Taught by the Brother’s Best Friend

Elara's POV

The silk robe was a flimsy shield against the afternoon heat, barely enough to cover the curves of my body. I lay sprawled across the mattress, the cool fabric of the sheets contrasting with the warmth radiating from my skin. The robe had slipped during my restless sleep, parting dangerously over my chest. The swell of my breast was exposed, the pale flesh glowing in the shaft of sunlight that cut through the blinds. The darker peak of my nipple was visible, a stark contrast against the ivory material, teasing the air with its exposure. I hadn't bothered to tie the sash; the effort seemed too great in the heavy, languid atmosphere of the room.

Seven days. It had been seven days of absolute silence from Leo. Since that disastrous confession in the living room, my phone had remained a dead weight in my hand. I’d ruined everything, hadn't I? I asked him to fuck me, and he looked at me like I was a stranger. Would I lose my best friend because I couldn't keep her legs shut—or rather, because I wanted them open? The thought gnawed at my insides, a cold pit of anxiety settling in my stomach. I stared at the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the plaster, wondering if he was avoiding me, or if he simply found me pathetic now.

The silence wasn't the worst part. The dreams were.

Every night since the incident with Marcus, I’d been waking up gasping, my thighs slick with sweat and a sticky, undeniable wetness. My brother’s arrival had interrupted Marcus’s taunting proposal, saving me—or perhaps damning me to this constant state of agitation. Marcus’s voice, that whiskey-and-sandalwood roughness, haunted my sleep. He was the one who had planted the seed, offering what Leo wouldn't with a smirk that promised danger rather than safety.

And God, I knew Marcus was dangerous. I’d seen the evidence firsthand, burned into my retinas.

The memory played on a loop behind my eyelids, vivid and Technicolor. It was a Tuesday afternoon months ago. I’d come home early, expecting an empty house. Instead, the hallway was filled with sounds that made my cheeks burn. Wet, rhythmic slapping sounds. A woman’s voice, high and breathless, crying out in a cadence that bordered on pain but was undeniably ecstasy.

I couldn't help myself. I’d peeked through the slight gap in my brother's door, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

The blonde woman was bent over the edge of the bed, her heavy breasts swinging beneath her in wide, hypnotic circles as Marcus drove into her from behind. I remembered the visual clearly—her skin flushed a deep pink, her back arching like a bow, her mouth open in a silent scream. Marcus was fully clothed except for his unbuttoned jeans, his hands gripping her waist with a possessiveness that looked almost violent. His hips snapped forward with a rhythm that seemed relentless, his pelvic bone smacking against her ass with audible force.

"Fuck! Yes, just like that!" she had screamed, the word echoing in the room, raw and desperate.

I watched, mesmerized by the sheer intensity of it. The way her ass rippled every time his hips met her flesh, sending shockwaves through the soft globes. The way she collapsed, boneless, before he pulled her up for more. It wasn't the gentle lovemaking I’d read about in books; it was raw, hungry fucking. I could see the sheen of sweat on her back, the way her blonde curls stuck to her neck. I could even smell the sex drifting into the hallway—a musky, salty tang that made my head spin.

Afterwards, the reality had been harsh. The woman had stormed out, tears streaking her mascara down her face. She’d slapped Marcus so hard the sound cracked through the apartment. She’d passed me in the living room, adjusting her skirt, her eyes wild and bloodshot.

"You stay away from him, little girl," she’d hissed, fixing her blonde curls with trembling hands. 

She was right. Marcus was a player. He was my brother’s friend, years older than me, a man who treated women like disposable toys. My brother would kill me if he knew I was even thinking about Marcus like that.

He was strict—no boyfriends, no sex until I had my degree. "You have too much potential to ruin it on some college idiot," he’d say. He certainly wouldn't approve of his older, scarier friend corrupting his little sister.

But my body didn't care about potential or degrees. My body cared about the ache that had settled between my legs, a persistent throb that no amount of self-soothing could fix. I wanted to know what it felt like to be that blonde woman. I wanted to know what made her scream "Fuck" with such abandon, to lose all control. I wanted to understand the mechanics of that pleasure, the stretch and the fullness.

I shifted on the bed, the silk robe sliding further down my shoulder. The air conditioner hummed in the corner, chilling the damp skin of my chest. I was naked underneath, the friction of the robe against my sensitive nipples sending sharp zings of sensation straight to my core. I squeezed my thighs together, trying to quell the rising tide of need, but it was useless. The heat was building again, a slow burn that demanded attention.

The doorknob turned.

My breath faltered in my throat. I wasn't expecting anyone. My brother usually barged in without knocking, but there was a hesitation in the movement that told me it wasn't him. The wood creaked softly, and the door pushed open.

I scrambled to sit up, my heart jumping, but my movements were sluggish, weighted down by the lethargy of my arousal and the heat of the room. Before I could adjust the slipping silk, a shadow fell across the bed.

Marcus Cole filled the doorway.

He looked exactly as he did in my dreams—tall, broad-shouldered, radiating that effortless, arrogant masculinity that made my knees weak. He wore a simple black t-shirt that stretched tight across his chest, highlighting the definition of his muscles, and worn jeans that hung low on his hips. His dark hair was slightly tousled, and those piercing gray eyes swept over the room before landing directly on me.

The air seemed to vanish from the space between us. I froze, my hand halfway to pulling the robe closed, paralyzed by the sudden intrusion.

His gaze dropped instantly. It wasn't a polite glance or an accidental look. It was a heavy, predatory stare that glued itself to my exposed flesh. The robe had gaped open completely as I moved, revealing one full, pale breast, the nipple hardening into a tight bead under the sudden, intense scrutiny of his eyes.

I saw it happen. I saw the exact moment his focus locked onto the dark pink peak. His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the dark stubble. The atmosphere shifted instantly from domestic to charged, the temperature in the room seeming to spike ten degrees.

He didn't look away. He didn't apologize. He just looked, his eyes darkening to the color of a storm-tossed sea. He took in the curve, the color, the vulnerability of it. A faint, knowing smirk touched the corner of his mouth, but his eyes remained fixed, burning a hole in the air between us.

"Your brother called you for dinner," he said. His voice was calm, almost bored, but there was a rough edge to it, a gravelly texture that scraped against my nerves.

The words registered, but my brain was short-circuiting. He saw it. He saw my nipple. He was standing there, looking at my naked breast, and talking about dinner like he wasn't undressing me with his eyes.

Then, the realization of my own exposure hit me. The humiliation, mixed with the lingering heat of my fantasies, boiled over. The contrast between his casual tone and the intensity of his stare was too much.

"Get out!" I screamed, my voice cracking and pitching high in panic as I frantically clawed at the silk to cover myself. "I’m naked!"

But even as I yelled, I couldn't ignore the flush of heat that flooded my cheeks, or the traitorous throb between my legs that intensified under his unblinking stare.