kitchen island, mirroring his earlier pose in the doorway. “Someone has to pay attention to the details,” he said, his gaze steady on you. “Chris gets the big picture. Nick’s the dreamer. I notice the small things.”

“Like what?” you asked, setting your glass down on the quartz countertop.

“Like the way you bite your lower lip when you’re thinking.” His eyes dropped to your mouth for a heartbeat. “Like how you haven’t looked at that box once since you walked in here, even though you supposedly came over just for it.”

Your breath hitched. He wasn’t just observant. He was watching. And he was telling you he’d been watching.

He pushed off the island and took a single, slow step toward you. Then another. He invaded your personal space without urgency, a predator confident its prey wouldn’t run. You could see the fine lines of his tattoos up close, the dark stubble along his jaw. He stopped when he was close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body.

“Chris has a habit,” Matt murmured, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, “of claiming things. Loudly. Before he really knows how to appreciate them.” His eyes held yours, unblinking. “He sees something shiny, he wants it. He doesn’t always take the time to… savor the finer details.”

Your heart was hammering against your ribs. This was no longer a simple case of mistaken delivery. This was a line, drawn in the sand of this sterile kitchen, and you were standing right on it.

“And you do?” you heard yourself ask, your own voice softer than you intended.

“I like to appreciate what’s in front of me,” he said. Then he moved.

He didn’t grab you. He simply stepped around behind you. You froze, your eyes staring straight ahead at the sleek stainless steel fridge. You felt his hands first, settling on your waist. They were warm, large, his fingers splaying possessively over the exposed skin between your top and your shorts. Then you felt the scratch of his beard as he rested his chin on your bare shoulder. The tattooed skin of his forearm was a stark, dark contrast against the white of your shirt.

“I’ve enjoyed watching you,” he breathed into your ear, his voice a vibration against your skin that raised goosebumps all down your arm. “In the morning, when you go for your run. The way the light hits you.” One of his thumbs stroked a slow, idle circle on your hip bone. “I admire the fact that you haven’t tried to leave yet.”

The confession was a bolt of pure, undiluted heat that shot straight to your core. This wasn’t a mistake or a blurry moment of confusion like at the gym. This was deliberate. A choice he was making, and a choice you were making by staying perfectly still, by leaning back just a fraction of an inch into the solid wall of his chest.

You felt the steady, strong thrum of his heartbeat against your back. You let your head tilt slightly, giving his lips more access to the column of your neck. A silent answer.

A low, approving hum rumbled in his chest. He pulled you back more firmly against him, and you felt it then—the hard, thick line of his erection, semi-hard but undeniable, pressing against the curve of your ass through his soft sweats and your thin shorts. The contact was electric. He’d been hard. This whole time.

He nuzzled his beard against the sensitive spot behind your ear, and a full-body shudder wracked you. His hands tightened on your waist, holding you in place as he ground against you, once, a slow, deliberate roll of his hips that promised so much more. You gasped, your hands flying up to grip the edge of the countertop for support.

This changed everything. This thing was no longer a secret thing between you and Chris. A second, more complicated, more dangerous thread had just been woven into the tapestry. The power balance, the unspoken dynamic between the brothers, had just shifted with that one, deliberate grind of Matt’s hips.

And then—the distinct sound of a car engine cutting off right outside. Tires on gravel. A car door slamming.

Shit.

Matt went rigid behind you. In an instant, the spell was shattered by cold, hard reality. He released you so quickly you swayed on your feet. He was already walking away, towards the hallway, without a backward glance. “Your box is right there,” he said over his shoulder, his voice back to its normal, detached tone, as if the last three minutes had never happened.

You stood there, dazed, your skin buzzing where he’d touched you, your mind reeling. The front door opened.

Chris’s voice, bright and familiar, filled the foyer. “Hello? Matt?”

You grabbed the brown box from the counter, holding it in front of you like a shield as you turned toward the front door. Chris was walking in, dropping his keys on a side table. He saw you and stopped, his handsome face morphing into confusion.

“Hey? What are you doing here?” he asked, his eyes flicking from you to the box in your arms.

“My package was delivered here by mistake,” you said, your voice thankfully steady. “Matt gave it to me.”

Chris looked past you, into the empty kitchen. “Where is he?”

“He, um, he said it was on the counter and left,” you said, sticking to the technical truth while omitting every crucial, heart-pounding detail. “I was just leaving.”

Nick ambled in behind Chris, giving you a quick, easy smile. “Hey, neighbor.” He didn’t stop, heading straight for the stairs. “Gotta piss. Later.”

As Nick’s footsteps faded upstairs, Chris’s eyes returned to you. The confusion was gone, replaced by a warm, focused intensity. He took a step closer. “You in a rush?”

The memory of Matt’s hands, his whisper, his hard length against you, was still scorchingly fresh. It should have complicated things. Instead, it felt like it had dialed every one of your senses to a fever pitch. You looked at Chris—his playful eyes, his sharp jaw, his body that was so like his brother’s yet so uniquely his—and felt a surge of pure, wanton need.

“No,” you said, a slow smile spreading on your own lips. “No rush.”

That was all the invitation he needed. He closed the distance in two strides, his hand snapping out to circle your wrist. His grip was firm, purposeful. He didn’t say another word, just turned and pulled you behind him, down the hall, past the living room, upstairs, and to a door at the end. His bedroom.

