Page 9 of My Brother's Best Men
I’m heading down the hall toward the guest room when I hear, “Night, kitten.”
I stop, turning to look at him, because that’s not what he usually calls me. In fact, the only nickname he ever actually gave me when we were younger wasPrincess Sophie.Or justprincess. Because he said I was a spoiled brat.
Whatever, Soph, it’s just the ramblings of a drunk asshole in the middle of the night. He probably doesn’t even realize it’syouhe’s talking to.
Highly likely. I know, just from the little hints my brother drops, that Benny’s a bit of a playboy. Honestly, he’s always been like that, so I’m not surprised he’s still chasing that whole vibe, even though he’s in his thirties. I wish I could say it was weird, and I didn’t like it, but…
Truth is, I think it’s part of what adds to Benny’s appeal. He’s always had that air about him, even when we were younger. You just knew he’d be a good time. And I don’t just mean that he would be the life of the party and fun to hang out with, though he is those things too.
I heard the whispered rumors about Benjamin Anderson and his hugepiercedcock. Among other unsavory things. I latched on to those whispered words of gossip, let them feed my fantasies more than I want to admit.
I swallow harshly as I realize he’s gone, and shake my head. When I find my way back to the bedroom, I shut the door and turn the light on. I know it’s late—or early, technically—and I should get back to bed, but my legs are sore from sleeping in my jeans and my tits are sore from sleeping in my damn bra, so I knock over my suitcase and set about finding my pajama pants, if only so I can be a little more comfortable.
But once I start, I can’t stop, so I unpack my entire suitcase, needing something to do. I know it’s probably rude to assume I’m actually going to stay here for the next couple of days, but I need something to do to get this nervous energy out. Though I’m not sure why I’m so nervous right now.
I look to the door, my insides twisting as I remember running into that hard, solid mass that is Bennynow.Growing up, he wasn’t a stick or anything, but he definitely wasn’t a big, beefy guy either. He was an art kid, dressed in black and Converse andalways doodling on his skin with sharpies. He definitely wasn’t the guy I just ran into in the hallway.
Yes, I know it was dark, so I very well could have mistaken some details, but I was eye level with his hard, defined pecs. I could see the ink cascading across his chest, even though I couldn’t make it out.
My insides twist again, and I shake my head. Thinking about shirtless, tattooed Benny is a recipe for disaster.
But I also know an orgasm is a surefire way to get me to pass the fuck out.
So I tell myself it’s just a means to an end. It doesn’t really mean anything. It’s just old memories, old fantasies, brought up from close proximity and stress. And I’ve had a fucking stressful day.
Two days. Day and a half?
I get under the covers this time, relishing in the warmth of the comforter against my exposed skin, and tell myself I should just try to get some actual sleep. I need to shut my brainoff.I donotneed to be masturbating down the hall from my high school fantasy.
But the more I toss and turn, the more I try to get comfortable, I just feel irritated, and I know it’s no use. I sigh in exasperation. “Fine.”
I slide my hand under the waistband of my satin pajama pants—the black ones with the pink stitching I bought last year as my Valentine gift to myself. My legs are still slightly cool from my brush with the damn toilet, which makes me feel uncomfortable, but Ididclean myself as best I could, and I definitely washed my damn hands more than once.
I close my eyes and try my hardest to clear my mind. My fingers slip beneath my panties, and I find my clit quickly enough, telling myself this will just be a quiet, fast flick and then I’ll go to sleep. And in the morning, everything will be fine.
Well, maybe notfine, because nothing’s going to change what happened. Keaton still isn’t here.
I tense as the thought of him fills my brain.
Is he withher? That woman who didn’t know he was engaged? Is he touching her, fucking her inourbed right now?
I stiffen at the thought. How long has this been going on? How many times has he brought her there? Is she the only one, or have there been more women like her?
My thighs clench as anger swells in me, along with sadness. It’s notourbed anymore, and I have no idea when that happened. When it became an open field.
I try to push the thought away and focus on something else. Someone else.
Hard, solid muscles. Tattoos. That huge cock with steel pierced through it.
I’ve never actuallyseenBenny’s cock, not even on accident, so I have no idea if the rumors are actually true or not about the size of his fabled battering ram or its capabilities. I know he does have a piercing, only because my brother was his ride when he got it, and he said he almost passed out when the piercer actually did it.
Which I’m sworn to secrecy about, of course. The secrets I know about Benjamin Anderson, I’ll take to my grave.
My body responds to the thought of him immediately. Though the bulky frame and the tattoos are new, the eyes and the cocky attitude aren’t. He’s still the same asshole he was back then, and that doesn’t help matters. In fact, it’s somewhat comforting to know noteverythinghas changed since I’ve left.
I know it’s dumb, and even more cliché, because Benny was always the quintessential “bad boy” of the bunch, and you knew he was trouble. He was hot, in that dark kind of way. The mysterious kind of way.
Benjamin Anderson was like the whiskey your parents kept in the basement, that they told you to never drink, but you did it anyway. A sip here, a sip there, until you realized you were drunker than a goddamn skunk, and it felt so good you knew you’d be back.
