The stepbrother I shouldn't want

Chapter 31: Chapter 31: Wall of Desire

This Chapter contains sexual content. Not for readers younger than 18. 🔞

The apartment was too quiet.

I sat on the edge of Lucian’s couch, my knee bouncing, my thumb rubbing a raw spot on my palm. Two hours had slipped by since he’d walked out with Noah and Amara. The coffee I’d poured had gone cold. The afternoon light had shifted from gold to gray, painting the empty walls in shades of waiting.

Then the lock turned.

I stood up too fast. Blood rushed to my head.

Lucian walked through the door alone. His shoulders were different. Lower. Lighter. Like a man who had finally set down a weight he’d been carrying for three years.

"I settled it," he said.

I opened my mouth, then closed it.

He crossed the room and pulled me against him. He smelled like winter air and soap and something else I couldn’t name. Hope, maybe. Or the absence of fear.

"I called them," he said into my hair. "Friday, I pay the balance, and they sign a release. No more threats. It’s finished, Eliora. It’s actually finished."

My hands hung at my sides. I should have hugged him back. I should have laughed or cried. But I knew it wasn’t finished. I knew men like that didn’t sign releases. Looking at his face, the relief shining in his eyes, I couldn’t say it.

I hugged him back and lied with my silence.

"Take off your shirt," I said.

He pulled back. "What?"

"You’re bleeding again. I can smell the blood." I touched his side. He flinched. "Let me see."

He pulled the sweater over his head.

The bruises were worse than yesterday. Purple and yellow mottling his ribs. Fresh tape across a gash on his left side. A dark welt blooming across his shoulder where someone had gripped him too hard.

"It’s nothing."

"It’s not nothing." I pushed him toward the couch. "Sit."

He sat. I grabbed the first-aid kit and knelt between his knees. The apartment was dim, the broken blinds slicing the light into bars across his bare chest. I peeled back the tape. He hissed.

"Sorry," I whispered.

"Don’t be." He watched me with dark eyes. "I like your hands on me."

I cleaned the gash. He hissed again, his stomach tightening. When I finished, I taped a fresh bandage over the wound. My palms rested flat against his ribs. I could feel his heart hammering beneath my fingers. Fast. Steady. Real.

He reached up and cupped my face.

"Eliora," he said, his voice rough. "I love you so much."

My breath caught.

"You healed parts of me I never knew were broken," he said. "You saw the worst of me. The thief. The liar. The man who sells his mother’s memory to keep breathing. And you still loved me."

"Lucian..."

"They said I cannot love you." His jaw tightened. "That it’s forbidden." He laughed, soft and broken. "But they don’t know the irresistible pull you have. How loving you are. How your eyes glow when you smile." He leaned in, his forehead touching mine. "I don’t care what they call us. I love you. I’ve loved you since you pulled back that sheet and looked at me like I was still alive."

I grabbed his jaw. "You are alive."

"Then make me feel it."

I kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle. I pushed him back against the couch, my hands fisting in his hair, my tongue sliding against his. He groaned. His hands gripped my waist, pulling me between his knees. I could feel him hardening beneath me through his jeans, thick and urgent.

I bit his lower lip. He cursed.

"Again," he growled.

I shoved his jeans open and wrapped my hand around his cock. He was already thick and heavy, the head slick. I stroked him hard and slow, watching his face. His head dropped back. A low sound tore out of his throat.

"Eliora..."

"Quiet."

I bit his lip again. He cursed and stood, lifting me with him. My back hit the wall. He kissed me like he wanted to crawl inside my mouth. One hand braced beside my head. The other dragged my underwear down my thighs. I kicked them away.

He rubbed the thick head of his cock through my wetness, teasing.

"You want it?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Say it."

"I want your cock inside me. Now."

He pushed in with one deep thrust.

I cried out. He filled me completely, long and thick, stretching me open. For a second he held still, forehead pressed to mine. Then he started fucking me.

Hard.

My shoulders slammed against the wall with every thrust. I locked my legs around his waist. The wet sound of him driving into me filled the quiet apartment. His hand gripped my ass, angling me deeper.

"You feel so fucking good," he growled. "So tight. Taking every inch like you were made for it."

I moaned and dug my nails into his shoulders. He fucked me harder. The angle changed and pleasure shot up my spine, sharp and bright. I was already close.

"Don’t stop..."

"Not stopping." His thumb found my clit and rubbed in tight circles. "Come on my cock. Let me feel it."

I broke with a loud, broken cry, clenching hard around him. He groaned and kept fucking me through it. A few thrusts later he buried himself deep and came with a guttural sound, pulsing hot inside me.

We stayed locked together against the wall, both breathing hard.

He carried me to the kitchen counter, set me on the edge, and pushed back inside while I was still sensitive. I gasped. He kissed me slow this time, rolling his hips deep and steady.

"Again," he murmured.

"You’re greedy."

"For you? Always."

He fucked me on the counter until my arms gave out and I was moaning into his neck. When he came the second time he stayed inside me, face pressed to my shoulder.

After a long minute he lifted his head. His eyes were softer now.

"You okay?" he asked.

I nodded. "Yeah."

He kissed me once more, slower, almost careful, then rested his forehead against mine.

The apartment was quiet except for our breathing and the distant sound of the city outside.

For a little while, nothing else existed.

Just this.

---

Later, we lay tangled in his narrow bed, the sheets twisted around our legs, my head on his chest. His fingers traced lazy patterns on my shoulder. The bruises I’d bandaged earlier looked darker in the lamplight, violent purple against his pale skin.

"Love has its happy moments," I said quietly. "Its highs, its lows. Pain and pleasure." I pressed a kiss to his sternum. "I’m ready to be by your side through it all."

He put his hands on my cheeks and kissed me on the mouth, soft and reverent.

"What do you need?" I asked.

"It’s you that I need." His voice cracked. "It’s you."

I pulled him closer. His arms locked around my waist. We didn’t speak for a long time. The city hummed beyond the windows. The refrigerator clicked on, then off.

"Friday," he whispered. "Just two more days. Then we’re free."

I closed my eyes. "Free."

He held me tighter. I felt the moment sleep took him, his breathing deepening, his grip loosening. His head settled against my shoulder, his face turned into my neck.

I didn’t move. I just held him, my fingers threading through his hair, my other hand drawing slow circles on his back. I could feel every scar, every bruise, every place where someone had hurt him and he had refused to tell anyone.

He had lied to me tonight. Not with words. With hope. With the way he’d said "finished" like he believed it. With the relief in his eyes that I had pretended to share.

But he had also told me the truth in every touch, every kiss. He loved me. He needed me. He was trying to protect me by carrying everything alone.

I pressed my lips to his forehead. He stirred, murmuring something, then settled deeper. His arm tightened around my waist.

I stared at the ceiling, at the water stain shaped like a continent, at the crack in the plaster. The flash drive was still hidden beneath the couch cushion. The footage was still useless without him. Friday was still coming.

But right now, in this narrow bed, with his weight against my side and his breath warm on my skin, none of that mattered.

He was here. He was safe. He was mine.

And I would figure out the rest tomorrow.

I closed my eyes and let my hand still on his back, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing. His hair was soft against my chin. His heartbeat, where my palm rested on his chest, was slow and steady.

"Sleep," I whispered. "Just sleep."

And for a few hours, in a rented apartment with empty shelves and a broken blind, two people who had no right to love each other did exactly that.

Together.

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