He pushed the door open, pulled you inside, and kicked it shut with his foot. The room was dim, blinds drawn, neat but lived-in. A large bed dominated the space. In one fluid, decisive motion, he turned you and pushed you forward.

You fell onto the soft comforter, landing on your stomach with a soft oomph. The package tumbled from your hands onto the floor. Before you could even think of moving, his weight settled over you. He knelt between your spread legs, his hands immediately grasping the firm curves of your ass through the pink shorts.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his voice already thick with lust. He squeezed, kneading the flesh. “Your ass looks so fucking yummy in these. Been thinking about it all day.”

You could hear the rustle of clothing, the sound of his belt buckle, the zip of his pants. He shifted, and then he was on top of you again, his body covering yours, his chest to your back. He was naked from the waist down. You could feel him—the hard, hot, heavy length of his cock, still soft but rapidly filling, grinding against the seam of your shorts, right against your ass. The motion was an echo, a perfect, taunting mirror of what Matt had done just minutes ago in the kitchen. The comparison sent a dizzying jolt through you.

He rutted against you, his breathing harsh in your ear, as he grew fully, impressively hard. The friction, even through the layers of fabric, was maddening. You pushed back against him, a needy little grind of your own.

He let out a choked sound and knelt up again. His hands went to the waistband of your shorts, his fingers slipping underneath to touch your skin. “This okay?” he asked, the words a rough growl.

“Yes,” you panted, turning your head to the side. “Yes, Chris, okay.”

He didn’t need more. He hooked his fingers in the fabric and peeled your shorts and your panties down in one swift, efficient pull, baring you to the cool air of the room. Instinctively, you arched your back, lifting your hips, presenting yourself to him. The submissive pose felt natural, right.

“Good girl,” he praised, his voice dripping with dark approval. The words, so similar to what he’d said in the car, now felt like a brand.

Then his hands were on you again, spreading you open. And his mouth… his mouth was on you.

There was no gentle teasing. This was claiming. His tongue laved a broad, wet stripe from your entrance all the way up to your clit, and you cried out, your fingers fisting in the comforter. He groaned against you, the vibration exquisite, and then he dove in, eating you out with a focused, hungry intensity that stole the breath from your lungs. The feel of his stubble on your sensitive skin gave you a flash of an image in your mind of Matt's beard on your neck. Then Chris's tongue speared inside you, then circled your clit, then plunged deep again, a relentless, masterful rhythm. His hands gripped your ass, holding you open, squeezing and kneading as he devoured you.

The sensations were too much, too intense, layered over the lingering ghost of Matt’s whispered confession. The coil in your belly tightened with shocking speed. You were panting, whimpering, pushing back against his face. He slid two fingers inside you, curling them, stroking that perfect spot while his tongue stayed glued to your clit.

“Chris… I’m gonna…” you tried to warn him, but the words dissolved into a moan.

He just growled, sucking harder, fucking you faster with his fingers. The climax ripped through you, a violent, shaking wave that made you see stars. You screamed into the bedding, your body convulsing around his fingers as he worked you through it, his tongue gentling to soft, lapping strokes until you were a trembling, oversensitive mess.

He pulled away, and you heard him spit. Then the tear of a foil packet. You were still gasping, floating in the aftershocks, when you felt the blunt, slick head of his cock nudge against your soaked entrance.

He didn’t ask this time. He just pushed.

He filled you in one deep, smooth, stretching stroke, burying himself to the hilt inside you with a guttural groan. The feeling was incredible—the fullness, the slight burn, the absolute rightness of it. He held himself there for a moment, both of you catching your breath.

Then he pulled back and slammed home again.

And that was the pace he set. Relentless. Punishing. Perfect. He fucked you in deep, driving strokes, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, his balls slapping against your clit with every thrust. The room filled with the sounds of skin slapping skin, his ragged grunts, your choked-off cries. He leaned over you, his chest plastered to your sweat-slicked back, his mouth finding your ear.

“You feel so fucking good,” he snarled. “So tight. All mine.” He punctuated the last word with a particularly vicious thrust that made you sob.

You were already building toward another peak, the friction of his pistoning cock, the possessive words, the sheer animalistic heat of it all dragging you back to the edge. You met him thrust for thrust, pushing back against him, taking all of him. He reached for your tits and cupped them.

“Chris,” you chanted, a broken mantra. “Please…”

“Gonna cum,” he warned, his rhythm becoming erratic, frantic. “Gonna fill you up. You wanna feel it?”

“Yes!” you begged, the word ripped from your throat.

With a final, brutal thrust, he seated himself deep and stilled. A raw, ragged shout tore from his lips as he came, and you felt the hot pulses of his release through the condom, the throbbing of his cock inside you triggering your own second, shattering orgasm. It was less intense than the first but longer, a rolling wave of pleasure that left you weak and boneless beneath him.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcome anchor, his breath hot and fast against your neck. You both lay there, spent, the only sound your gradually slowing panting.

Slowly, he softened and slipped out of you. He rolled off, disposing of the condom. He came back to the bed with a pack of wet wipes on hand, lying on his side next to you, propped up on an elbow. His eyes, dark and sated, scanned your face, your body, the red marks his hands had left on your hips. Using a wipe, he started cleaning the part of your body where he made a mess with.

He reached out and traced a finger down your spine. “You’re mine,” he said, the words quiet but absolute, leaving no room for argument or the memory of another’s hands on your skin.